a screwdriver anyone?

this is what happens when you go looking for a screwdriver: you clean out your catchall kitchen drawer where you find six tape measures, one with cloth, the other a wind-up turner-type, a third with a retractable button, a fourth a round grey six-footer from the gorham tool company; four pairs of scissors; 12 pens, including six sharpies, six ballpoints; one hammer; eight rolls of tape; one mass of fishing line; one pair of pliers and, oh yeah, nine screwdrivers, four phillips, five flat-head. now, what did i want a screwdriver for?
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Worms: I don’t get them

They eat everything I give them. How do those little red wrigglers do it? What the heck does their digestive system look like, anyway, all knives and sharp edges? Maybe a rotary blade tucked in somewhere? Okay, so they don’t like the thin papery garlic skin or the layers of onion skins. And they pass up orange and grapefruit rinds. But the tough center of the cabbage? Gone. The stout carrot end? Disappeared. Eggshells? Finished. Celery stalk? Pineapple rind? Eyes of a potato? History. Green pepper seeds, banana peels, butternut squash stalks? Chewed up and spit out. The garden fork is my compass. I move it 90 degrees clockwise every few days, indicating where I last buried their treasure. Too bad I don’t fish.worms