Trading carrots for chocolate pudding since 2012.
Is there some unwritten rule that states that car shopping is required to make you completely insane in order to be deemed successful?
I took the bucket of bolts to the shop. Turns out, the new tranny that the blueberry requires to continue living a sputtering, puttering and otherwise rattling existence would cost more than it’s worth, and the arm and leg would be better invested a new less bolty bucked to cruise around in.
Let the car hunt begin.
A couple of phone calls led me to test driving a Hyundai with a crunchy clutch and squeaky breaks that the dealership insisted were the result of sitting in the lot — two test drives and a trip to the gas station later and they were still squeaking, so I beg to differ.
Oh, and the driver-side controls wouldn’t roll the back window up — it would go down, just not up.
Boy, talk about a promising start.
Once all these issues came to my attention, I began gracefully trying to back my way out of the four-hour paperwork process.
The salesman was annoyed.
I did my best to stay firm.
He guilt tripped.
I said thanks, but I wanted to make an informed decision.
He said with my credit score — it’s just new, not bad, gimme’ a break — I’d never find a deal like this. Ever.
I said I was going to keep shopping.
Anyhow, suffice it to say I happily poured myself back into my stupid Focus and bounced.
I’ve since received three phone calls from him, the first lowering the monthly payment, the second in which I stuck to my guns about the clutch — which he assured me I could get used to over time, and a third culminating in him leaving me a voicemail saying that on closer inspection there was something “slightly weird” about the clutch and they would replace it for me if I was interested.
I smell a lemon.
What exactly does he take me for, a chick?!?
Told him that clutch was funky.
Help me out here, guys … I need some pointers on how to avoid getting taken to the cleaners — aside from dragging a dude along.