Get up, have coffee, irrigate, feed horses, decide spontaneously to hit pick-a-part in the hope of finding a Burb tbi fuel tank. Congratulate self for sheer genius Take tools and swollen thumb, drive North. Arrive, grab wagon cart, proceed with swiftness, congratulate self on organizational skills. Find 88 Burb with tank and skid plate, get excited, pull skid and tank, make sure to slip off wrench and bash thumb, scream and cuss. 1 hour later remove tank, skid, lines, filler, and congratulate self on a job well done. Walk around to front of Burb to scope TBI parts and realize you've just spent an hour pulling a diesel tank in 90 degree temps. Chin up, stay positive, find another burb, check for TBI. Good to go, pull all the same parts, bash thumb again and curl into fetal ball, try not to pee self. 1 hour later in 95 degree temps congratulate self once more. Remove sending unit to peek inside and find 1/2 of unit, pieces in tank, and busted baffle assembly. Slouch, cuss, and stomp off in search of another Burb. Bring sending unit because it's got a pump on it. Walk around and search, find 1 remaining 1995 G20 FS van with no tank and fuel sender hanging. Stop and think, look around and find tank in adjacent car, tank looks good except for hole in bottom edge. Get tank anyway with plans to MIG. Go back to van crawl underneath, and grab sending unit, fuel lines, wiring, brackets, fuel filler, hoses, et. Load cart and make sure to bump throbbing thumb with toolbox. Stumble back to main building looking like a tar ball that blew through the ass of Texas. Berate self for stupidity. Down 4 canned ice teas, slink home with thumb for an ice soak.