Women will never understand the frustration of trying to fix your own car or truck.  If there is any justice in the world, women will be reincarnated as men who don't have the money to pay, or trust, other men to work on there cars.  Automotive engineers will have to spend eternity working on the sadistic stuff they designed, and just like me, they won't have "Seal Extractor J-1875936-B" that the factory manual calls for!  No, they will have to make do with a paint can opener and a block of wood!

    Woman logic dictates that if it's that frustrating, then it's worth spending the money to pay a professional mechanic to fix it.  They just don't understand.  Their not men.  We have to do it ourselves. It's not matter of pride; it's all about our honor.  We want to be respected for crawling around in semi darkness on cold concrete; contorting our bodies and limbs into painful, unnatural positions.  Women say that men can never understand the pain of giving birth.  Try doing it inside a sleeping bag while knitting a sweater at the same time, and they'll begin to understand what it's like to wrestle 60 lbs of transmission balanced on your chest, and wriggle out from underneath the car, supported by strategically placed hunks of firewood,  without giving yourself a lethal wedgie.  Or when you are trying to torque the flywheel bolts to 70 ft/lbs, and the crankshaft keeps turning even though you have a strap wrench on the front crank pulley and you're trying to keep the strap wrench handle pinched between your ankles.  Your safety glasses fog up and you can't read the scale on the torque wrench, so to remove them.  A piece of dirt or rust falls in your eye, so you rub it with your greasy finger and it hurts worse.  Instinct takes over, and you try and sit up, or roll over, banging your forehead on the frame!  

That's why wives don't understand why we run out of the driveway screaming after them, "Quit riding the clutch!  I'm not putting another in-- ever!  You can walk!  I don't care anymore!"   The neighbor lady across the street, watching all this, turns to her husband and asks, "What’s his problem?"  Her husband looks at his shoes and shakes his head muttering, "You just wouldn't understand." ~Bob Stevens.