And There Was Suffering, Such As The World Had Never Seen Before!
Yesterday I bought a car.
Of course, you, my devoted fans, know that I have the ability to stretch out a simple five-word sentence into a thirty page dissertation. Which I am about to do. Grab a drink and some munchies (except for you, ghostwriterxx; you've had more than enough), take a seat, and enjoy.
My previous car ('91 Volvo 240 wagon) has served its purpose well, taking me many places and hauling much cargo. From the pleasant suburbia of Jersey, to the barren wasteland of Pennsylvania, to the southern hospitality of Virginia, to the isolated forests of upstate New York, it has performed its duties like a noble steed, hauling its pioneering wagon into the unknown. But age and use have drained its life force, until it became what it is now, nothing more than a hollow shell of a car, devoid of power, incapable of drawing its next breath. Fare thee well.
Instead I must engage the salesfolk at Planet Honda in a battle of wills and wiles. Feh on that. Would that such things could be simple and straightforward, like "Here is a suitcase full of cash. Please give me a car. Thank you." And that's it. Alas, such things are not simple and straightforward, and in fact buying a car is only slightly less complicated than filling out an income tax form. Although in the end they both involve the same amount of unconsensual anal sex. Which makes me a sad panda.
Car dealerships seem to be run by a large percentage of foreigners, for some odd reason. Not that I have anything against foreigners- most of my day is spent dealing with people of non-American descent, and they are no different than any other people. I just had to notice that Autoland is pretty much owned and controlled by a contingent of Russians and their Republic allies, while Planet Honda had a high percentage of Africans. To my credit, I pinned my salesperson's nationality within seconds. Nigerian. A dangerous man, indeed. More so because of his thick accent that allowed him to hide details from me with mumbling. Oh no you don't; I don't fall for that trick anymore. They always try that deep mumble thing to trail off their voice when they start lying to you. I see it every day.
Luckily I knew exactly what I was looking for, and found the three cars I had selected off the internet search I had done earlier. The selected car was a "special" sale, and much cheaper than the other two. So, as fizrep agreed, money wins. Always. Except when you don't have any.
As a minor aside, the car's color is "plum mist". What the fuck does that mean, exactly? Like, if a plum was converted to gaseous state, would it be this color? I don't get it... but whatever, in the dark it looks black, and in the light it looks gray with a tint of purple. Plum mist, my ass.
I then sign several thousand pieces of paper. See the part where I said "simple and straightforward." That was not this part. Some small bit of it was my fault, granted; having moved recently, apparently my change of address did not get to everyone that I wanted it to get to, and I forgot one or two folks along the way. That slowed things down. Note to self: go to DMV and change address on license. But that still took up quite a bit of time. Free hot chocolate was a mild consolation prize here. We should have gotten more.
Then I get shuffled off to the waiting room to wait for the finance guy to tell me the exact nature of the assfucking I was to receive. I waited in this room for 80 minutes, no lie. Four people who came in after me left before me. I was pissed off to the highest level of pissivity (that one's for you, shmivejournal). I considered shouting down the hallway "Isn't this Planet Honda? The place where buying a car is fun? I'm not having fun down here, waiting around for something to happen! I've laid money at your feet already! GIVE ME CAR!!!!"
But I am an icon of patience and restraint, and thus I did not do that.
Finally I sign a few more pages, get a key and a temporary license plate, and am escorted to the exit. Lo and behold, a shiny plum-mist colored '99 Honda Accord LX awaits my command. And that command was "Get me the fuck outta here, stat!" Which it did. Much faster than I expected.
If anybody would like to buy one of my kidneys for a few million dollars, please feel free to get in touch. Already I miss the sweet taste of cash. Oh bank account, I hardly knew you!
Later that evening I drove home from class doing 90 mph, because the car is that much quieter and more powerful than my old car. I foresee great tragedy as a result... heh.
Of course, you, my devoted fans, know that I have the ability to stretch out a simple five-word sentence into a thirty page dissertation. Which I am about to do. Grab a drink and some munchies (except for you, ghostwriterxx; you've had more than enough), take a seat, and enjoy.
My previous car ('91 Volvo 240 wagon) has served its purpose well, taking me many places and hauling much cargo. From the pleasant suburbia of Jersey, to the barren wasteland of Pennsylvania, to the southern hospitality of Virginia, to the isolated forests of upstate New York, it has performed its duties like a noble steed, hauling its pioneering wagon into the unknown. But age and use have drained its life force, until it became what it is now, nothing more than a hollow shell of a car, devoid of power, incapable of drawing its next breath. Fare thee well.
Instead I must engage the salesfolk at Planet Honda in a battle of wills and wiles. Feh on that. Would that such things could be simple and straightforward, like "Here is a suitcase full of cash. Please give me a car. Thank you." And that's it. Alas, such things are not simple and straightforward, and in fact buying a car is only slightly less complicated than filling out an income tax form. Although in the end they both involve the same amount of unconsensual anal sex. Which makes me a sad panda.
Car dealerships seem to be run by a large percentage of foreigners, for some odd reason. Not that I have anything against foreigners- most of my day is spent dealing with people of non-American descent, and they are no different than any other people. I just had to notice that Autoland is pretty much owned and controlled by a contingent of Russians and their Republic allies, while Planet Honda had a high percentage of Africans. To my credit, I pinned my salesperson's nationality within seconds. Nigerian. A dangerous man, indeed. More so because of his thick accent that allowed him to hide details from me with mumbling. Oh no you don't; I don't fall for that trick anymore. They always try that deep mumble thing to trail off their voice when they start lying to you. I see it every day.
Luckily I knew exactly what I was looking for, and found the three cars I had selected off the internet search I had done earlier. The selected car was a "special" sale, and much cheaper than the other two. So, as fizrep agreed, money wins. Always. Except when you don't have any.
As a minor aside, the car's color is "plum mist". What the fuck does that mean, exactly? Like, if a plum was converted to gaseous state, would it be this color? I don't get it... but whatever, in the dark it looks black, and in the light it looks gray with a tint of purple. Plum mist, my ass.
I then sign several thousand pieces of paper. See the part where I said "simple and straightforward." That was not this part. Some small bit of it was my fault, granted; having moved recently, apparently my change of address did not get to everyone that I wanted it to get to, and I forgot one or two folks along the way. That slowed things down. Note to self: go to DMV and change address on license. But that still took up quite a bit of time. Free hot chocolate was a mild consolation prize here. We should have gotten more.
Then I get shuffled off to the waiting room to wait for the finance guy to tell me the exact nature of the assfucking I was to receive. I waited in this room for 80 minutes, no lie. Four people who came in after me left before me. I was pissed off to the highest level of pissivity (that one's for you, shmivejournal). I considered shouting down the hallway "Isn't this Planet Honda? The place where buying a car is fun? I'm not having fun down here, waiting around for something to happen! I've laid money at your feet already! GIVE ME CAR!!!!"
But I am an icon of patience and restraint, and thus I did not do that.
Finally I sign a few more pages, get a key and a temporary license plate, and am escorted to the exit. Lo and behold, a shiny plum-mist colored '99 Honda Accord LX awaits my command. And that command was "Get me the fuck outta here, stat!" Which it did. Much faster than I expected.
If anybody would like to buy one of my kidneys for a few million dollars, please feel free to get in touch. Already I miss the sweet taste of cash. Oh bank account, I hardly knew you!
Later that evening I drove home from class doing 90 mph, because the car is that much quieter and more powerful than my old car. I foresee great tragedy as a result... heh.