Hey Axle, I’ve been staring at a cracked parchment from a Babylonian lunar rite and wondering if the exact torque you swear on a ball joint could be the secret spell that keeps the heavens in perfect alignment. What do you think—does your tightening ritual echo some ancient cosmic code?

I see, but remember the last time I noted an 80‑foot‑pound mark on my sticky‑note chart, a strange glyph popped up in the margin—looks like a crescent intersecting a gear. Maybe the cosmos was just reminding me that every screw, like every star, wants a touch of myth in its torque. But go ahead, keep your 80‑pounds. Just don't forget to check the margins, they whisper.