Now mister the day the lottery I win,
I ain't ever gonna ride in no used car again - Bruce Springsteen, Used Cars
I bought my daughter a used car recently, and I made it through the process without assaulting a used car salesman, which surprised me. I rank used car salesmen somewhere between University of Tennessee fans and Chairman Mao on the humanity scale.
I get tense when a used car salesman even walks up to me. No other purchasing experience in America is as painful. When I go to the grocery store, the clerk doesn’t have to go consult his manager before he can tell me how much a loaf of bread costs. When I go to the sporting goods store, the cashier doesn’t say “make me an offer” when I pick up a box of golf balls. If I go to a restaurant and I tell the waiter I don’t like shrimp, he doesn’t try to convince me to taste it first.
I try not to make eye contact with car salesmen, because it’s like feeding a stray dog. Once you do that, you can never get rid of them. They lie to you, they try to trick you, they insult your intelligence, and then they expect you to do something that helps them out. They’re like presidential candidates.
Luckily, I found the right car for Allie after only going to a few places, and I lucked into a salesman (saleswoman, actually) who wasn’t pushy, and didn’t make me want to punch a wall after talking to her for five minutes. So I bought the car.
I fondly remember my first car, a metallic blue 1968 Mustang with a white top. It had white vinyl seats, to which bare legs would stick on a hot summer day. If I ever got in there on an August day wearing shorts, I’d need skin grafts after I tried to stand up.
It had the 2-by-55 air conditioning system – you know, roll down both windows and go 55 miles per hour. It didn’t have power steering, so after driving it for a few months I had Popeye forearms. It only had an AM radio, so I listened to a lot of Paul Harvey and “golden country oldies.” It got about a mile to the gallon and it handled like a Sherman tank, but I was very proud of that car.
Then I had a 1978 Honda Accord, which had a manual transmission with five speeds, all of them slow. It was so small you couldn’t cuss a cat inside it without getting fur in your mouth. If I drove it on the interstate, I may as well have put a ramp on the back of it for all of the other cars to jump over me.
I had some other cars that weren’t great during the years, most notably a 1987 Dodge Shadow, or as I call it, the “American Yugo.” What a piece of crap that car was. It had more defects than Michael Jackson.
Now I drive a beige 1999 Plymouth Voyager mini-van, or as I like to call it, “The Chick Magnet.” That baby will go from 0-60 in a week. It is impossible to look, feel, or be cool driving a vehicle like that. The interior is awash in dog hair, since nobody will ride in it with me except Lucky. And even she ducks her head in embarrassment when we pass other dogs.
I don’t see me getting a cool car for quite some time. What I really want is a great, big Cadillac, as big as a boat, with a dashboard that lights up like a Christmas tree at night, with plush leather seats and a ride smoother than a baby’s butt. Basically, a pimpmobile.
I just hope I don’t have to buy it used.
I get tense when a used car salesman even walks up to me. No other purchasing experience in America is as painful. When I go to the grocery store, the clerk doesn’t have to go consult his manager before he can tell me how much a loaf of bread costs. When I go to the sporting goods store, the cashier doesn’t say “make me an offer” when I pick up a box of golf balls. If I go to a restaurant and I tell the waiter I don’t like shrimp, he doesn’t try to convince me to taste it first.
I try not to make eye contact with car salesmen, because it’s like feeding a stray dog. Once you do that, you can never get rid of them. They lie to you, they try to trick you, they insult your intelligence, and then they expect you to do something that helps them out. They’re like presidential candidates.
Luckily, I found the right car for Allie after only going to a few places, and I lucked into a salesman (saleswoman, actually) who wasn’t pushy, and didn’t make me want to punch a wall after talking to her for five minutes. So I bought the car.
I fondly remember my first car, a metallic blue 1968 Mustang with a white top. It had white vinyl seats, to which bare legs would stick on a hot summer day. If I ever got in there on an August day wearing shorts, I’d need skin grafts after I tried to stand up.
It had the 2-by-55 air conditioning system – you know, roll down both windows and go 55 miles per hour. It didn’t have power steering, so after driving it for a few months I had Popeye forearms. It only had an AM radio, so I listened to a lot of Paul Harvey and “golden country oldies.” It got about a mile to the gallon and it handled like a Sherman tank, but I was very proud of that car.
Then I had a 1978 Honda Accord, which had a manual transmission with five speeds, all of them slow. It was so small you couldn’t cuss a cat inside it without getting fur in your mouth. If I drove it on the interstate, I may as well have put a ramp on the back of it for all of the other cars to jump over me.
I had some other cars that weren’t great during the years, most notably a 1987 Dodge Shadow, or as I call it, the “American Yugo.” What a piece of crap that car was. It had more defects than Michael Jackson.
Now I drive a beige 1999 Plymouth Voyager mini-van, or as I like to call it, “The Chick Magnet.” That baby will go from 0-60 in a week. It is impossible to look, feel, or be cool driving a vehicle like that. The interior is awash in dog hair, since nobody will ride in it with me except Lucky. And even she ducks her head in embarrassment when we pass other dogs.
I don’t see me getting a cool car for quite some time. What I really want is a great, big Cadillac, as big as a boat, with a dashboard that lights up like a Christmas tree at night, with plush leather seats and a ride smoother than a baby’s butt. Basically, a pimpmobile.
I just hope I don’t have to buy it used.
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