Now that you've acquired your perfect vehicle and you've got all your tools, it's time to drink a lot. That's about 80 percent of the reason people even own cars. It's like fishing: Nobody actually goes to fish. You just get drunk on a lake, because ducks are hilarious when you're wasted. So it's time to open up the hood, smear some grease on your body and get sloshed in your driveway. If anybody asks what you're doing, simply look annoyed, yell something that sounds like a car-part and then blame it on a minority. Here's a few to get you started:
“Alternator! Goddamn Japs!”
“Steering Column! Sumbitchin' Mexicans!”
“Flux Capacitor! Fucking Samoans!”
"Everybody knows those damn Samoans farm inferior uranium!"
Feel free to improvise, and with any luck, you'll mostly be left alone. However, if you do find yourself with enough drunken confidence to do some actual work, pick something simple and preferably unnecessary to the overall operation of the car.
I chose the brakes.
On older model American cars, brakes were more of a polite gesture than a vital function. It was simply courteous to try and apply them if you found yourself hurtling towards the mailman--like holding the “door open” button on an elevator when you see somebody coming through the lobby; it's probably not going to work, but it's important to look like you're trying. If you ever actually needed to stop, you just aimed for a building. Americans bought cars like new jeans: a few sizes too big, because they're going to shrink through regular use. Which is why your older car is probably going to have the less effective “drum brakes” installed. Drum brakes differ substantially from our modern “disc brakes” in that they look much more like Dr. Theopolis from Buck Rogers in the 24th Century
Ed.: For those of you not currently making antiquated references to nerd shows, he was the talking Pimp Clock that the Dick Robot wore.
Once you're done laughing drunkenly at this realization and doing your best Twiki impression, consult your service manual. For example, mine tells me that I need to “bleed” the brakes, and that's easy enough. You want to go to your kitchen and grab the sharpest knife you have. Everybody knows robots are heavily armored and don't feel pain, so that means you're gonna have to go for the eyes.
Don't be afraid to really get in there, take out some of that repressed rage, maybe yell out the name of your mother and always remember: Twist the blade to open the wound.
3 Attend Classes, Network with Friends and Neighbors
If you don't have the time or mental capacity to attend classes, that's OK! You already have a great support system in your neighborhood. Friendly neighbors who share the same passion with you and, for the price of a cold beer on a hot summer day, will happily lend you a hand and give you some valuable pointers.
But fuck that, that's your beer.
What is this, communist China? You're a lone wolf. You're like John DieHard and this car is terrorism: You go it alone. Viciously fend off anybody circling your loot--helpful neighbors, concerned family members, pedestrians out walking their dogs, passing cyclists--these people are your enemies and there is a wealth of heavy metal objects within your reach to hurl at them if they come too close. Like that cyclist there. He thinks he's better than you. Look at him: Happy, healthy, with a functioning vehicle powered by his own rippling muscles. He's even got that gross one on the thigh that looks like somebody melted a butt on his knee.
I'm pretty sure he just looked at you; huck a fucking brake shoe at him.
Oh shit! Did you hit him?