What say there, Fuzzy Britches? Feel like talking?

As usual rally time is approaching, I and we are headed back to Portland once again. Thus! all my mopeds achieve the apex of their existence and dive headlong into the empty pool known as self-destruction. The masochistic little devils find ways to break down or render themselves unrideable at the least fortunate of times. Sometimes other people's bikes fall onto mine and bust my petcock (update: gall darn replacement cock done did arrive!) Other bastard mopeds scour the blacktop for thin nails, nary larger than a sewing needle, to protrude through the vulcanized rubber of my tyre, lacerating the air filled tube found beneath and releasing the pressure from within required for optimal traction and stability. Tailights fall off and shatter like the avoidable experience of a human's mouthfull of teeth making impact with concrete at high rate of velocity. Crank shafts become loose from their housed bearings and drift aimlessly like a seagull floating carelessly on the updraft of a sailing vessel, much like that that can be commonly witnessed around this Great Pacific Northwest's Greater Puget Sound area's passenger ferry's. And then there is analogies. And then there is the intermittent running of engines that refuse to behave even when I sternly command them to do so. Even my tactic of fixing them is ending fruitless. I have helped it achieve the holy trifecta of the combustion engine: spark, gas, compression. And it still it and refrains. And still Andy Dufresne can be found taking guests out charter fishing in Zihuatanejo. Well, maybe the spark, despite a new set of points and condensor, is still refusing to behave? Well, maybe. Can you think of an analogy? Like a similar anecdote? Perhaps it's waiting for you there in this big hayfield up near Buxton. Got a long rock wall with a big oak at the north end. Like something out of a Robert Frost poem. In the base of that wall you'll find a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. A piece of black volcanic glass. You'll find something buried under it I want you to have. You'll just have to pry up that rock and see. Let's hear your clever analogies for THINGS. Perhaps on the subject of Rita Hayworth? Well? What say there Fuzzy Britches?