When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object oppresses a poor college-age car owner, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such oppression, and to provide new guards for their future security.
The history of the present automobile repair industry is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the taking advantage of people who don’t know any better. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.
After two weeks of visiting, meeting, debating, flirting with, and feeling hostility towards a variety of supposed automobile experts, I have come to a few conclusions.
Shane Kimball at Expert Auto Repair, you are an alarmist. You told me not to drive my Ford Expedition with its loose wheel bearings and shifting ball joints, because my tire could go flying off the axle at any time. You laughed when I said I had taken my car to another mechanic, declaring that you “wouldn’t let those idiots work on my lawn mower.” After we went for a test drive you said, and I quote:
“I have never felt more unsafe in a vehicle in my life, than when you were driving.”
What kind of statement is that to say to a potential customer?
You deceptive snake-people at National Tire and Battery, you tried to pull one over on me. You, with your cute smiles and concerned looks and your elderly manager’s wallet-photos of his granddaughter. You thought I wouldn’t notice that your price was twice what your competitors were asking. I may not be an economist, but I know that $90 an hour is pretty ridiculous. And my heater core was just replaced three years ago. Don’t play with me.
And Troy Bundt. You tried so hard, you and your home garage. Get a few more tools, maybe a wrench and some oil, you think? I will not give you $400 to do something I could do myself. Wheel bearings are too hard for a girl? Please.
But finally, Paul McDaniels. You are a sweetheart. I chose you in the end, even though you’re a low-down, dirty, conning auto mechanic service manager. You not only propped my car up and showed me the hairline cracks in my brake rotors, you whipped out a real-life stethoscope to pinpoint the noise in my suspension.
I love the way you lovingly listened to my big metal baby. I love the three deer heads hanging on your waiting room wall. And I especially love the sign on the door that reads, “Crazy cat lives here!!! Do not let him out!!!”
When you gave me that detailed estimate and then threw in the burned-out brake light for free, I knew we were going to work out. I called my father to give him the news, and I could hear tears in his voice.
“I finally found him, Daddy. The man I’ve been looking for!”
Monday you and I seal the deal, Paul. I’ve never been happier in my life.