Men are born knowing how to fix things or will have this knowledge beaten into them as a child, usually by a father covered in bearing grease and alfalfa seed. Males like myself who can’t fix anything and who couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel probably suffer from an extra chromosome or two, as my neighbors frequently point out while they castigate me with the quite appropriate and ironic epithet: “Stupid Toolbag.”
The truth is, “Toolbags” are victims. We didn’t ask to be born with numb meathooks that drop everything at a moment’s notice. We didn’t ask for the magical ability to short electronics and cause every computer powered by Microsoft to spontaneously burst into flame (not sure if 100% our fault). We didn’t ask to drain car batteries stone dead the night of prom or to make jumper cables disappear from the trunk even though we just checked yesterday. We didn’t ask for these horrible powers, so stop making fun of us, Mom.
When I start fixing something it usually ends up costing more than it would to hire two professionals (one to do the work and the other to keep him company). You might think all of this is a bit ridiculous, but in my younger days I was approached by a US Army colonel who was putting together a crack engineering brigade to parachute into Iraq behind enemy lines and cause all of Saddam’s toilets flush improperly and leak every five minutes so he has to get up and flush them again.