You ever meet a fella who’s convinced the world’s just a big ol’ connect-the-dots puzzle, and all he needs to do is grab an ink pen?

That’s Jerry.

This morning I saw him in the driveway, hood of the car propped open, a crescent wrench in one hand and a YouTube video paused at minute 3:16 in the other. “It’s just the alternator,” he told himself—like the word itself was the key to mechanical enlightenment.

Three bolts later, he had replaced it. Well… replaced something. The engine wouldn’t start, but Jerry mumbled that was just because the battery needed a “confidence boost.”

By afternoon he’d moved on to grilling. Now, grilling’s an art, but Jerry treats it like a coin toss—you either win or you eat charcoal. He stood there with a spatula, narrating his technique like a Food Network host who’s never actually used a kitchen. He flipped the burgers three times in 45 seconds and declared them “perfect” as they slid onto the plate… still cold in the middle.

Then came the parallel parking. A tight spot outside the hardware store. Jerry approached it like a man who’d watched someone do it once, maybe in a movie. He got the back bumper in… sort of. The front of the car stuck out into traffic like a polite invitation to disaster. He hopped out, grinning, tossed the keys from hand to hand, and said, “Nailed it.”

By the time the sun was setting, Jerry was in his garage, tightening the last bolt on a shelf that leaned like it was deep in thought. One screw squealed and gave up as soon as he stepped back. Didn’t matter. He dusted off his hands, called his wife in, and proclaimed his day’s work: the silent car, the leaning shelf, the rare-but-possibly-edible burgers.

She smiled, because what else can you do? He’s Jerry.

And me? Well, I’ll just say this—the guy’s a natural, alright. Naturally wrong about just about everything.