This thread is a bit much, but I’m not getting all torqued over it.
That’s my other drill: La femme Makita
I’d suggest a quiet burial, perhaps accompanied by “the Last (fence) post”
The drill is gone
The drill is gone away
The drill is gone baby
The drill is gone away
You know you done me wrong baby
And you’ll be sorry someday
The drill is gone
It’s gone away from me
The drill is gone baby
The drill is gone away from me
Although I’ll still live on
But so lonely I’ll be
~with apologies to Rick Darnell & Roy Hawkins 
I have a really nice Milwaukee Drill, serves me well to this day.
Best of all, it didn’t cost me anything - I found it…
on Blueberry Hill… 
I had one of those when I worked in the Philippines. It was the drillah in Manilla.
What, you were expecting to find Jacking?
OP comes across as a tool.
Ahhh finally I can read a loss thread without getting all misty eyed. That’s because of all the antihistamines in my system!
Although this wasn’t the root of the thread going downhill fast, it was certainly a sine that it was.
Years ago, when we moved into this 70 year old house, we bought tools, new tools that thrilled us with their vivid colors, their interchangable batteries. The sander was my favorite, with all its different shapes for those tricky corners.
His was the drill, hardworking, reversible, pretty.
We shared batteries. Life was good. But, then it came time to work on the basement, with its 70 year old and counting concrete walls. The pretty tools couldn’t cope.
I went to Hardwick’s hardware store. The museum of hardware stores. There, behind the glass, I found the HAMMER DRILL from another age. It was heavy, it was black, and ugly. It came in a dull, black, metal case. It needed a cord transplant. I bought it for his birthday.
All the pretty tools have left us. The batteries died and new ones were no longer made.
The hammer drill is still here. It still crashes through walls whenever we ask it to.
This sounds like the opening chapter of a new Cormac McCarthy novel: All The Pretty Tools.
I went out to the old haunt today: the garage where we had such good times together. I stood there as the sawdust motes glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window, and reflected upon [del]my slovenly cleanup habits[/del] all the warm memories of projects gone by. The feel of her smooth shank in my hand, her warm body arching to my touch on her trigger, her ability to reverse out of any difficult situation.
I began to turn away - the memories being too painful and fresh - when my eye was caught by a small gleam in the recesses of our happy hallow. A small green light was winking feebly, yet persistently, trying to catch my attention. It was the light on her charger, calling to me from the grave. “Come closer, she whispered, for I would speak to you in dulcet tones of the love we once had.” I approached with faint heart, reached out with trembling fingers, and yanked the fucking cord one last time.
Now you’re just pulling our chain
Ohhh the immature laugh I just experienced.