No, this Cant is not about someone building a sandwich with disgusting luncheon meats. It's about people who lick the maggots off road kill, crush live kittens with their rectums, and watch Tom Green movies for fun. It's about people who are so low that they need to wear titanium pasties to keep their nipples from being ground off when they slither. It's about the "customer service" department of my local Honda dealer.
Where do I start?
My Civic has ~220,000 miles on it. It's been a dependable little bugger from the day we purchased it from a friend at ~130,000 miles. Sure, there's been the dead alternator, starter, and thermostat (courtesy of the snot-suckers at Jiffy Lube), but I've been able to do the work myself. Every few years, however, regular maintenance requires something a little more involved, like replacing CV boots or the timing belt. These are jobs that I'd be able to do, but they would take the better part of a weekend to complete. Considering all the other things going on in my life, I usually decide to take the car into the shop.
The latest saga began as we approached the end of the timing belt's 90,000-mile life. If the timing belt goes out on our Honda, the engine stands a good chance of being destroyed. It's a good idea to replace it when they say to. Also, while changing the oil, I noticed that a passenger-side (right) CV boot was starting to crack. Might as well get both jobs done at once, I thought.
Now, being a thorough and cynical sort of guy, I carefully inspected the driver-side (left) CV boots. I didn't want anyone selling me something I didn't need. The left boots had been replaced ~20,000 miles ago by the dealer. I had brought the Civic in for a 120,000 mile checkup and when they recommended it I decided "what the heck." The inner boot looked deformed, but it had been installed that way and was still solid. The outer boot was perfect.
My wife dropped the car off, had the service writer draw up an estimate, and was able to walk home with our little guy in the stroller. The car would be available at the end of the next day. So convenient!
The next day comes and my wife and I rush from work to the dealership before the service area closes.
"Oh, didn't you get our message."
No, we didn't get any message because we haven't been home yet today.
The service writer proceeds to explain how "everything's OK," the right boots are cracking and need replacing, but the left boots need to be replaced as well because they are deformed, totally cracked, and "dry" (all the grease has been flung out). The service writer smoothly segues into a explanation of how they did replace the boots, but it's been over a year and over 20,000 miles so it's not under warranty. If she could give me a freebie, she explains sincerely, she would. How touching.
I'm dumbstruck. Being a basically good person, I fall back on natural reflexes and assume that I must've missed something.
"Uh… wow… OK," I say, "Do it. Could you give me a new estimate?"
Now, as the service writer gleefully calculates the additional spoils, my brain kicks in.
I can almost feel the anal probe at my backside.
I ask to see the car before I authorize the work.
Gee, it's late in the day and there's no one to put the car up on a lift.
Gee, I explain, then I'll come in tomorrow morning.
Morning dawns. I shower with crazed intensity as I prepare for the coming confrontation.
Of course, my service writer friend isn't there and I don't feel like making a scene before I get a chance to examine the car. My lust for revenge is temporarily thwarted.
They lift my Civic and pass me off to a technician with a limited command of English. Dumping on this guy would be like kicking a puppy. Revenge is further postponed.
I reach up and examine the suspect boot. It's exactly as I last saw it, deformed, uncracked, and full of happy grease. There is no need to donate an extra $432 to the Lying, Stealing, Goat-Sodomizers Fund. Sweet, cool draughts of righteousness slake my thirst for vengeance.
Fuckers.
Pakeha