th3n00b
05-18-07, 08:43 PM
The used car buying experience
So, there you are. You've just made the decision that you're going to break down and buy a car. You've scoured craigslist, you've checked the auto trader, and you looked through the newspaper. Nothing has tickled your fancy and so you take that fatal step. The dealer.
First of all, let me explain to you where car dealers and their sales forces come from. There is a planet in our solar system that is completley devoid of life. It barely supports the rock that makes up it's mass. Nothing lives on it, there is only death and emptiness. Some years ago, a convergence of gamma radiation and the tortured souls of inbred paramecium caused a giant rift in the bedrock of this un named planet. This caused toxic gases from the underbelly of the hell planet to escape into it's atmosphere and, blend, if you will, with the gamma rays and the tortured souls of inbred paramecium. This concoction forced the planet and all it's satellites into critical mass. The resulting implosion and subsequent explosion hurled the gasseous filth outwards in a direction that would forever change another young planet. That planets name was Earth. Or, Earf if you're Will Smith.
Anyhoo, this rancid mass of putridity was inhaled by none other than Henry Ford himself. All curent automobile dealers and sales people are descended from his rotten seed in some form or another. You might ask, "what about the foreign car markets?" To this I would reply that everyone knows that Henry Ford was a notorious philanthropist. Only instead of money, he gave semen. Who could forget his "christening" of the first automobile factory he built. Anyway, he especially prefered the exotic women of Japan and Germany and would go there to spread his philanthropism every chance he got. Hence, the foreign car market.
Stumbling into the used car lot first is a huge mistake. Let me explain how these places work. Depending on the type of car lot you walk onto, there will be a central building. This building can range from a mobile home trailer, propped up on old tires and weel rims, to a concrete pill box, complete with popcorn machine that rarely works and 3 day old coffee grounds, oozing their black death into paper dixie cups. The small ones. Inside these caverns of calamity lies, the sales force. The sales force will consist of four types of people. The young go getter, who is eager to make deals, the middle aged manager wannabe, who thinks he is personable, the wizend old man, and I use the term "wizened" in the loosest way possible, and the manager, who's job it is to squeeze every ounce of life from your cold dead body. That's right, you are essentially walking into a hearse dealership, because no matter what car you buy, a little part of you will die there on the lot.
So there you are, sweating bullets because you've read this article before hopping in you jalopy and heady out to the dealership. You slowly remove your seatbelt and climb out of your seat. You turn around to lock the door. Turning back you are greeted with the greasy haired sulfure smelling son of satan known as the used car sales person. He is generally anywhere from 18-28 years old and immediatley asks you, "So, you here to buy a car?" No dumbass, I got lost and thought this was Bessy's house of dueling pancakes. Of course I'm here to buy a car, or at least look at several. Now this kids job is to escort you to one or two cars that are actually inside the price range you give him. The cars you are shown inevitably turn out to be, "one they just got in" and that is supposed to explain the smell of sour beer, doritos, and what could be either throw up or bong water. Possibly both.
Without skipping a beat though, greasy haired Mcshoeshine will show you to one that is 5 to 10 times your price range, but something that they've "had on the lot for a while" and might be willing to make a deal on. However before you get to these land barges of luxury, greasy haired frodo bagins usually excuse himself to greet a new customer. Now you are latched onto by those lemon selling leeches that call themsleves "middle managers." They are usually 30-45 and have an air of failure and desperation, that no cheap cologne can mask, about them. They will usually berate Grease job Mcyouthfulenergy to you both under their breath and to your face. Then they will look at their watch, look back at the building and state, "let me see what I can find for you." You eventually arrive at a car with a nice paint job, sparkling rims, and polished interior. Price? Oh let's take it for a test drive first. Okay. Sometimes it starts right away, sometimes not. You know, the lot boys must've left a light on or something. Right. Sure. That puff of blue smoke? Oh it's been sitting for a while. That's just the engine cleaning itself out. Let her run for a while. That stutter on acceleration? Oh, the gas is a little low, I'll have to remind Jorge to fill that up when we get back.
After the test drive, Middleman Mcfailure brings you inside the office to, "work out a deal." He'll right a price down on a piece of paper, elaboratley called, "quote sheet." No shit sherlock. After you initial coffing and sputtering at the aforementioned written price figure, you are asked to make a counter offer. You make one. Then it comes. The teeth suck. It sounds like a mix between a rabid seagull scarfing down a diseased rockfish and your sixth grade chemistry teacher trying to breath while eathing a 12 inch roast beef on rye from subway. Middleman will always, ALWAYS receive a call right after this and dissapear. In his place comes Old man Mcgee. He's been around the block and appears to be bored with life / dead end sales job number 650. He states that Middleman McFaggypants has sent him to finish up the deal. He'll take one look at your price quote and state, "OH I should be able to make this work." Let me get your birth certificate, license, registration, marriage certificate, last 5 bank statements, cell phone bill, and a copy of your mortgage agreement. It's for insurance purposes." Right. Eventually a license is all he needs and he walks into his "managers office."
Now we're talking. You can smell the deal. It might be a few hundred dollars more than you wanted to spend, but hey, it's worth it for such a gem right? While images of getting laid in the back seat dance through your head, Manager McAwesome comes walking purposefully out of the back room. He'll extend his hand in greeting, flash some teeth, usually off white or yellow, depending again on the lot you're at, and say, "Hi, I'm Ted." It's usually Ted. Don't ask. I don't make the rules. Ted will proceed to get very intimiate with you. Bank statements, credit card info, credit score. By the time you're finished you've been emasculated in every sense of the word. You start to sweat. Ted is looking at you like your Dad used to. Like he's been let down by some life decision you've made and know's he can't fix any of it for you. But wait, there's hope, Ted sighs, "Well, look, I like you, I want to make this deal happen." Let me see what I can do on the price." He types some fake keystrokes into a calcuator, gives a thoughtful, "mhmmm," and smiles. Oh thank you JESUS! I knew we could do this. Ted is my HERO!
Ted throws out a figure. It's usually only a few dollars less than their original offer, but after all you two have been through together you feel like you're coming out on top. Only after Ted leaves and Greasy Hari McFartbags is having you sign financing papers that would make the most hardend Marine wince and grab his balls in agony do you realize that you've been fleeced. That faith in humanity you had while Ted was talking you into 6 years of debt and fights with your wife over the budget? Kiss it goodbye. A piece of your soul dies. The size of that piece varies in size depending on how much you paid for your 4500 pound guilt trip. Enjoy it. If you can.
So, there you are. You've just made the decision that you're going to break down and buy a car. You've scoured craigslist, you've checked the auto trader, and you looked through the newspaper. Nothing has tickled your fancy and so you take that fatal step. The dealer.
First of all, let me explain to you where car dealers and their sales forces come from. There is a planet in our solar system that is completley devoid of life. It barely supports the rock that makes up it's mass. Nothing lives on it, there is only death and emptiness. Some years ago, a convergence of gamma radiation and the tortured souls of inbred paramecium caused a giant rift in the bedrock of this un named planet. This caused toxic gases from the underbelly of the hell planet to escape into it's atmosphere and, blend, if you will, with the gamma rays and the tortured souls of inbred paramecium. This concoction forced the planet and all it's satellites into critical mass. The resulting implosion and subsequent explosion hurled the gasseous filth outwards in a direction that would forever change another young planet. That planets name was Earth. Or, Earf if you're Will Smith.
Anyhoo, this rancid mass of putridity was inhaled by none other than Henry Ford himself. All curent automobile dealers and sales people are descended from his rotten seed in some form or another. You might ask, "what about the foreign car markets?" To this I would reply that everyone knows that Henry Ford was a notorious philanthropist. Only instead of money, he gave semen. Who could forget his "christening" of the first automobile factory he built. Anyway, he especially prefered the exotic women of Japan and Germany and would go there to spread his philanthropism every chance he got. Hence, the foreign car market.
Stumbling into the used car lot first is a huge mistake. Let me explain how these places work. Depending on the type of car lot you walk onto, there will be a central building. This building can range from a mobile home trailer, propped up on old tires and weel rims, to a concrete pill box, complete with popcorn machine that rarely works and 3 day old coffee grounds, oozing their black death into paper dixie cups. The small ones. Inside these caverns of calamity lies, the sales force. The sales force will consist of four types of people. The young go getter, who is eager to make deals, the middle aged manager wannabe, who thinks he is personable, the wizend old man, and I use the term "wizened" in the loosest way possible, and the manager, who's job it is to squeeze every ounce of life from your cold dead body. That's right, you are essentially walking into a hearse dealership, because no matter what car you buy, a little part of you will die there on the lot.
So there you are, sweating bullets because you've read this article before hopping in you jalopy and heady out to the dealership. You slowly remove your seatbelt and climb out of your seat. You turn around to lock the door. Turning back you are greeted with the greasy haired sulfure smelling son of satan known as the used car sales person. He is generally anywhere from 18-28 years old and immediatley asks you, "So, you here to buy a car?" No dumbass, I got lost and thought this was Bessy's house of dueling pancakes. Of course I'm here to buy a car, or at least look at several. Now this kids job is to escort you to one or two cars that are actually inside the price range you give him. The cars you are shown inevitably turn out to be, "one they just got in" and that is supposed to explain the smell of sour beer, doritos, and what could be either throw up or bong water. Possibly both.
Without skipping a beat though, greasy haired Mcshoeshine will show you to one that is 5 to 10 times your price range, but something that they've "had on the lot for a while" and might be willing to make a deal on. However before you get to these land barges of luxury, greasy haired frodo bagins usually excuse himself to greet a new customer. Now you are latched onto by those lemon selling leeches that call themsleves "middle managers." They are usually 30-45 and have an air of failure and desperation, that no cheap cologne can mask, about them. They will usually berate Grease job Mcyouthfulenergy to you both under their breath and to your face. Then they will look at their watch, look back at the building and state, "let me see what I can find for you." You eventually arrive at a car with a nice paint job, sparkling rims, and polished interior. Price? Oh let's take it for a test drive first. Okay. Sometimes it starts right away, sometimes not. You know, the lot boys must've left a light on or something. Right. Sure. That puff of blue smoke? Oh it's been sitting for a while. That's just the engine cleaning itself out. Let her run for a while. That stutter on acceleration? Oh, the gas is a little low, I'll have to remind Jorge to fill that up when we get back.
After the test drive, Middleman Mcfailure brings you inside the office to, "work out a deal." He'll right a price down on a piece of paper, elaboratley called, "quote sheet." No shit sherlock. After you initial coffing and sputtering at the aforementioned written price figure, you are asked to make a counter offer. You make one. Then it comes. The teeth suck. It sounds like a mix between a rabid seagull scarfing down a diseased rockfish and your sixth grade chemistry teacher trying to breath while eathing a 12 inch roast beef on rye from subway. Middleman will always, ALWAYS receive a call right after this and dissapear. In his place comes Old man Mcgee. He's been around the block and appears to be bored with life / dead end sales job number 650. He states that Middleman McFaggypants has sent him to finish up the deal. He'll take one look at your price quote and state, "OH I should be able to make this work." Let me get your birth certificate, license, registration, marriage certificate, last 5 bank statements, cell phone bill, and a copy of your mortgage agreement. It's for insurance purposes." Right. Eventually a license is all he needs and he walks into his "managers office."
Now we're talking. You can smell the deal. It might be a few hundred dollars more than you wanted to spend, but hey, it's worth it for such a gem right? While images of getting laid in the back seat dance through your head, Manager McAwesome comes walking purposefully out of the back room. He'll extend his hand in greeting, flash some teeth, usually off white or yellow, depending again on the lot you're at, and say, "Hi, I'm Ted." It's usually Ted. Don't ask. I don't make the rules. Ted will proceed to get very intimiate with you. Bank statements, credit card info, credit score. By the time you're finished you've been emasculated in every sense of the word. You start to sweat. Ted is looking at you like your Dad used to. Like he's been let down by some life decision you've made and know's he can't fix any of it for you. But wait, there's hope, Ted sighs, "Well, look, I like you, I want to make this deal happen." Let me see what I can do on the price." He types some fake keystrokes into a calcuator, gives a thoughtful, "mhmmm," and smiles. Oh thank you JESUS! I knew we could do this. Ted is my HERO!
Ted throws out a figure. It's usually only a few dollars less than their original offer, but after all you two have been through together you feel like you're coming out on top. Only after Ted leaves and Greasy Hari McFartbags is having you sign financing papers that would make the most hardend Marine wince and grab his balls in agony do you realize that you've been fleeced. That faith in humanity you had while Ted was talking you into 6 years of debt and fights with your wife over the budget? Kiss it goodbye. A piece of your soul dies. The size of that piece varies in size depending on how much you paid for your 4500 pound guilt trip. Enjoy it. If you can.