"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.

I'm pretty sure he just looked at you; huck a fucking brake shoe at him. Oh shit! Did you hit him?