So, I see that the local dealer, right across the street from the office building in which I an employed, is running a deal on rotating and balancing the wheels and inspecting the brakes. Plus I get a “21-point courtesy inspection”, which included all fluids and belts, hoses, etc. So I made an appointment and brought my car in. Bad idea.
I dropped the car off at 9AM. Was told it would be ready early afternoon; they’d call. Fine. Went across the street, worked. At 1:50, they call, saying the car will be ready in a few minutes, could I pick it up. I said sure, I’d be in at 3. They agreed to this. I walk over at 3. Guess what? The car wasn’t ready. The service troll says, “Just a while longer, why don’t you wait in the customer lounge.” So I wait in their “customer lounge”, little more than a large closet with a window and a TV. 40 minutes pass. I, steamed, walk back up to the “service” counter. The minion tells me that my rear brakes need to be cleaned and adjusted. Another $50. No thanks, I’ll do that myself. He does the paperwork, I pay the agreed upon amount, and wait outside.
10 minutes later, I see my car come off the lift, and drive out the back, and away down the street. Hmm. After another 10 minutes, just as I’m thinking of the recent rash of Toyota thefts in the area, the car comes back. Sigh of relief. I go over to get the car, and one of the mechanics gets out of the car, and says (and I’m spelling it phonetically), “Yaneeta putall inda cah, it only gah lita bee.” I found out that he meant my oil was low. Um, I thought you were supposed to check that. But inspection means check, don’t fix. Silly me.
The guy goes to walk away, taking the plastic that was on the seat and the paper on the floor with him. I get in, and drive off. I get back to the office, and notice a strange smell. Like a shop. I look at my hands, and my fingertips are gray. Hmm. I go out to the car, and notice greasy handprints all over the doors where thay pulled the door closed using the top of the door with the window down. Aargh. I notice them all over the edge of the hood and around the fenders. Double aargh. So I get some cleaner out of the trunk and clean them all off. Then I think about the interior. Dreading what I’d find, I go in and wipe the steering wheel with a paper towel. It comes back brown. Same with the shift knob and door handle. OK, now I’m pretty angry. I get out, notice one more smudge on the rear fender, and as I’m cleaning, I notice some writing on my wheel. “RE R” it says. OK, I think, they needed to keep track as they were rotating them, so they marked them with one of those grease pencils.
Rub. Rub. Rubrubrubrubrub…“Fuck!” The bastards used permanent fucking markers to mark my wheels! Sure enough, there’s a mark on every one of my wheels, and none will come off. I don’t believe this! You fucking asshats. They make chalk for a reason. It didn’t strike you that a permanent fucking marker wasn’t the best thing to use to mark which wheels were which, so your primitive simian brains could keep track of four whole wheels? Fuck! And wear fucking gloves before you touch another person’s car. Plastic on the seats and paper on the floor doesn’t help if there’s a fucking quarter-inch of grime on your thick-knuckled hands, does it? Would you rub grease and brake dust over your own car? Hell no! So keep your fucking greasy paws off my paint and interior!
And to add insult to injury, I have a rubbing, grinding sound in my front passenger wheel now. That’s great. Needless to say, not only will I ever go back to that dealer EVER again (unless it’s to cuss them out), but neither will anyone I know. Wow. It’s at times like this, I wish I could muster up some colorful and imaginative invective, but I’m too angry to concentrate on compund insults. Did I say aargh?
