by Divanosratch
I remembered. My aunt at the accounting office bought a closet. For the assembly of the closet did not pay - the company is large, somebody to collect. As someone, my aunt chose me, a polite and polite young man from the neighboring department. I didn’t give up, but for 10 minutes. He got his screwdriver from the table, similar to a child’s pistol (IXO, if anyone knows) and went to collect. And then the accountants turned away:
Smoke, what is it for you?
Maria Mikhailovna, this is a screwdriver!
MarMikhalna, a woman for a hundred, rattles her nose and answers:
He has something small. Here my husband's screwdriver is healthy, he sometimes drills walls with them.
“The youth has been shattered,” replies a colleague from the corner of retirement age. In our time, everything was gathered by hands. My Witty screwbacks were lying all over the house. Everything is done by machines.
In general, the closet I assembled them, and even quite durable, but the sensations were like the exhibitionist, foolishly jumping out before the tapestries.