Oh look, Biff, it’s another whiny rant.
Biff: Go figure
Dear Mel Clayton:
Are you related to Mel Farr, superstar? Anyway, here is why you lost the sale on that Mustang – You suck and I hate you. Well, as a so-called professional, I can put a finer point on it. I fucking hated your Sunday shark who bothered me when I REALLY WAS JUST LOOKING.
That asshole lost you the sale:
1. No means no.
Me: I am not going to buy today.
Herb Tarlek: Do you have a crystal ball [to tell you that], because I want to ask it a few questions.
Asking me this dickass question does not scare me because of your immense and terrible car salesman powers. Fuck off. I am not writing a check, or even talking numbers or price without doing my homework.
2. Too much redunancy is barely enough.
Asking that shit a second time, Herb? Even if I were interested in the stripper car you tried to stick me with, there was less than zero chance after the “crystal ball” redux.
3. I am right. Not you. Me.
As for the stripper car, yeah, it was just OK. It didn’t have the 6 cd/mp3 player that I wanted.
Dumb fuck Herb Tarlek: How many CDs can you listen too at once?
Me: One, [dickless,] but I like to change it often.
Herb Tarlek (sarcastically): Oh, well I wouldn’t want you to wrap the car around a tree while changing disks.
Ask me what I hope happens to you while standing here trying to patronize/insult me, fuck face.
4. I am still right.
Me: It doesn’t have the cool dashboard.
Herb Tarlek: “So?”
5. I continue to be right.
Ooooh, it was a “deluxe.” I wanted “premium.” Difference between standard and deluxe? Uglier wheels on one of them. Difference between deluxe and premium? The radio. And a power seat with lumbar and shiatsu and shit. And spinners for the wheels. It’s not nothing, dickwad. Also, the commission for you is presumably higher. Duh.
6. One of us is not lying.
Hint: It’s not you, Herb.
Me: Well, I am still looking. I also still need to see if my kids will fit in the back.
Dude, your rapier-like shark instincts failed you. Those were not lame defenses of a weakening resistance – those were a way for you to GTFOOH without losing face. I fucking fit in the back of the car. My kids already tried it out too. There is no fucking way I am going to take you to my place to get my kids. You will never meet them, It would be next to impossible to clean the slime off them from the experience.
7. Like NASCAR, only stupid(er).
And, lastly, there was the “test drive.” No, it didn’t hook me.
- You were right there, yammering away about the “right way” to cool down a car by NOT using recirc. and forcing the hot air out by bringing in fresh air. (This is the exact opposite of the ”right way,” which is “Open the fucking windows and drive fast, creating a negative stoichiometric condition known as sucking the hot air out into the desert. And shit.”)
- There was no fucking gas in the car. Seriously. the gas gauge literally said “fumes only. Good luck. Ford Roadside assistance – 1–800–fuck-off.”
- Yes, I realize this is Phoenix, and there are no curvy roads whatsoever, but Camelback & 16th to 12th St (due west) to Missouri (due north) to 16th (due east) and back (due south) is a lame-o square. And so are you. Dick
XXOO from everyone who didn’t buy the white one. Except me, obviously.