A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age, she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat, and among other liberal ideals, was very much in favor of higher taxes to support more government programs, in other words, redistribution of wealth.

She was deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, a feeling she openly expressed. Based on the lectures that she had participated in, and the occasional chat with a professor, she felt that her father had for years harbored an evil, selfish desire to keep what he thought should be his.

One day she was challenging her father on his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and the need for more government programs. The self-professed objectivity proclaimed by her professors had to be the truth and she indicated so to her father. He responded by asking how she was doing in school. Taken aback, she answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA, and let him know that it was tough to maintain, insisting that she was taking a very difficult course load and was constantly studying, which left her no time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn’t even have time for a boyfriend, and didn’t really have many college friends because she spent all her time studying. Her father listened and then asked, ‘How is your friend Audrey doing?’ She replied, ‘Audrey is barely getting by. All she takes are easy classes, she never studies, and she barely has a 2.0 GPA. She is so popular on campus; college for her is a blast. She’s always invited to all the parties and lots of times she doesn’t even show up for classes because she’s too hung over.’Her wise father asked his daughter, ‘Why don’t you go to the Dean’s office and ask him to deduct 1.0 off your GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0. That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA.’

The daughter, visibly shocked by her father’s suggestion, angrily fired back, ‘That’s a crazy idea, how would that be fair! I’ve worked really hard for my grades! I’ve invested a lot of time, and a lot of hard work!
Audrey has done next to nothing toward her degree. She played while I worked my tail off!’

The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, ‘Welcome to the Republican party.’

To give some examples, I went to the driving range for over 2 hours the other day and no one even noticed I had left! The other salesman was asleep like some strung-out Maytag Man, comfy in his leather high back (mines pleather; bastards) and the boss was deeply engrossed in a POGO poker tourney. Yesterday I decided to go to the sporting goods store and ended up in Walmart somehow, caught up in some consumer bliss of daylight shopping and void of the clusters of famished looking teenagers, dressed in black, eyeing me like a sirloin, I wandered pleasantly. I bought some frozen vegetables without thinking and had to drive the 12 miles home before returning to work so my veggies wouldn’t thaw. I have no idea how long I was gone for; I felt like some grizzled old man, meandering around town with no clear direction or motives, just a formless id, standing in line at the Post Office and buying 2 stamps with exact change. Yes the credit crunch is hitting us all hard, but jokes aside, our paychecks are equivalent to, if not worse than, those of the oil laden, mouth breathers of KFC, carefully studying the timers on deep-fryers full of chicken parts.

Anyway since there is some marginal interest in my car sales stories, I decided I’d write a few more.

Here’s one from a while ago that happened on the used side of the large Nissan lot I used to work at:

I was about 6 months in to my car sales sentence (Ok, it’s not That bad but this blog needs a little drama) when a man and a women in a very old, rust…brown…rust colored Explorer pull up on the used lot. Looking around to see if any of my comrades would jump on this golden opportunity, I was relieved to find that I could have this seemingly fantastic scumbag, err…customer to myself.

I greeted him cordially, as was the custom, and he replied with some manner of simian grunt I couldn’t quite interpret. I inquired as to what type of vehicle he was looking for, but he must not have heard me or understood my native tongue I speculated, because he just continued walking, toward the trucks.

So, I figured he wanted some space. I was more than capable of doing that, besides, nobody likes a pushy salesman I mused to myself.

After several minutes of him pouring over a Dodge 1500 we had, I approached with some reluctance and asked if he’d like me to open the vehicle up for him. He asked if this vehicle had a “hemi”. I could see the Joe Dirt gene ran strong in this one… I replied that it did not and typically Dodge would put some badging on the truck to denote the presence of the all mighty hemispherical cylinders (though I didn’t use that devil-tounged, book-speak with him).

He grunted and asked if I’d pop the hood and start the truck. I obliged and when the motor made a tapping sound (as most OHC motors do until they warm up) he slammed the hood down and said it was junk. Of course feeling a bit degraded by that comment I asked why, and he said because the motor was tapping. I tried to explain how an OHC motor varies from an OHV motor and even offered to start up my own 2007 truck (not a demo, my own personal car) and show him that some OHC motors, even brand new, will do that until they warm up.

Now at this point, I sensed a small blow to his caveman ego. I was very polite in my explanation but I wasn’t about to be proved wrong. He walked towards a line of used trucks we had, about 8 in total, stops, points at them and says: “Well, you obviously don’t know anything; you guys sell Nissans here, what can you tell me about that Nissan truck?”

Well now I’m a bit insulted. I can see where this is going and it’s not ending by me making a sale. The line of trucks he’s pointing at contains 4 Nissan trucks: 2 fullsize, a midsize and an SUV.

I bite my tongue and prepare for the ass chewing I will most certainly receive from my sales manager for letting this guy leave our lot, because it has now become my primary goal to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Now normally, if someone made an overwhelmingly stupid statement like that, I wouldn’t Try to make them feel uncomfortable; I would walk towards the trucks and just open one, maybe generating a little interest, but I wanted this guy to leave, quick. So, I folded my arms, spread my legs a bit in a posture that shows I’m not moving (trying to communicate on the animal kingdom level for this fella) and ask which truck.

“The Nissan” He says in a higher pitched and elevated decibel level, gesticulating his arms wildly towards the trucks in manner obviously ingrained into his DNA from tossing feces in former lives.

“Which Nissan truck sir”? I reply.

Well that did it for him, maybe he was having a bad day, maybe a bad life, I don’t know but my inability to read his mind set him off. It was completely unexpected; I assumed more grunts and car door slams but that’s not what I got.

He unleashed a tirade on me that would make a Drill Sargent proud. He accused me of being deaf, retarded, involved sexually w/ close members of my family, and on and on…

Now at this point I begin to walk away, never really letting him out of my peripheral vision or allowing my back to turn completely towards him. I know crazy when I see it and the unpredictability of this man’s emotions left me no questions as to his sanity.

He follows and I turn and ask him to leave our lot and stop swearing at me or I will have to call the police. Now It’s important to note that even in the face of these high volume, shrieking insults, I never really got mad; you see, before I sold cars, I was a Service Manager at a large chain tire/repair shop. I have been yelled at by the best, threatened ad nauseum, and truthfully, I was more scared at his unpredictability.

Well, he keeps yelling and heads towards his soon-to-be-supported-by-cinder blocks truck; I continue to walk inside. A manager was outside for almost the whole thing unbeknown to me and was holding the door open, watching with a small smirk on his face that read: “glad that wasn’t me”.

Now the dealership (like all dealerships) has glass exterior walls. We watch this yahoo drive towards the entrance with his poor wife/girlfriend/cousin, maybe all three, trying to hide her face from embarrassment in the passenger’s seat.

We figure he’s done and the “what the FUCK just happened” questions start pouring in from my fellow sales grunts.

But NO! He decides he needs to come in. I am at this point leaning in the doorway of the hall directly in front of the entrance. He walks in and sees me leaning there. Hard-ass that I am I refuse to move (Ok, there’s like 3 HUGE former football players and wrestlers who are managers and are less than 5 feet from me). But he pauses and much more quietly than before asks to speak to a manager. He’s about 8 feet away from me with no obstacles blocking us. In a flash, the former pig farmer/football player, 280lb, 6’4″ used car manager named James is in front of me and the guy rushes towards me. I don’t move because I’m pissed now and I sorta want him to hit me since there are cameras everywhere and an ass load of witnesses. I really wanted to ruin this guy now; I was willing to let his outburst and attitude go, but he decided to come into our showroom, in front of customers and my peers and…scream some more.

He’s says he’s going to kick my ass and calls me more names now that we’re separated by a man twice his size. The manager pushes me out of the hallway and somehow gets this guy outside and convinces him to leave.

SO, whats his gripe with the manager about his treatment at our establishment? He claims I swore at him! ROFLMFAO thats what he says. He motherfucks me to high heaven, calling me a faggot, a retard, claims he makes more in a week than I do in a year (anything to try and get me angry at him I suppose), but I never swore at him, or said anything derogatory to his face…somehow. And, I had a manager who witnessed the whole thing so I’m covered.

So, we never did here from that guy again. I almost feel for bad for someone who’s that miserable, they are a self fulfilling prophecy of anger and loathing.

So, there’s another story about scumbags and car sales

I want to club baby seals. There, now the whole world knows it. I know, you think I’m some kinda sadist; that I enjoy killing animals or watching them suffer. Nothing could be further from the truth. That’s what cats do: torture and kill mice and things for pleasure. As an evolved human with much less fur than your typical tabby, I’d like to think that I am spiritually above killing just for the mere pleasure of killing; I want to kill to win.

That’s right, I want to club baby seals, and not to support some local economy of mouthwash drinking Eskimos, but to win, much like a sport. Hah! I would say as I swing my long hardwood pole, tipped with the bludgeoning “kill hook” at their soft, little craniums. (I really don’t know what that tool is called, but being the wordsmith I am, “kill hook” sounded  fitting). O, we’d have a blast, sliding around on the ice, making bloody snowballs and engaging in general wintry frolicking.

O yeah, WIN! Remember those “whack-a-mole” games at the carnival and Chuck-E-Cheese when you were younger?  Well some reptilian part of my brain engaged when I played those, my reflexes became super-human, I gave the machine a 1000 yd gaze and quickly “got in the zone”. It was all very Zen, however, much like attaining a high level of Donkey Kong, some facet of OCD would kick in and I would be raging furious at the machine for moving TOO DAMN FAST! I was good, but never good enough, and those little furry bastards would just mockingly shoot back up, delayed sometimes for just a little too long, giving me the feeling that I was outside of time and space.

So, now that I’m an adult, the only logical choice to advance in this spiritual “whack-a-mole” journey is to club baby seals, to death. To finally Win and say: “Fuck You Mole! I whacked ya and now I’m dragging you back w/ a meat hook through your temple; I win”. The amount of confidence I would exude after triumphing over my inner mole demon would probably be obvious in my inter-personal life after that.

Or, maybe not. I may just get grossed out and ride back to shore and slam a few bottles of Peppermint Scope with the natives