We Men Are Men, And Proud

There is nothing better than a few turns of the wrench for keeping a man anchored in his masculine nationalism, and when a man can live in that, he can truly be at home. We have industry in our bones, we have gears and oils and tunability to thank for our oddly coarse sensitivity, our harsh and unyielding adaptability. Paradoxical? To be sure. But it must have been a thoughtful, careful, and compassionate bunch of men to conceptualize the garish industrialism that has brought us to this particular sense of national confidence and promise that we can harbor. No one slow and brutish could have brought about something as delicate as an engine, those 12 cylinder beauties in the noses and wings of WWII aircraft; the turbo-diesels of today's massive main battle tanks, whose incredible weight belies their agility and nimbleness. This is why I, we, are at home under the hood and breaking our knuckles. Why a man's only real comfort zone is in the seat of his rig. Because for those of us who give credit for our prosperity not to god, but to the hand of man himself, a greasy garage floor is the only altar we can take seriously.