I would like to say that I remain calm and collected at all times, that my temper is in check and that I can take a deep breath and walk away from a bitch of a job for a moment, to return with a clearer head and a plan to bypass the problem. I’d be lying my ass off. I’m one of those types that once things start becoming difficult, I degrade down to somewhere between Cro-Magnon man and one very pissed-off chimpanzee that somehow taught itself how to fluently swear in three different languages. I’ve been so bad off that my mother-in-law has offered up bourbon-soaked chocolates, my stepmother has ordered me to take two shots and to go “sit on the couch and calm the f*ck down”, my father once threatened to neutralize me with a breaker bar, and a friend of mine all but tackled me to the ground after I threatened to throw a brake drum through a windshield after tearing my arm open at a junkyard.
Okay, I can sport a temper. But sometimes, that temper has come in real handy. I can think back to a couple of notable incidents. My 1973 Chevelle loved to backfire through the carburetor and catch fire at the worst possible times. One frosty morning, I’m driving around Fort Hood when, at a traffic light, I get the tell-tale cough through the engine and the lick of flame from underneath the cowl scoop. That car had a fiberglass hood that had six pins holding it down. Seven in the morning, I’m in shorts I normally sleep in, a hoodie and flip-flops in maybe 40-degree weather, and here I am throwing the hood off of the car into the grass near Burger King, launching a burning 3-inch tall air filter down the street before I take a work shirt and proceed to smother the fire out on the engine, the whole time raging like Sam Kinison at his peak, before realizing that the fuel line had split. With the promise of fire still prevalent, I just tore off the old end and clamp, stuck the clamp over what was left, and jammed it together without a pair of pliers. Ah, adrenaline. Or there was the time that I kicked the cocking motor of a helicopter-mounted machine gun in raw frustration after it fought me for five minutes when we really needed it to function, and somehow that abusive action cured all ills? Glad the pilots didn’t mention anything at the time.
Sometimes, it’s those snap movements that make the difference. So, for today’s question, we want to know how far you’ve gone to get the job done. Take a cue from these NASCAR repairs…when you break out a concrete saw to fix a fender, that’s not a good day. When you’re beating the shit out of the trunk so it’ll fit right, that’s not a good day. But if it gets the car up and going, that’s a good call!