I knew I would love this car the moment I saw a bungie cord peeking out of the front grill in the opening scene. Duct tape is for amateurs and girls. Bungie cords are made entirely from testosterone and awesomeness.

You know you’re dealing with great mechanics because their garage is cleaner than your toaster oven, and their hands are cleaner than the fry cook’s at McDonald’s.

If you have an engineering-type mind, you understand that a 1960s-era car can’t compare in any way to the worst econo-box on today’s car lots. Any old Kia would beat a hot rod from back in the day, at least if turning the steering wheel is involved. New cars are safer, more fuel-efficient, and more comfortable. I. Don’t. Care.

New cars ain’t got no soul. They mince down the road, powered by a sewing machine motor, run by a Pentium chip and bad software. When these commendable gentlemen from Hot Rod Garage are finished, you’re riding in a proper machine. You step on a gas pedal that moves a throttle linkage that squirts all sorts of gasoline into four big holes in the top of the engine to make it go. No one’s asking an iPhone app for permission to move, first.

They shouldn’t make any more new cars. All the existing auto hulks in the world should be sent to these dudes, and armies of guys just like them, and then put out for sale in a lot in front of their garages. All the salesmen should have a pinkie ring, a plaid suit, and a tie wide enough to use as a tablecloth at lunchtime.