UnpleasantlySexy

I'd like to take this opportunity to address something that I have despised for years, but until just now, it's merely been that festering-in-the-back-of-your-head kind of black hatred:

Mechanics.

Don't get me wrong - I am actually quite envious of those oft-bandana-ed, oft-shirtless tobacco chewers that can, with simply a tilt of the head and a squint, fully diagnose and explain the problems that are occurring under the hood of a 1973 Camaro from miles away. I'd kill to have that skillset. Then, I wouldn't have to deal with mechanics anymore.

See, Julia took my van in to the shop today to have the brake pads replaced and, after three hours of watching the van stay firmly parked outside of the garage, called me for advice. My advice? ---Take the keys back and get far, far away from that place, for they have no sense of morals, and any one of those (finger quotes) grease monkeys (more finger quotes) would just as soon bite a child on the arm as they would say "Good morning!" to you.

I believe the problem lies in the multiple levels of politics and bureaucracy that seemingly exist within the (finger quotes) grease monkey (more finger quotes) trade. You always get the gimp-legged gasoline-sniffer first, and his only response to any question is "I'll have to talk to my manager."

"Would you mind taking a look at my air filter?"

"I'll have to talk to my manager."

Then, he promptly quick-draws the Windex bottle from his holster and proceeds to clean your rear passenger window, not bothering to actually, you know...talk to his manager.

Hours later, after you've read through six years' worth of Car & Driver magazines (with sticky pages, no less), and after several loud scoffs, you get the nerve to ask one of the fifteen guys throwing spark plugs at each other behind the main desk "So...how long do you think this'll take?"

In mechanicanese, that means, "Everybody should take a long smoke break, because I am so proud of the work you all are doing." Thus, you wait some more.

A short while after they all return, you get the guts to tentatively ask one of them, "Can I speak to your manager?"

There are two responses you may get to this question. The first (and arguably better) one is, "I am the manager." That simply means you're screwed. The second possible response is actually wordless - one in which the entire staff begins hooting like chimps and scurrying around in fear all over the waiting room. Soon after, a monolithic Winnebago of a man (usually named Cooter or something otherwise appropriately scary and backwoodsy) emerges from that tiny door by the coffee pot, not without considerable effort on his part.

Cooter ain't afeerda no man...'specially not one the likes o' you.

The smarter mechanics have scattered like roaches, and the rest are dancing a kind of ritualistic appeasement jig around Cooter's feet.

Now, not only will it be another 3 days before you get your car back, but it will come equipped with an assortment of new stains, and a Corn-Nuts bag or two crammed under the seat.

Oh, and it won't be fixed. Instead, you'll have a new problem that only Cooter and his cronies can identify, using their highly specialized exhaust-sniffing-fueled predatory skills.

In short, mechanics are crooks, extortionists, and cat molesters. The only reason I suggest you all keep using them is that, by doing so, we keep those (finger quotes) grease monkeys (more finger quotes) sedated and imprisoned in those garages, far away from the normal folk like you and I.

Do you think I can get brake pads installed online, somehow?