Poorly Researched Men's Fiction
I fetched my tool belt, dangling faithfully in the garage like some psycho’s hostage. Hammer, nails, screws, screwdrivers (flathead and bumpy), measuring tape, Scotch tape, scissors, glue, paperclips, and every wrench, nut, bolt, button, and safety pin known to man. The gang was all there, if a little fatigued from overuse. I ate a couple of the nuts and strapped the belt to my waist like a less-effeminate Batman.