Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Dammit cock shit asshole fuck.

I'm not a happy unit today. I had to take my car in because it's been doing a weird shaking/rattling/vibrating thing for the last few weeks. The guy at Saturn took about 2 hours to figure it out while I sat in the waiting room drinking bad coffee and reading Entertainment Weekly. Then he brings me out to the service area and tells me (in an upbeat tone) that my struts are fucked and that's what's causing the problem, and that "amazingly" the struts aren't covered by the service plan that I purchased when I bought the car. He rambled on and on and on and I cut him off and just said, "So how much?" and he shuffled his papers and hemmed and hawed (I fucking hate when mechanics do that. Cut the crap and tell me how much money you'll be extorting). He tells me that it will be "just under $300" (wow! It's a fucking bargain!) so I think a moment, and then say, "Well, I don't have the money to write a check, and I don't want to use my credit card, so what are my options?" Okay, I know that sounds like a lame ass thing to say, but it's Saturn, and I've been a customer forever and I always pay and I always get my oil changed on time (part of my service agreement) and all that crap. And they're not your ordinary car company, or so they claim, so I'm thinking that just this one time they can throw me a bone and let me pay half now and half next month or SOMETHING because I really thought that this shaking vibrating bullshit was to do with my alignment which IS covered by my service agreement. So the mechanic does that "let me ask my manager bullshit" and goes around the corner into the office area and returns after a moment and I know damn well he didn't talk to his "manager", all he did was like scratch his balls or pick his nose for 30 seconds and then come back. He then informs me that "we don't do that anymore," so I tell him, "Let me think about it" (like that'll make any difference), go back to the waiting area, take a look at my checkbook, get depressed, return to the garage and tell him that I'll pay half by credit card and half by check, and he's cool with that (like he has a choice) and I spend the rest of the day fantasizing about finding the salesman who talked me into buying the expensive service agreement and kicking him square in the nuts.

And on top of all that, I'm premenstrual.

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