Notes From A Walkman Junkie: I Won’t Wait Longer Than Three To Four Hours
Car dealerships really have me by the ovaries. This has been a long running theme for me as I have been trapped in their savage system of rape in the face overcharging for decades now. It began several years ago with my previous vehicle that had a nasty little habit of “not ever fucking going.” The first time my car refused to start, I promptly had it towed to the nearest car dealership ( I know–huge mistake, but I was unfamiliar with the area and cars never break down at convenient times, like when you are on your way to the dentist for a root canal or going to your mother-in-laws’ for a Craft Club party–they happen at two in morning in a really sketchy area when it is freezing out and you are lost and you left your coat at your friend’s house because you are an idiot).
After this initial visit to the dealership, I discovered that my car was fucked with some new problem at least once a month. Of course, I (idiot) kept taking it back to the same same place only to be dicked over again and again. Finally, after many trips and much money spent (and the woman next to me in the waiting lounge screaming about conspiracies and “They are mean and they break things!”), I decided to take a stand and insisted that they let me go back and actually watch them work on my car (not really sure what I expected to accomplish by this as I know zero about cars and it would have had to be something completely obvious to spot like, “Ah-Ha! You guys are stuffing my engine with angry bunnies and disgruntled muppets. Look at all of that bright orange fur and poop.”)
Now that I have a different car, you would think that I had learned my lesson and would no longer take it to a car dealership. Unfortunately, my new car is a Volkswagen Beetle and it requires some sort of magical process where they bring in Gnomes and Elves or some shit from Fairy Mountain Hill just to do a goddamn oil change that evidently no one can do, but them (and maybe Little Dutch from the Bronx). So, I find myself at the mercy of these (excruciatingly polite) bastards once again. I recently brought my car in for another ridiculous oil change and to have my headlight replaced (which was very odd because I had just had it replaced not even a year ago and figured that surely they would not charge me for a new one, but apparently they have some sort of policy that unless you happen to come in when the Nymphs and Sprites are not busy and the moon is in it’s Waxing Gibbous phase and it is the third Tuesday of the month and Big Deal Dan’s birthday–you are shit out of luck).
They informed me that it would take two hours for my car to be ready (the headlight replacing is even trickier than the oil change–the Ogres from Feldagarb must be called in) and I was comfortable with exactly that specified amount of time. However, with only a mere five minutes left to my two-hour wait, I was told that the repairs were going to take longer than they initially thought and it would now be three hours rather than two. I had not mentally prepared (angrily mumble and breathe heavily for at least twenty minutes) for this additional hour and was slightly distraught–so when a cheerful employee passed by the waiting area and playfully tossed a large, stuffed Santa ball at me–I swatted it to the ground. I have to go back next week for an elaborate battery replacing ritual–it involves Dyrads and Goblins.
I am attaching “Murderer” by Low (excellent waiting music).