Jack has somehow become convinced that because I have a mustache (or pushstache, as he says it), that I have been mysteriously and miraculously bestowed with the skills of the handy man. "You can fix our broken windows, because you have a pushstache," he tells me earnestly.
Poor Jack. What will he do when he figures out that I have unjustly taken upon me the persona of one who can do things?
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