Yesterday I cleaned a #$%! black powder revolver replica that my Dad had left dirty for 25 years (fortunately just the part where the noncorrosive cap fouling accumulated, but there was a LOT of it and it was hardened).
The $%^#ing mainspring wouldn't go back into the frame, so while wrestling with it, I dinged up the nice polished blue on the frame with a pair of pliers.
I let loose some profanity more than once. The dogs ran upstairs, scared. My wife asked if she could do anything, and I told her, "No." and laughed a little. She rolled her eyes (this isn't the first time she's observed the phenomenon) and went upstairs to practice dry-firing a little S&W. Seriously.
Inside the revolver, I found that the sear and hammer were both all galled up and burred. They'll have to be replaced (about $50) if I plan to shoot the gun. The one upside is that Dad gave me the thing for nothing.
Did I find cleaning that #$%^ old thing to be relaxing? !@#$, no!
An hour and a half, black hands, frustration, and when now that I put it back together I still can't shoot it without replacing parts.
Relaxing, my ass.