my racist lawnmower

Yesterday, my racist lawnmower stopped mid-way through the job. It was done. Wouldn't work.

After walking away for a couple of hours (things like this are prone to throw me into fits of rage which, later, are embarassing), I confronted the lawnmower with a fist full of tools. And this is the important part:

I took it apart, diagnosed the problem, fixed the problem, and put it back together. It started on the second pull.

This pencil-necked PhD may make a living at the chalk and key boards, but I can also fix a lawnmower.

Yes. Yes, I can. (Even a racist one.)