...is the amount of pissing and moaning attendant to the field-stripping and re-assembly of the 1911-pattern pistol that goes on in every gun-related corner of the intertubes. To hear people talk about it, you'd think it a task that was, if not Sisyphean, then at least of a difficulty level commensurate with building a nuclear reactor in a bottle while wearing thick wool mittens.
I don't want to sound like I'm making a paean to some imaginary bygone age here, but there was a time when the general assumption of society was that the average adult American male was at least minimally mechanically competent: garages had timing lights in them and drug stores had vacuum tube testers, and patching an inner tube or setting the gap on a spark plug were not lost and arcane arts.
The microchip has freed us of many things and transistorized electronics are amazingly rugged compared to their fragile forebears of bygone days. The idea of "fixing" a radio or TV is foreign to us now, and the underhood areas of modern cars are shrouded in plastic fairings that practically scream "No User Serviceable Parts Inside" (and with the first spark plug change not scheduled for 100,000 miles, why would there be?) and unless you're some kind of weirdo bicycle hobbyist you'll probably never clap eyes on an inner tube, because even your riding mower's gone tubeless. These days one can get a reputation as "handy" for being able to plug a video card into your computer's motherboard.
Granted, modern pistols tend to be very easy to field-strip (although many are a pain to detail strip) but it's not like the 1911 is really all that difficult. Generations of draftees mastered it, after all. Even back before I got my Glock tattoo lasered off, I wondered why all the fuss, and now that I've been toting 1911s for a while, I really think that complaining about it makes one sound like Talking Barbie saying "Math is harrdd."
(Although if you've complicated the process with a 20# recoil spring and a full-length guide rod, you're just buying trouble.)