A couple years ago (probably more, now that all of my years are blurring together), Mike came over to borrow my chipper shredder. It was a small electric chipper shredder, more shredding than chipping. I would continually tell Kris to stop cramming that 3" branch into the feed, smell that burning smell? that's the branch you're trying to shove in there, nothing over 1" wide.
I should have told Mike 1/2".
MIke took the chipper home and started chipping the branches he and Kate had cut down around the house. The chipper was so loud, not that I knew this when I was using it, that I could easily hear it 100 yards away.
I could also hear when it went from straining to BAM to clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity.
"That didn't sound good," was about all I could manage at the time.
A few hours later, Mike wandered back over to the house. "Yeah, well, how much was your chipper-shredder?"
"Couple hundred bucks. Why?"
"Well, it's more expensive to replace the blade than it is to replace the whole thing."
"What?"
"Here."
I kept the blade, because the story was so humourous to me. This may just be the first of my discard-with-a-story items.
