The scene: Sunday evening. Our living room. Byrd and I are sitting on the couch discussing what to eat for dinner.
Byrd [shifting uncomfortably]: Hmm, something in my front pocket is stabbing me in the thigh.
Me: Yeah, it's probably your keys.
Byrd [digging in his pocket]: I don't think my keys are in my pocket.
Me: Possibly it's the corner of your cell phone, then?
Byrd [stands up, still digging]: Hang on, I found the culprit.
Byrd pulls a wrench, three screwdrivers, and a handful of bolts out of his front pants pocket.
Me: . . . !
Byrd: Ah, much better.