We need to have a conversation about your car’s extended warranty.

You all know what I’m talking about. The dealership car salesman tries to sneak an extra $3000 onto the backend of your car loan. He promises complete and total protection for anything that might go wrong with your vehicle. Every conceivable repair is covered for the rest of your life. Companies with bullshit fairy dust names like “CarShield” or “American Dream Auto Protect.” They run ad campaigns that remind you of creepy, low-budget, late night infomercials.

No worries! Unicorns and rainbows! It’s all good!

In professional terminology, I call this weasel shit.

These people are slimy, greasy weasels and they are, in fact, up to some weasel shit.

As your friendly neighborhood automotive service advisor, I’ve dealt with just about every warranty company you can think of. Let me give it to you straight, just in case my super professional explanation wasn’t clear. These companies are not your friend. They do not want to cover a repair on your vehicle when something breaks. These companies are that asshole guy from Titanic that tries to kidnap a child and hop on the lifeboat. They will spend every ounce of their time and energy stonewalling, obfuscating, and conniving in order to deny your claim.

Say it with me, folks. Weasel shit.

Considering we’re all about education here on this illustrious publication, let’s go over a few of the most common tactics that these bastards will utilize to ruin your day.

Tactic #1

The Infinite Teardown

“We can’t deny your claim until you’ve spent thousands of dollars in teardown that may or may not be covered!”

This scenario plays out like this:

You bring your car into the shop to address an issue. Maybe it’s a dreaded check engine light. Maybe it won’t start. Doesn’t matter. My technicians will take a look and figure out what the problem is. Typically, this involves some time for proper diagnosis. We work up an estimate and tell you all about it. Good news! We know how to fix it!

But wait!

You’ve got an extended warranty! Hooray!

Let’s get this claim started. I’ll call the warranty company and explain the issue, along with the recommended repair. I’ll send them the inspection report. I’ll send them pictures. All the evidence will be there clear as day. Their response?

“We need your mechanic to conduct further teardown to identify the root cause of the issue.”

Doesn’t matter if we’re 100% confident in the repair. Doesn’t matter if we’ve seen this same issue on hundreds of vehicles. Doesn’t matter if your contract clearly states that the repair should be covered. The game here is simple. Scare the shit out of you, the customer, with the threat of a large diagnostic bill if the repair is deemed to be “not a covered repair.”

I once had a customer who needed an engine replacement. Their poor car literally had a rod protruding from the engine block, puncturing the oil pan. You could touch it with your hands just by looking underneath the vehicle. Seems pretty straightforward.

Engine go boom. Need new engine. Engine go vroom.

The response from the warranty company when presented with this overwhelming evidence?

“We need your technician to completely disassemble the entire engine to determine the cause of failure.”

I shit you not, friends.

I asked the con artist nice lady on the other end of the phone, “What specifically do you want us to disassemble?”

Her response:

“Every movable component of the entire engine compartment needs to be taken apart and laid out across the floor for inspection by our claims adjuster, who we’ll be able to send in about a week.”

Incredible.

Your engine contains about 4 billion moving parts. Maybe. I didn’t count them, but your warranty company sure as hell isn’t going to either. The trick here is that the amount of labor time to take everything apart in such a way, displaying it all across the shop floor like some kind of Indiana-Jones-found-a-Kia archeological dig site, would be thousands of dollars. Guess what most people decide to do in this scenario? They chicken out like a seventh grader at a school dance.

Warranty company: 1

Customer: 0

Tactic #2

The Complete and Total Fabrication of Part Numbers

Despite how many negative things I have to say about warranty companies, yours truly did purchase one for his own vehicle a couple years back. Don’t judge, I’m an expert. You should have seen the look on the salesman’s face when I insisted on reading the entire ten-page contract right there at his desk. He was… less than thrilled. Turns out, six months later I needed to utilize this warranty for some A/C repair. Good thing I work at a repair shop. I pulled out my contract and read through it. Good news! Just about everything that could be covered was included, excluding “belts and hoses.”

We identified the problem and came up with a solution. My vehicle, like many on the road today, has a dual A/C system for keeping passengers in the back comfortable. Metallic A/C lines run a good length of the underside of the vehicle. Unbeknownst to me at the time of purchase, there was a slight nick in part of the rear line, allowing refrigerant to leak out slowly over time. No big deal. A common practice today is to splice directly into the line and patch the hole. Pretty standard stuff. Altogether, maybe a $500 repair once all the refrigerant and labor is accounted for.

When I called my warranty company to start a claim, I told them all about our findings and provided all the necessary documentation. Metallic A/C line, refrigerant, labor, etc. The dickwad gentleman on the other side of the call chuckled in a devious way and said flatly, “hoses aren’t covered,” before denying the claim and disconnecting the call.

Interesting.

I stepped outside and called them up from my personal cell as a confused customer. When I asked for clarification about why the repair wasn’t covered, I was told: “The part numbers your mechanic gave us are on our list of non-covered parts. Sorry about that!”

Pure unadulterated, top tier, grade A, certified weasel shit.

No part numbers were given, something I’m keenly aware of because I did, in fact, initiate the claim from behind the counter.

Jokes on those assholes, however, because I called up my Toyota parts department and ordered the entire A/C line assembly (classified as a metallic line assembly you sneaky bastards.) When I gave these scumbags a call back at the warranty company and called out their bullshit, the claims adjuster on the other end of the call let out a deep sigh and begrudgingly approved the repair. Amusingly, he was audibly distressed about this whole affair. $1600 and way more parts and labor than I would have even needed, all covered. Serves ‘em right, I say.

Weasel shit company: 0

Yours Truly: 1

Tactic #3

Wear and Tear on Everything. Forever.

Now, this one gets a little tricky. Perhaps venturing into a bit of a grey area, but hey, after everything I’ve seen these people try to pull on unsuspecting old ladies and young adults, fuck ‘em.

Many warranty contracts will have a clause that looks something like this:

“Repair or replacement of components needed to improve operating performance due to normal wear and tear. This includes, but is not limited to, blah blah blah…”

This clause is designed to keep the warranty company free from the responsibility of replacing things that naturally wear out over time. Things like tires and brakes. We all know these will need replaced eventually. But often, the warranty companies will use this clause to deny claims for all sorts of things. Everything from gaskets and seals to suspension components.

But fear not, friends! I’ve found the solution to combat these cretins. We’re going to use their own tactics against them. With words and vague definitions as our weaponry, we can punch these unscrupulous grifters right in the mouth.

Take, for example, the story of Tom.

Tom had an extended warranty. The contract was pretty good, actually. Looked to me like just about everything was covered. He needed quite a few things on his vehicle. Control arms, shocks, struts. These are all suspension components that are typically deemed “wear and tear” items.

Were these components “worn out?” Were they “fatigued?”

No sir, these components suffered from a specific type of problem. You see, these things had (deep breath), “Failed outside of expected manufacturer specifications and were no longer conducive to the safe and effective operation of the vehicle.”

What expected manufacturer specifications? Shit, I don’t know guys, but neither does some dude named Chad who gets a nice little bonus for denying as many claims as he can. They even sent an inspector to verify the information we provided. That guy was awesome. He took some pictures, test drove the vehicle, and then looked me straight in the face and said:

“This thing drives like shit.”

Sure does, buddy. Sure does. $3000 worth of suspension repairs covered.

Chad, the douchebag who won’t cover your repair: 0

Tom: 1

Tactic #4

The Conditional Preexisting Condition of Unknown Conditions

And finally, one of the most nefarious tactics in use by these companies. The preexisting condition clause. Your warranty contract probably has a clause that looks an awful lot like this:

“This Agreement does not provide coverage for any failure, condition, or defect that existed prior to the effective date of this Agreement, whether known or unknown at the time of purchase…”

Now, let’s think about this one for a minute. Any condition, whether known or unknown at the time of purchase could include quite a few things. What if your newly purchased vehicle had the absolute dogshit beat out of it by a 19-year-old kid before it was repossessed? What if it was a rental and wasn’t properly maintained for years? The unfortunate truth is that most people aren’t very good at following any kind of proper maintenance schedule. Life happens. Things don’t always go according to plan.

Imagine if your homeowner’s insurance behaved in such a way?

“Unfortunately, based on a combination of vibes and this morning’s astrology chart, we have reason to believe that this tree had been thinking about falling on your house for quite some time.”

Or your health insurance?

“Sorry to inform you, sir, but you’ve been slowly dying this whole time before our company even existed. Who would have thought?”

Ludicrous.

Here’s a great example. You tell me if this sounds like something the average car buyer is likely to know or care about when shopping for a vehicle.

Our wonderful friends at the General Motors Company have an engine design that is notorious for causing catastrophic failure under certain conditions. What conditions? Well, cold temperatures, of course! Who lives in cold temperatures? Why, millions of people for a few months out of the year. Six or seven widely popular vehicles all share this engine design, the 2.4 Ecotec.

Let’s get technical for a minute. Put the nerd glasses on, I promise this won’t take long.

During cold weather driving, moisture buildup can occur in the positive crankcase ventilation system, allowing PCV passages and/or hoses to freeze and become clogged. The result of this freezing or clogging may allow crankcase pressure to skyrocket beyond acceptable levels, resulting in the weakest point of failure to give way, typically the rear main seal. This allows for the engine to dump several quarts of oil within minutes, resulting in catastrophic engine failure up to and including bent valves and compromised internal engine components.

Whew, all done.

Now, does that sound like something Grandma Shirley would have any fucking clue about? Does that sound like a preexisting condition? Sure. One might also say it sounds a hell of a lot like an embedded design flaw that any risk assessment team would know about before, I don’t know, INSURING THE VEHICLE?!

Sorry gang, I don’t have a scoreboard here. I’ve never been able to win this one. But the message from the warranty companies is always the same in a situation like this.

“Not our problem, sucks to be you, loser!”

So, what’s to be done about all this? How can the unsuspecting consumer navigate this treacherous and often fraudulent environment? Does this all mean that every extended warranty is a scam?

Yes and no.

Some companies are easier to work with than others. I have, on occasion, walked away with a pretty good result for my customers. I even have one or two that I’ll recommend without losing sleep over. These companies can provide a valuable service where everyone wins, although it’s rare.

If you do decide to purchase a warranty on your next vehicle, read every page of the contract. Twice. Pore over that document like it’s a ransom letter. Don’t assume anything. When it comes time to use your warranty, don’t back down. Fight and push to keep these people honest. And if the smiling salesman at the dealership tries to tell you that “everything is covered,” you’ll know exactly what’s going on.

It’s probably some weasel shit.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

It’s vacation time! Well, not right now.

But soon!

My wife and I have a tradition we’ve enjoyed over the years. On our birthdays, we plan and organize a little trip for each other. Gifts are cool, sure, but we’re all about traveling while we pretend we have way more money than we really do…

For example, my birthday is coming up, and I will be much older than I will be admitting to here. (Hooray for the inexorable march of time leading us all to our inevitable doooooom…) My wonderful wife, despite how much she might be regretting this decision, has decided to rent us a cabin in the woods. Not a horror movie style cabin where the black guy dies first or anything like that. No, this place has a hot tub and a real cute fire pit type deal with those fun little egg-shaped chairs and shit. We’ll do some hiking, definitely my wife’s favorite thing; she most certainly didn’t freak out when we saw a deer on our most recent hike. He was following us; she just knows it.

Creepy ass deer eyeballs, gazing at her from behind the bushes. Vicious beasts, those deer. You can never be too careful…

We’ve been to quite a few places over the years. Living in the Midwest, we’re close enough to a few areas that make for great trips or vacations. Chicago is great, we’ve been there once or twice. I even had a homeless guy try to steal my phone last time. That was awesome. Gatlinburg is cool. Mountain views. Tourist traps. Walking across that ridiculously vertigo-inducing skybridge they’ve got. A markedly lower rate of homeless phone-stealer guys. Good times, for sure.

Typically, we rent a place through Airbnb. Some people seem to have a sour opinion of this idea. I’ve heard all sorts of reasons for the Airbnb hate. Boomers complaining about property values being affected. Surprise cleaning fees and hidden costs after checking out. One review I read for a prospective rental seemed to indicate the place was haunted. And by indicate, I mean these people were absolutely losing their shit and warning everyone not to stay there, lest Casper and his goons possess you and your entire family, resulting in some sort of murderous rampage…

I don’t know, sounds like a five-star experience to me.

In all our years of renting other people’s properties, I’ve only had one truly horrific experience. And to be fair, we didn’t even stay in the place. We fully intended to, really, we did. But my wife and I, unfortunately, fell victim to a real bait-and-switch. A devious switcheroo that we’ll remember for years to come.

Now, let’s talk about Niagara Falls. One of the most impressive sights to be seen in the entire country. Millions of pounds of water plunge over the falls every second. By my calculations, that’s the weight of at least four Walmart-powers-scooter-driving shoppers. Truly remarkable.

Something most people might not know, if they’ve never been, is that the surrounding area of Niagara Falls on the American side is a desolate hellscape of poverty and despair. Seriously, I was not prepared for just how depressing the area becomes when you venture about three blocks east of the carefully maintained national park. It’s a damn shame, actually. Now, you may be thinking, “No big deal, just choose a nice spot to stay a little further away and avoid all that…”

Sure. That’s absolutely what I should have done. I absolutely should have done some research on the area. Maybe even, oh I don’t know, five minutes of research. Instead, I did nothing of the sort. I saw some pretty waterfall pictures on the internet and said, “Hell yeah, let’s get soaked on one of those cool ass boats!”

I found a place on Airbnb that looked alright. Nothing too fancy, we’re simple people. We don’t need anything extravagant. After all, we weren’t planning on being in the rental for more than sleeping and maybe a quick bite to eat. This was a long weekend trip, not an entire week. The falls were the real attraction. So, I found a place that had all the right taglines.

“Four-minute drive to the falls!”

“Cozy urban getaway!”

“Comfortable space with vintage charm!”

Sounds great! Here’s a picture of the outside:

Not bad, right? Seems perfectly cute and cozy. Look at that white picket fence! Seems like the kind of place a couple could stay and enjoy their weekend. See the falls, go have a nice dinner, come back and relax. The perfect weekend getaway. My favorite part? It was well within the budget. We packed up the car and hit the road. One of the most amazing natural wonders we could ever hope to see was ahead of us.

Unfortunately, the realization of what I had done only dawned on us after we had driven the 8+ hour distance from home. Entering the city of Niagara Falls via car is an interesting experience. You pass through some normal looking areas. Buffalo looks neat.

Oh, look! That was a fun bridge. What a fun time!

And then, things start to…change. The landscape seems to shift. The urban trappings begin to look a little more rundown. We start to question what the neighborhood we’ve reserved our place in might look like. It wasn’t until we turned onto the street a couple blocks from the Airbnb that I truly realized the colossal enormity of my fuck up. I looked everywhere for a picture of the rental that I know I had taken in real life. I’m sorry to say, I’ve failed you, friends. I cannot for the life of me seem to find the pictorial evidence of just how terrifying this place was.

So, to make up for my failings, I’ve had a very-friendly-definitely-not-slowly-destroying-the-world AI pal mockup a photo for you all. This, to the best of my recollection, is an exact recreation of what we pulled up to after dutifully following the GPS for about 500 miles.

Yeah, that seems about right.

With my amazing wife giving me “The Look,” I decided to make my best attempt at salvaging the situation. Natural disaster response teams would be impressed with my efforts, I’m sure. I parked the car on the street, an incredibly easy feat considering there wasn’t a single parked car to be found in either direction. My guess is the locals knew better than to leave their cars exposed to a good ol’ fashioned wheel stealin’. As I approached the residence, I could hear the door locks click as my wonderful wife sealed herself inside the safety of our car. Till death do us part, or at least, until a deranged crackhead murders me in broad daylight outside an Airbnb…

I entered the lock code provided by my host for the front door and proceeded inside, where I was immediately met by an elderly woman who shrieked at me, “No clean yet! You go back! No clean yet!”

Needless to say, we cancelled that shit faster than my electric company does when I miss a payment. Luckily, despite putting almost no effort into researching any part of this trip other than waterfalls being pretty, I had thought to pay for the trip insurance. Did we actually have a travel emergency?

We sure fucking did.

Desperate times and all that. Turns out, the nearby Ramada was a relatively decent hotel. And we didn’t even have to worry about getting murdered or bringing home a highly evolved strain of bedbugs. Small blessings, friends.

Now, let me be clear. Niagara Falls is one of the most incredible experiences you can have. Aside from almost certain death and dismemberment by a tweaker named J-dawg, we had a great time. Take a boat right up to the falls. Walk down a slippery ass wooden staircase and stand under a torrential cascade of water. The place is amazing. At least, the national park managed area. If you’re planning a visit, I cannot stress enough how important it is to carefully vet the location you’ll be staying in. The majority of the city is horrifying and depressing. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

You’ve been warned.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

I love a good movie. Who doesn’t, right?

Tight scripts, groundbreaking cinematography, unforgettable actors bringing their characters to life for our amusement. What a time to be alive. We, as grown adults with all the responsibilities and obligations of this life, get to switch off our entire thinking apparatus and just play pretend for a couple hours.

I’m a pretty big fan of playing pretend. For example, I write these little stories and pretend I’m entertaining. If not for my highly developed pretending abilities, you all might be out there doing something truly productive instead of reading this, like curing cancer, or building a bird house, or running a for-hire cuddling business. (It’s like prostitution… but for lonely dudes who just need a cuddle.)

No judgment here, I put mayonnaise on my spaghetti. It’s delicious and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees with me in an open field. Preferably at sundown for dramatic effect.

But more importantly, I recently watched the film, “Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die,” directed by Gore Verbinski. If you haven’t, do yourself a favor and give it a watch. Sam Rockwell really crushes it. The whole thing is wild as hell in a hilarious, unhinged kind of way. I won’t attempt to critique the film with any sort of expertise; I’m no movie critic. Just know that technology and artificial intelligence are essential elements of the movie.

So, why am I starting this post with a long-winded ramble about movies and questionable spaghetti toppings?

Because a couple of spots in the aforementioned movie where people are staring into their phone screens like zombies hit too close to home and reminded me of a very important moment that needs to be shared. A story about…

My mother-in-law.

I know, I know. Don’t poke the bear. A story about my in-law sounds a lot like some famous last words. Don’t worry, friends, my wife has given me permission to share this glorious moment with you. Also, my mother-in-law doesn’t speak English, except for:

“Hello!” and “Good job!” and “I like it!”

Now, as you may know, one of America’s crowning achievements, an indelible mark that our society will leave in the historical record for eons to come, is the epitome of authentic Italian cuisine known as: The Olive Garden. Even the name strikes deep into your soul. Olives. Gardens.

I can’t think of anything more irredeemably Italian than that.

Pasta, bread, cheese. The pitchers of fruity sangria concoction that I would double-fist with reckless abandon if my lovely wife would allow such festivities. You want some salad? Have a giant awkwardly shaped glass bowl of the shit. A gnocchi soup that could only have been created by a mutant-crossover combination of Gordon Ramsay and Emeril Lagasse? Absolutely.

(I will replicate this recipe at home if it’s the last thing I do, I swear it on my ancestors.)

The place is truly a paradise of carbs and debauchery.

But the best part? The cheese grater…

You know the moment.

The waiter brings you the food and then commences a ritual of the utmost importance. The sacred words passed down for generations. Blood has been spilled over these holiest of incantations. Their utterance cannot be denied.

“Say when.”

A well-adjusted person enjoys this moment for what it is. The friendly waiter grinding away happily as cheese piles up on a steaming pile of noodles. A socially aware individual might smile and nod, before eventually responding with something like, “That’s good, thanks!”

Not my mother-in-law. Not even close.

For some frame of reference here, it’s important to mention some things about my dearest in-law. She’s a wonderful woman, truly. She invites me into her home and family. She makes some verifiably kickass black beans. She’s hilarious and full of life. Despite what I’m about to say, she really is great.

But, Christ on a retarded donkey, that woman is addicted to her phone. She’s interacting with some form of social media almost perpetually. Last time we checked, her daily screen time was somewhere around 16 hours. Let that sink in for a moment. Two thirds of a complete solar revolution.

Every. Single. Day.

So, when it came time to enjoy a nice family outing at our local Olive Garden, my wife and I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. An obscene number of selfies, total disregard for normal dinner conversation expectations, and a general lack of situational awareness. What we did not expect, was our waiter to go postal with the cheese grating.

Picture it, Tyler, the 20-year-old Olive Garden waiter who sees this shit every day. He approaches our group with a tray of food. He expertly positions our entrées across the table like those creepy hot chocolate serving bastards from The Polar Express, minus the dancing, of course, Olive Garden has a strict no dancing policy for the staff. Tragic, I know.

Cheese for me? Well, sure!

Cheese for my wife? Just a little, please!

Cheese for my distracted mother-in-law?

Silence.

He looks at her eyes, glazed over as her fingers swipe and tap. An awkward silence ensues for a brief moment.

He looks at me. Our eyes lock. A silent understanding occurs. He knows it. I know it.

I nod.

He starts grinding. A frantic excitement overtakes him. His moment has come. Retribution for the social injustice he’s endured. A man possessed by the spirit of every overworked server in the history of mankind. His thirst for cheesy vengeance cannot be quenched. The queso must flow…

Moments that seem like an eternity pass. My wife shakes her head. The hilarity undeniable. I watch with glee as Tyler goes absolutely gangbusters on this unsuspecting plate of tortellini.

But then! Disaster!

Tyler’s resolve begins to falter. The mound of cheese is fast becoming insurmountable. His eyes plead with mine. Surely, she’ll tell him to stop.

More cheese.

Surely now.

More cheese.

Any second.

More cheese.

Sweet merciful God.

As panic begins to rise in the back of Tyler’s young mind, my dear mother-in-law looks up. Her snap back to reality is immediate. She lets out an “Ayy!” and finally releases Tyler from his cheese grating captivity.

His mission accomplished, I salute him and send him on his way. His tip will be excessive. Well done, sir.

But why did my wife and I allow this travesty of a cheese smothering to occur?

Well, mostly because we thought it was hilarious. But also, deep down inside, past the responsibility we might feel to correct or justify the behaviors of our friends and family, there’s a small piece of us that’s had enough. In fact, I think that sentiment is somewhere in most of us.

We’ve had enough of the vapid and depressing alternate reality of social media. We’ve had enough of all the dumb shit that spews out of the algorithmic hellhole of Instagram or TikTok. We want to live in the moment. We want to enjoy life, in the real world. Not plugged in, with our focus and attention being sucked ever deeper into that terrifying pit of despair and self-loathing inherent in these apps. We enjoy taking a picture as much as the next person, sure. But we keep those pictures to remember the parts of our lives that we cherish. We don’t plaster them as far and wide as we can across the internet. Definitely not a shitty selfie with a cringey filter, taken in a random Olive Garden. There’s a bald dude in the booth behind you blowing his nose for god’s sake.

My hope for you and everyone you know, is that you don’t go through life, staring into the electronic void while the cheese inundates something that could be a splendid meal. Don’t smile and nod, pretending everything is OK once you realize just how much fucking cheese you’ve allowed to pile up while you were distracted.

Because some of us are living life to the fullest, and we’re definitely laughing while your food gets ruined.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

I’ve got a confession to make. I’m here to take your money.

Not here with this publication, although I wouldn’t complain about that. No, I’m not expecting people to pay me for my ramblings. In fact, the only paid subscriber I’ve got is my father. Embarrassing and heartwarming all at the same time. He’s a real cool guy, but the feeling is similar to your parents cheering you on when you piss your pants on stage during your 4^th grade musical.

Good job, sport! You can do it, buddy!

I’m talking about my day job. My real job. Shudder with me, folks… My 9 to 5.

Automotive service advisor.

Sounds cool, right? Sounds like somebody who knows their stuff. Almost sounds like somebody who likes cars and everything about car culture. Sorry gang, that ain’t me. I don’t even like cars that much. Sure, I can appreciate a classic as much as the next guy, but I’m not going home to drink Miller Lite in my garage full of tools and muscle car calendars.

I do, however, possess a wealth of knowledge about different vehicles, common repairs, maintenance schedules, and all the other fun stuff that goes along with the world of automotive repair. Industry professional over here. Got my big boy pants on and everything.

Now, some of you might immediately think of the shady dude at the dealership service department that tries to sell you a $90 air filter. We all know the type. He’s got stupid hair, a just barely too tight shirt, and always recommends more flushes than a truck stop toilet. He tells you all about how the manufacturer recommends these things, his dipshit ear piercing glistening like a fucking Aladdin character. Gross.

I like to do things differently. At my shop, I don’t lie to my customers. I don’t trick them into bullshit repairs to pad my wallet. If you bring me a rusted-out bucket of junk, I’m going to tell you just as much. Professionally, of course, but sometimes people need to be protected from their own terrible financial decisions.

The trick to this job, the secret sauce, if you will, isn’t my devilish charms or my eloquent verbosity. No, no.

It’s honesty and clarity.

Let’s be real. Most people, excluding the Miller Lite-drinking car bros, have no idea what to do with their cars. They put the key in and drive. They assume their oil change interval is a loose guideline, as opposed to the easiest way to avoid major repairs. They buy Jeep Wranglers and expect them to be reliable vehicles. (If I have to look at one more stupid rubber duck, I’m going to freak out, I swear to sweet Americanized Baby Jesus…)

In short, they’re car morons.

Here’s where the honesty and clarity thing comes in. I’ve presented inspection reports to customers that have so many red marks on them it looks like a murder scene, only to have them decline all repairs. People buy parts off Amazon made by kids in Chinese sweatshops surrounded by suicide nets and then wonder why they don’t work properly. I’ve explained catastrophic engine failure to customers and received responses like, “Can I still drive it?”

No, Lisa, you sure fucking can’t. You have a rod protruding from your engine block.

But this isn’t because these people are unintelligent. Actually, most of my customers are smart, well-adjusted, and functional members of society. Except for Larry, he’s kind of like a meth-head dwarf from Peter Jackson’s beloved films, The Lord of the Rings. But many of them are doctors, teachers, lawyers, or engineers. These people know things. They can solve complex problems and keep the gears of the world turning. Their brains just tend to collapse in on themselves like an interstellar anomaly when the topic of car maintenance is brought up.

What’s worse, that ridiculous excuse for a frat-bro at the dealership has given me and all my people a bad name. Our reputations have been tarnished by the shady practices of others. Independent shops are often grouped together into this misconception of con men, rip-off artists, and grifters. The shade-tree hillbilly types condensing a 16-hour job into an afternoon for 200 bucks and some beer don’t help either. And no, your brother-in-law who watched some YouTube and failed his small engines class in high school is not a “mechanic,” let’s have some self-respect here, people.

What my shop, and many others all across the country, offer is something I like to think of as “the way business should be done.” My team of technicians has well over 100 years of combined experience. They’re certified. They’re continuously learning and growing. We send them to seminars and workshops. We’ve got somebody enrolled in additional night classes for advanced training pretty much all the time. We utilize the latest technology. Scan-tools that cost thousands of dollars apiece. Equipment that can handle virtually every type of repair or maintenance you can think of. Alignment rack. Tire balancer. A/C machine. The list goes on.

You have any idea how much an alignment machine costs? It’s a hell of a lot more than 200 bucks and a case of beer.

When I charge you $150 an hour for labor and refuse to let you bring in your own parts, it’s not because me and my crew are chortling in the back and railing lines of cocaine off the hood of your car like some sort of automotive kingpins. Expertise costs money. Running a shop costs money. And setting our prices low enough to compete with some asshole named Terry who wants to put the wrong size used tires on your grandma’s minivan is entrepreneurial suicide.

My job is convincing you to spend your money. The technicians work out the recommended repair; I present it to you in a way you can understand. Do I want you to spend your money on things like air filters and transmission flushes? Absolutely. Because I’ve seen firsthand the effects of proper maintenance on the longevity of automobiles. I’ve seen people like Mark rack up half a million miles on the family van, and I’ve seen young adults blow up their 2-year-old SUVs (looking at you, 2.4-liter engine from General Motors) because nobody ever taught them the importance of having their oil changed.

So please, find a reputable and family-owned repair shop. Build a relationship with the owner and the service advisors. Leave a Red Bull in your car for the technician with a funny note. Whatever you must do to avoid those unscrupulous other guys out there. But, most importantly, once you’ve found that place. Once you’ve found your shop. Trust them. I promise the good guys want what’s best for you and your car.

Sure, I want your money, but truthfully, I want you to love your car. I want your vehicle to take you and your family wherever you want, safely and reliably. I want my industry to be respected and appreciated for the valuable service we provide. And please, Jeep people, enough with the ridiculous ducks. I just can’t take it anymore…

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

Let’s talk about the American Dream.

The land of opportunity! Soaring skyscrapers! Vibrant natural wonders!

All the technological marvels and comforts of one of the most developed countries on the planet. We can click a button on our smartphone and have just about whatever random junk we desire delivered to our door.

You want a jet ski?

Click.

Organic cat food sourced from the finest agricultural science?

Click.

A crate of literal deceased piglets for a class of biology students to dissect?

You get the picture...

Here in America, we’ve got it all. Assuming, of course, you’ve got the cash.

But what would it be like to enter into this absurd, fast-casual, highly digitized reality we live in if you were born and raised in a different place? What if the place you were born and raised in was the kind of place where the grocery store shelves were usually close to empty? Where the electricity randomly came and went just like my ex-wife? Where people carry around “fake” phones to surrender to the inevitable street muggers?

What if you came from Venezuela?

Like my wife’s cousin Juangis. A man forged in the fires of a Latin American country that routinely has some of the highest levels of crime, poverty, and societal breakdown in the western hemisphere. With his carefully hoarded bitcoin stash completely spent on his plane ticket and not a dime to his name, he arrived into the suburban sprawl of the Midwest without a clue last year.

Now, my lovely wife is also from Venezuela. Aside from being incredibly beautiful and awesome, she’s also smart as hell. Speaks two languages. Incredible work ethic. Capable and determined. She’s got it all.

Stay away. I called dibs.

Juangis, however…

Well, those genetics must have branched off somewhere else entirely… Having spent his adolescent years living a sheltered life with minimal social interaction and looking like a Latino Harry Potter, Juangis was not prepared for the assault on his mind and body of the American experience.

Our first stop, with Juangis fresh off the airplane, and with my wife having a panic attack because he sat around in the terminal for 30 minutes wondering which way to the exit, was to get him an exceedingly American cheeseburger.

Now, if you’ve never experienced a Venezuelan Hamburguesa, they’re pretty awesome. Tons of meat and cheese, piled high in a downright comical display about 8 inches tall, but even that culinary monstrosity can’t compare to a good old fashioned American cheeseburger. Good effort, Venezuela, but burgers are a national pastime up here. Juangis had never experienced anything so magical in his entire life.

America! Fuck yeah!

We spent those first few weeks doing our best to get Juangis acclimated to American life as best we could. Explaining to him that certain functions of our society work as intended was an enlightening experience.

Yes, the postal service not only exists, but does a pretty good job!

Yes, car insurance companies function normally and will definitely catch you if you try to defraud them.

Yes, the electricity stays on all the time.

No, you don’t have to worry, the same type of meat will be available next week at the grocery store.

No, it’s extremely unlikely that we get robbed in broad daylight walking downtown.

No, you don’t have to worry about your employer refusing to pay you, that’s straight up illegal my dude…

But despite his rapid acclimation to our American lifestyle, there were still some learning curves to deal with. The amount of times I’ve had to rub my temples and sigh deeply about some truly retarded shit seems to have quadrupled in Juangis’ presence. The language barrier surely doesn’t help either. I love the guy, but God damn the wonders never cease.

I once witnessed Juangis attempt to take his shoes off going through security at a nightclub. My wife was so embarrassed that I thought for sure I’d become a widow right there on the spot.

Juangis almost burned the house down once because the idea of a takeout food container not being able to withstand the convection power of the air fryer didn’t seem to cross his mind.

Spilled something on the carpet? No problem for Juangis! This random bottle of cleaner we can’t read? Must surely be for carpets. Too bad for my floor that it was fucking bleach.

Now, friends, I could spend a great deal of time recounting all the different stories of Juangis blundering his way through America, but that’s not what this is about. What’s become abundantly clear to me watching this process unfold isn’t as simple as “Haha, look at this guy make a fool of himself!”

No. I share these fun snapshots with you all to illustrate an important point that I think we often forget.

Things function properly here in America.

Scroll through your feed or browse around the internet and you might assume our entire society is on the verge of some Mad Max-cannibal-holocaust shit, but that’s simply not the case.

I can write you a letter, drop it in the mail, and it’ll undoubtedly arrive at the correct destination. I can pick up my phone and call the police to report a crime, at which point uniformed officers will attempt to uphold the law without asking for a bribe. I can turn on my water faucet and have clean, potable water come rushing out, no need to have a water truck fill up the holding tanks on the side of my house, which was probably constructed with zero building regulations of any kind.

We take for granted the things we experience every day. Our world looks scary and messed up because most of us lack perspective. Sure, we’ve all got problems. Our country and our world have problems. But the next time you feel like the world is ending, take a deep breath, appreciate the infrastructure all around you, the functional economy, the technological advancements, the happiness to be found in this confusing mess.

And if you see a dude who looks like Hispanic Harry Potter driving ten under the speed limit, give Juangis a wave, he’s still learning how the traffic laws work…

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you'd like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

I’d like to tell you about Mark.

However, before we get to that, let’s talk about frugality. Most of us make some kind of frugal decision every day. We skip the coffee shop and grab a cup at home. We buy the cheaper option of something in the grocery store. We only pay for the subscriptions we feel like we truly need.

Others have no idea where all their money goes and live in a constant state of financial catastrophe. Such is the American way.

Being frugal is often mentioned as a pathway to financial freedom. Self-help gurus tell us all about how to maximize our dollars. Entire subreddits exist to celebrate the penny pinching tips put forth by their members, or mercilessly shame those who opt to buy some fast food instead of cooking from home.

You can pry this Culver’s double bacon cheeseburger from my cold dead hands, you lunatics…

But few people will get the chance in their life to meet someone like Mark.

For those who don’t know, my day job is being an automotive service advisor at a reputable, family-owned shop. I translate the information around what a car needs for repairs and maintenance to my customers in a friendly and accessible manner. Part of my job is acting as a buffer of sorts between regular customers and the greasy vulgarity of the technicians in the back.

Experts in their field; but often embarrassing in public.

Enter Mark. A regular customer at the shop for over a decade, but with a few quirks. Most importantly, Mark takes the idea of frugality to the extreme. His previous vehicle, a 92 Mitsubishi Mirage, made it well past 300k miles. If not for the vehicle literally rusting away and exposing his feet to the pavement all Flintstones style, he’d definitely still be driving it around today.

Everything we recommend to Mark is carefully analyzed and price checked. His automotive repair diligence is on par with high level Wall Street risk assessments of credit default swaps in developing markets.

Where his dollars are concerned, Mark does not fuck around.

Which brings us to the story of Mark’s 400,000-mile Honda Odyssey.

Despite the engineering prowess of the wonderful folks at Honda, every vehicle eventually wears down. Gaskets wear out and fluids leak, parts degrade over time, and components simply give up. There’s only so much heat, vibration, and usage that a vehicle can sustain before repairs must be made.

Although Mark had spent considerable sums of money over the years repairing and maintaining his fine specimen of an automobile, there came a day where the engine had finally had enough. Consuming oil at the rate of a large scale Middle Eastern conflict and rattling like a homeless guy’s shopping cart, I presented Mark with the uncomfortable reality.

She was done. All used up. Straight up tuckered out.

I did some quick math. Mark’s minivan had driven around the Earth a little bit more than 16 times. He could have driven the distance to the Moon, turned around, and almost made it back home.

Incredible.

Now, typically in a situation like this I like to inform my customers of their options. Where they can scrap the vehicle for the best price. How long they might have before catastrophic failure. Immediate safety issues, that sort of thing. Their response is usually a mixture of sadness and resignation. Most rational people see it coming.

Mark decided it was time for a new engine.

I don’t presume to know the inner workings of my customers’ minds. I just do my best to guide people through the process of keeping their vehicles on the road. But in this instance, my thoughts went to what sort of incredible discoveries might be found by dissecting this guy’s brain. What madness could compel this man to dump thousands of dollars into a vehicle with the value of an Xbox?

Turns out, Mark had done his own math. Detailed receipts of all the maintenance and repairs performed on the vehicle over the last decade. He knew every single component and when they had been replaced, down to the exact day of the month.

Part numbers. Manufacturer information. Applicable warranties. Expected life remaining before next service.

His folder of information looked like a detective's corkboard from a serial killer movie, strings connecting the dots and everything. In his mind, Mark was about to be ten thousand dollars out of pocket, but twenty thousand dollars ahead of the sucker who goes out to buy a new car.

What’s most impressive to me is that Mark isn’t guessing. He couldn’t care less if the whole shop is laughing at him. Several of my techs definitely were. He knows what he’s got. He knows what’s expected. Mark simply doesn’t give a shit. That level of confidence and determination is fascinating. The balls to approach a situation like this and say:

“Fuck it, put the engine in.”

Now, whether or not Mark’s behavior is wise financial planning or some level of frugality the rest of us can scarcely comprehend is beside the point. The real question that keeps me confounded is how this is going to work out for him in the end. Will he get this lumbering monstrosity of patchwork repairs and questionable integrity up to a million miles? Will Honda send him a plaque and congratulate him on being customer of the decade? Will the transmission grenade next week?

Sorry friends, I don’t have the answers. But I’m rooting for the guy. I’ll let you know if he breaks a record.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance

We need to talk about the kids.

I’ve had a lot of different jobs. Everything from tacos to coffee, warehouses to automotive repair, and a few others in between. I’ve worked with a lot of different people. Some young, some old, and some with questionable age-to-appearance ratios. But, it’s a rough scene out there with the youth of today.

In the words of the late and great George Carlin:

“Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize that half of them are stupider than that.”

That poor guy is spinning in his grave like a damn jet engine concerning the average American teenager.

Now, before everyone starts telling me all about how I sound like an old man yelling at the clouds playing music too loud on his lawn, let me explain.

I, like many others in this day and age, work two jobs. (So many jobs available in this economy, I have two of them! Har-har-fuckin-har!) For my second job, I have the privilege, the immense pleasure, and the exceedingly insulting pay package, of working evenings at my local Planet Fitness.

It’s not so bad, honestly. I hang out in my fishbowl-shaped front desk area. I bounce my homemade rubber-band ball off the floor. I walk around and feather dust the machines. I wipe sun screen lotion booty imprints off the tanning beds. Sometimes, if I get lucky, I even get to observe a couple meth-heads fighting over who was in line for the massage chairs first.

No, Carla, I don’t really care if Janelle slept with your dad. Or baby daddy. Or… Brother? It’s always hard to tell with these people.

But, I digress. We’re talking about the kids, after all.

Every year, the benevolent corporate suits, shareholders, franchise owners, and other assorted yes-men of Planet Fitness, decide to unleash a very special type of cruelty upon the dedicated staff that run their facilities. A horde of broccoli haircuts, Axe body spray, and social ineptitude assault the gym for a couple months.

I’m talking, of course, about the appropriately named “High School Summer Pass” program. On the surface, this sounds like a great idea. Keep the kids off the streets! Come work out for free! Let the violently purple color scheme of our establishment seep into the subconscious areas of your adolescent brains.

Good… Goooooood…

Aside from the obvious concerns we may have about this whole affair, the real horror comes from a realization I had just the other day.

Picture yours truly, tired dad-bod decked out in my abhorrent purple shirt. People enter, I say “Hi!” with my practiced customer service voice. I watch the clock, patiently waiting for the sweet release of 10pm.

A gaggle of teenage girls approach through the front door. Their appearance is disheveled and unkempt. They do not respond to my friendly greeting. The alpha, clearly the driving force of this pack of troglodytes, thrusts her phone toward my face and utters a guttural sound I chose to interpret as: “Please assist me, sir.”

I stare blankly, evaluating my options. Attempt to assist? Respond in kind? Perhaps thrust my own phone toward her in an effort to adhere to the customs of her people?

I decide my duty as a dedicated employee is to offer whatever helpful service I can provide. Her cohorts cluster around her, heads down as they bump into random shit while their eyes stay fixated on the phones.

“What seems to be the problem?” I ask politely.

“THIS NO WORKING,” she says, greasy hair and press-on nails clacking against the broken screen.

“Did you download the app?” I ask, trying my best not to laugh.

“I don’t know,” she responds, oblivious.

I stare, unsure of what absurdity I’ve just encountered. In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure if she could read. If you haven’t seen one of those viral clips of someone on the street asking random people to read a note card with some moderately long words while they sputter and choke, then you’re not living, my dudes.

It’s glorious.

Like watching a train full of kittens derail into a packed church. Horrifying and enlightening all at once.

As it turns out, with enough patience and resolve, I was able to guide this young woman to her ultimate goal of free gym festivities. I’m sure I’ll regret it at some point, but alas, I am a humble servant of the purple fitness hegemony for 20 hours a week.

The problem, dear friends, is that this is not an isolated incident. Literacy rates for just about everybody are down across the board. Attention spans have been diminished. Our entire way of life has devolved into some form or another of instant gratification. Push the button, get the prize. Repeat.

Now, I’m not recommending we all throw our phones away and move onto a nature commune, but it does worry me a great deal to observe these situations in public. We might expect an entire generation of young people, raised with technology more advanced than the equipment that enabled the goddamn moon landing, to be able to successfully download an app, read the instructions, and then enter a public business with confidence.

Instead, my disgruntled old self is over here holding the hands of young adults as I walk them through what is largely an automated and instantaneous digital process. I spend an obscene amount of time helping people navigate technology that is literally designed to remove my presence from the equation. The very technology that promised us the most digitally intelligent population in the history of the world is, in fact, destroying their hope of growing into strong, capable, resilient adults.

I can’t tell what’s more depressing, teens 100 years ago dying in a coal mine, or teens today too afraid to make eye contact with the guy behind the counter at a gym that looks like McDonald’s Grimace vomited everywhere.

Pray for me, folks, it’s going to be a long summer.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

If you’d like to follow along, feel free to subscribe.

See you in the next one.

Deferred Maintenance is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and gin, not necessarily in that order. If you’d like to encourage these questionable life choices, you can throw a few bucks in the tip jar here:

https://ko-fi.com/deferredmaintenance