What A Fucking Waste Of Time

Damn, owning a vehicle can be expensive, even if you own a hooptie! You know what a hooptie is, even if you’re not familiar with the slang. A hooptie is a peice of shit car like Adam Sandler sang about. The windshield has seen more crack than Liane Cartman. It hasn’t been to a car wash for more than a year and some asshole wrote “also available in ‘clean’” with his finger in the dirt. The flasher no longer works, so to indicate a turn, the turn signal lever has to be manually moved up and down to blink the lights. So much exhaust is pouring from the tailpipe, people wonder if the car is on fire or not. The driver has to open the door at drive-thrus instead of rolling the window down. If the driver takes his hand off the steering wheel, the car wants to make a U-turn. The car’s got an identity complex with three different colors of paint. But, for all that’s wrong with a hoopty, it’s got a thumping stereo with a vibrating trunk lid, and 22-inch Dubs, worth about four grand.

My ride isn’t as sweet as a hooptie. Nope. Mine is simply a 2005 F-150 4×4. I got it last February, and I love it. But just like women, trucks require upkeep, and upkeep requires money. Ya know, I got a new truck because my old truck was starting to cost me a lot in repairs. First it was tires, then then a tune-up, distributor cap, and serpentine belt, followed by transmission work. So instead of throwing good money after bad in maintaining an old truck, I made the decision to get a newer truck with less problems. And my 2005 has been problem free… until recently.

Actually it’s still trouble free, but it’s been expensive. Part of keeping a warranty valid involves scheduled maintenance, and my truck was due for it’s 90,000-mile maintenance. Let me deviate a little here and talk about my mileage. By the weekend before Christmas, I knew I had about 800 miles left before the odometer rolled to 90,000 and asked The Company if I could sell some vacation time back in order to afford it and get it done before I went over 90k. They agreed, but it took a while to process, and delayed scheduling an appointment. On top of that, I had to drive to Seattle three times right after Christmas, and various other chores chewed away over 650 miles. Four days before my appointment, my odometer was sitting at 89,910 miles. But working from home two days saved me some mileage, and I was able to drive to my appointment with one mile to spare, as evidenced by the picture above and this one. (Wafwot’s note: without a tenths indicator on the odometer, the invoice shows “in” mileage at 89,998, and my photo was taken at the dealership before driving away. Since the dealership only drove the truck into the service bay and back, my “in” mileage must have been 89,998.9 and it rolled to 89,999 during the trip to the bay)

The laundry list of shit they needed to do to my truck told me it was going to be expensive… Change automatic transmission fluid; change engine oil and replace oil filter; inspect and lubricate all non-sealed steering linkage, ball joints, suspension joints, half and drive-shafts and u-joints; inspect brake pads and rotors, brake lines and hoses, and parking brake system; inspect complete exhaust system and heat shields; inspect engine cooling system and hoses; perform multi-point inspection; replace engine air filter; replace fuel filter; rotate and inspect tires; check wheel end play and turning noise. Tina called around to all the Ford dealers within reasonable driving distance for price quotes, and I was right… it was expensive. The prices ranged from almost $1500 in Marysville to $450 in Snohomish. After several emails with Becky in the service department about my rechargeable K&N air filter and Mobil 1 synthetic oil, I scheduled my maintenance for January 17 at Bickford Ford in Snohomish. They did a great job and got me out the door in 5 hours.

A couple things burnt my ass, though. Once of my questions to Becky concerned the transmission fluid. The Ford schedule says “change automatic transmission fluid.” I asked her if that included a flush of all 14 quarts, or just a replacement of the 5.5 quarts of that drain out when the filters are replaced. Her reply back was “the service DOES include the trans flush and it is a total flush, it is the best way.” When I got home and looked at the invoice, the part about the tranny read, “AUTO TRANS SERVICE PERFORMED. NEW FILTER INSTALLED. 5.5 QUARTS OF MERCON V ADDED.” They didn’t flush the transmission at all. Nice. Real fucking nice.

They also told me the front brake pads needed replacing. That surprised me. The dealer said the rear brake pads were at 7mm, and the front pads were at 2mm. Not wanting to just have the service done just because I was at the service shop, I declined. But I asked for a quote. When I paid for the service, the quote on the brakes was $375 for new pads and calipers up front. They also said that after resurfacing the rotors, they may need to be replaced as well at a cost of $135 each. Jesus! Six hundred and forty five dollars for front brakes?!

On the way home that afternoon, I drove by the local Les Schwab Tire Center with a large banner draped across the front that read, “FREE BRAKE CHECK.” There could be no better sign. It was like ol’ Les himself was telling me to c’mon in, have some popcorn. I’ve been buying tires at Les Schwab for years, and their great work and customer service always keeps me coming back. But I’ve never used them for brakes. When I was driving the Mustang, I always did the drums and shoes myself. It was a ball-busting job, but once I did it the first time, it was pretty easy each consecutive time. Anyway, I walked in and asked for their free brake check. One of the Les Schwab techs ran out to my truck with a red blanket on his back, like a retarded tire jockey with a Superman complex. He pulled my truck into a bay, and fifteen minutes later he’s got the wheels back on. He said I was in need of front brakes. Crap. The quote was considerably less, though. They only want $272 for the pads and calipers, and didn’t mention a damn thing about rotors. I would have had them do the work right then and there… if they didn’t need to place an order for the calipers. More than 939,000 F-150s sold in 2005, and Les Schwab didn’t have the parts? Okay. See ya next Saturday.

Next Saturday was yesterday. I walked in promptly at my appointed time, and began firing questions at them. Why did they need to replace the calipers? The truck is less than 4 years, for crying out loud. The reason? Warranty. Les Schwab warrants the brakes for 25,000 miles or 36 months, and they want to make sure the parts they put on check out okay. I also asked about ceramic pads, and again they said they put OEM-specification replacements on for warranty purposes. That’s pretty gay, but I gave them my key and took my seat amongst the soccer moms and their screaming axe wound escapees.

An hour later, the tech came out to the waiting area and told me that after resurfacing, there wasn’t enough material left on the rotors and needed to be replaced. Bickford Ford said this could be a possibility, but Les Schwab broadsided me with it. Knowing I had about $605 in my bank account, I asked how much new rotors would cost. The tech ran a new quote which came out to $515. I wasn’t looking forward to scrimping on $90 for the next week, and tried to get the tech to forgo the calipers, or delay replacing the rotors. No go. In fact, I got the impression they wouldn’t let me drive the vehicle off the property without the work being preformed and the new parts installed… for safety reasons or some shit. Reluctantly, I gave the go-ahead, and within another hour, I was on my way home, sans grocery money.

My truck is running great. It better for the more than $970 I spent on brakes and its 90k mile service. I didn’t think there was anything wrong before the service, but I noticed the transmission shifts much smoother now and the wheel alignment and tire rotation gave me a straighter hands-off-wheel drive. New brake fluid, new synthetic 5W-20, and about 40% new transmission fluid add to the good feeling that my truck is in top condition now.

I went to Bellevue yesterday (I’ll tell you about that in a minute) and stopped by Krispy Kreme on the way home. Later that day, while feeling the effects from a little help from my friend, Tina and I found this particular donut outrageously comical. The custard filling has to get in the donut somehow, and some of it inevitably drips from the “injector” on withdraw. That leads to jokes about her gay brother, and felching, and other such imagery that’s always so damn funny at moments like that. When a donut is this funny looking, you just have to take a picture of it and turn it into an animated GIF, flashing between the donut and a more vulgar anal leakage image for only a few milliseconds. Who would be the first to notice the subliminal message? But when I saw the results of googling “cum oozing ass hole,” I just couldn’t do it. Not that I find stretched quivering whale eyes dripping with man goo terribly disgusting, NOR… Nor do I find them terribly enjoyable, either! No. I just didn’t want to spend 20 minutes looking at one, forever associating Krispy Kremes with drippy balloon knots of doom for a stupid inebriated giggle about a donut. Beside, I think the picture is funny by itself.

Bellevue, yes. When I bought my new truck., the dealer didn’t have two ignition keys, the 5-digit code to the keyless entry pad on the driver’s door, the remote key fobs, or an owners’ manual. In fact, all they seemed to have was the truck itself and nothing that went with it. Anyway, after emailing the dealer they said they couldn’t find any additional items for my truck. To hell with them. They’re a nice bunch of car salesmen, for what that’s worth, but I can find the shit I need/want for my truck on the Internets. For about $65 total, I bought a manual from helminc.com, two PATS keys from some entrepreneurial locksmith on eBay, a 34-page 2005 F-150 dealer brochure from some entrepreneurial brochure collector on eBay, and five remote key fobs from another entrepreneurial alarm installer on eBay. If you’re wondering, five fobs were cheaper than two — I just have three extras now. The 5-digit code was found on the VSM behind the rear seat, mounted on the back wall of the cab. I found that small tidbit on the forums at F150online.com. It was a 90 minute project to recover that code.

The only thing I still needed the dealer for was my license plates and programming the PATS keys. PATS keys are special keys that have a transponder chip molded into the head of the key. If the truck doesn’t recognize the key, it disables the fuel pump preventing the vehicle from starting. Normally, I would have been able to program my own keys IF I had two working keys. But, since my truck must have been repossessed by the bank, or traded in by a crack whore, I only had the one key and lacked the ability to program my own keys. This is where the dealer comes in.

I drove my truck to Seattle last Thursday, and during lunch drove to the dealer in Bellevue. I picked up my license plates, and asked if they could program the keys so I could save a trip. Some old grizzled salesman overheard my conversation with the kid that sold me the truck. He told us it takes about 45 minutes to download the data in order to program keys. Forty five minutes? Damn! I asked about their Internet connection speed, joking that I could download the entire ECU with a 28.8 kbps modem faster than that. They either didn’t like my humor, or didn’t understand it. Either way, it meant I still had to make the nearly hundred mile drive to Bellevue on Saturday. Excellent.

So, on Saturday, I left the house around 10:30am. I had several errands around town to complete before I could head south, including going to the locksmith to get my PATS keys cut, going to the bank to make my first payment on this truck, and making a deposit at another bank. Finally heading south, I stopped to get the truck washed at the Blue Cow and a tank of gas at the Indian Chevron station — casino Indians, not Slurpee Indians.

Oh my god, something I learned about this truck a few days after I bought it… The first time I filled it up, I had $100 on me. I knew gas was $3.299 a gallon and figured the tank was the standard 27 gallon variety available in 2005. A bit of quick math in my head said no more than $80 in gas (since I was just under a quarter tank) and I could use the change to get the truck washed. Well, I watched as the pump went past $80… then past $90… and I had to stop at $100! What the fuck? How does 30.3 gallons of gas fit into a 27 gallon tank? Remember that 34-page brochure I bought on eBay? It told me there was an optional gas tank available. My truck has that optional 37.5 gallon tank. Sonofabitch! Fill-ups cost me over $120 at today’s gas prices. Back in the days B.A. (Before Asthma), $120 was enough to keep me high at nights for six weeks. Now it only takes me approximately 575 miles. Oh, how being a responsible adult sucks the balls of so many goats.

Anyway, back to my trip to Bellevue. I got the to dealer around 2:00pm. They had me pull into the service bay, and told me it would take 90 minutes. What?! I thought it was 45 minutes! So much that old salesman knows. Fucker. I had a seat in the “lounge.” It consisted of a TV with the channel selector glued to CNN, a coffee maker, a leather couch with a mother and her kid seated on it, a leather chair, and leather love seat. The chair and love seat had been turned into some foreigner’s mobile office. He had his laptop and papers all over the love seat as he was sitting in the chair, talking to someone on a cell phone in some foreign terrorist language. My first thought: “Someone who thinks he’s this important drives a Ford?”

My bladder said, “hey, you haven’t pissed since 9am, empty me!” Being here for hours on end when I bought the truck in February, I knew the toilets were just through a doorway in the lounge. When I returned, the Sultan of Couchoffice was gone, and Mom was going through the motions of gathering her shit. I didn’t get the impression they were together, but maybe. I took a seat in the Sultan’s throne, and read the news via my phone.

Just then, some older gentleman came in from the service bay and took a seat on the couch. He was on the phone, talking to his wife, I’m guessing. He told her they were able to fix the “flasher lights.” It appears he had his vehicle in for repair because his hazard blinkers were broken. Whenever he pressed the hazard button in, the lights came on, but didn’t stay on. Ford “fixed” his problem by showing the old codger that you pull UP on the button to engage the hazard lights. Apparently, this poor bastard didn’t get a manual with his vehicle either. I couldn’t help but laugh! How much did that cost him? When the old man looked at me, I turned my phone to him and pretended that a bus load of kids tipping over on I-94 in Minnesota was something to laugh at. What does he know? He can’t even operate hazard lights! Ha ha!

By 2:50pm, they were done programming my keys and kicked me free. It actually did take them 45 minutes to program those keys. I guess that old salesman did know what he was talking about. Will wonders ever cease? I was northbound on I-405 by 3, and home with dinner in hand before 5. In all, programmed PATS keys was so anti-climatic, and hardly worth all the blog space I’m giving it here.

And if you’re wondering about the title of this update, it a reference to NASCAR. Apparently, when these hillbillies crash their cars into walls or other drivers, and some retired hillbilly racer in a cowboy hat shoves a microphone in their face to find out what happened, their response is, “I ran out of talent.” So, when you wonder why ol’ Jim hasn’t updated his blog in 6 weeks, that’ll be my answer. “I ran out of talent.” Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?

As you will recall, I recently put a lot of money into repairs and the transmission of my ‘94 F-150, and realized I needed to get out of it before it really shit the bed. So, once again, I spent the better part of a month searching the Internet for just the right truck. I was as indecisive as a drunk nun with an extra set of rosary beads on Fat Tuesday. When I finally settled on what I wanted, it became a delicate balancing act of age, features, mileage, price, want, and need. After an endless amount of running my hands through hair that’s not there, I had narrowed the list down to three trucks.

One thing I learned this time about the process of car shopping — never ever give your phone number to a salesman. Jesus Christ. Every other day I got a phone call from some “saresman dat coudn’t speak goodly engrish.” I was (and probably still will be) getting emails from aggressive salesman that couldn’t wait to get me to commit to a test drive. Time to set up a message filter, I reckon. Damn, that kind of behavior drives me fucking crazy, man. I don’t need you hounding me, like some screaming four year old whining at his mommy for some toy at Wal-Mart. When I worked sales at Radio Shack in a former life back east, I was attentive, but never pressured people.

So, with all the crap cleaned out of my old truck and my three choices in hand, I headed out of town on Saturday. I stopped by Blue Cow car wash in Anacortes and spent twelve dollars to wash my trade in. I was totally amazed at Blue Cow. They gave me a wet paper towel for wiping down the dashboard, and an air freshener to mask the smell of feet and ass funk. When it was my time to go through the wash tunnel, they took the radio antenna off, pre-soaked and brushed the truck with sudsy water. In the tunnel, they used all Rain-X products. I was soaped up twice as brushes and hangy-raggy things danced over the vehicle. Then my undercarriage was washed, I was rinsed, clear-coated, and made spot-free. Near the end, I was blown like I was never blown before. When I exited the other end, a couple of Blue Cow employees wiped me down, removing what little moisture was left… on my truck. I pulled over to the vacuum cleaners, and when I got out, I wondered why I was getting rid of the truck. It looked fantastic! I put the radio antenna back on and vacuumed out all the grass blades and pebbles from the carpet. Simply beautiful. The truck looked better than the day I bought it.

Back in the truck, I fired up TomTom on my phone and headed south. I drove down I-5 to I-405 to Bellevue to look at my first choice. I had my three choices prioritized. I was going to make a “loop” around Lake Washington — down I-405 to Bellevue for my first choice, further down I-405 to Burien for my second choice, then up I-5 to Everett for the final choice. But when I got to Bellevue, my plan didn’t work out.

I got to the Ford dealership in Bellevue at 2:30pm. They were busy as hell there. It was like they were giving away free handjobs with every test drive, or something. Normally when you walk onto a car lot, you’re accosted by salesmen before you can pull your foot back to kick a tire. But the weather was fantastic — sunny and warm — which made for a great day to go car shopping.

After about 10 minutes of walking around, I finally met the salesman I talked to via email. He showed me the truck which was parked at the back of their lot, past all the employee cars and the vehicles in for repair. It hadn’t been washed or detailed, and had a thin layer of dust and dirt on it. You’d think a big time dealership could wash a truck before they toss it online. I think the salesman was a bit embarrassed. But, he gave me the keys and a voucher for $20 worth of gasoline. “You know where the ARCO station is up the street?” I told him, “No. but I’ll find it.” After signing a copy of my driver’s license, he sent me on my way and didn’t expect me back for an hour. I was surprised they would let me take the truck for so long.

I made my way up the street to the ARCO station, but pulled in with the fuel door on the wrong side. I tried turning around, but some snatch in a U-Haul truck pulled up behind me and left no room for me to back up. “Thanks, honey. You bitch.” The place was a tiny inner-city gas station, so I bolted from the ARCO station to make a u-turn somewhere up the street. Heading back, I couldn’t make a left turn back into the gas station (thanks to a median curb) and had to turn around again. This time I was in a Lexus dealership, and I literally laughed at two different salesmen that headed my direction but stopped when they realized I wasn’t slowing down. Like I would ever buy a luxury Toyota. Please!

Anyway, I finally got my twenty bucks worth of gas (at $3.329 a gallon!) and took the truck for a real spin. I drove it up and down the major arteries of Bellevue, romping on the gas when I could and braking quickly. The truck seemed responsive and had a nice, smooth ride. After ten or fifteen minutes of that, I ended up in an empty parking lot of a Banner Bank. I got out and looked at the engine, checked the tires, looked underneath, and made sure the truck looked straight. I got back in, called Tina, and starting playing with all the bells and whistles. I already knew the power seats and power mirrors work before I left the lot. It has a power rear sliding window that I was fucking with that knocked the dealer license plate down. Oops. The heated leather seats work great, and will probably give me a fantastic case of swamp-ass on those really cold mornings. All four power windows roll up and down, and the power locks work, too. I played with the steering wheel controls and fiddled with the radio and climate control. Fantastic! Everything works. I really liked this truck. It was first on my list for a reason; the price was low for a 2005 Lariat trim package, and has less miles than other, older Lariats I saw and was “scheduled” to see that afternoon.

Here’s a long list of cool features this truck has: a 5.4 liter 3v Triton V8 engine, four speed automatic transmission with overdrive, on-the-fly four-wheel drive, four wheel anti-lock power disc brakes, power steering, adjustable pedals, eighteen-inch alloy wheels, two rear suicide doors, AM/FM/CD changer that plays CD-Rs of MP3s, Rhino Linings spray on bed liner, hard tonneau cover, leather power bucket seats with two memory settings, electronic climate control, cruise control, digital compass, mini message center that displays all kinds of cool shit about the truck, tachometer, dual air bags, fog lights, turn signals indicators on the side mirrors, intermittent wipers, electrochromatic rear view mirror, power mirrors, power locks, power windows, power rear slider window, remote keyless entry, tilt steering wheel with radio and climate control buttons, towing package, ultrasonic parking assist so I know when to accelerate over the neighbor’s cat, faux wood trim like an old man’s luxury car, 12V power points, HomeLink which is like a universal remote for garage door openers and RF light switches, and probably a few cool things I know I can’t remember.

I don’t know Bellevue. It was my second time ever in the town, and only had a vague idea where I was after spending time circling the parking lot of that bank. TomTom to the rescue, and in no time I was back on the main road to the dealership. I pulled in and parked in that rear lot where we found the truck. I played around more with the message center — the computer that maintains fuel economy, miles to empty, the trip odometer, the compass, vehicle status, etc. — until the salesman came over.

“So, you like the truck?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You want to write it up?”
“Yeah, I do.”

Yep. I made him work for that commission. I already had my mind made up on an eleventh generation F-150, and I already decided I wanted a Lariat first, or an XLT second. When I found several candidates online, it was just a matter of making sure the truck was worthy. The other two trucks I was going to see didn’t have a chance when it came time to pull the trigger. There wasn’t any coaxing to be done by the salesman, I was sold.

I had my financing lined up before I left the house, but the salesman gave me some bullshit line about filling out some form that was mandated by the Patriot Act… because we all know that terrorists are financing Ford Focuses, stuffing them full of diesel fuel and fertilizer, and driving them into government buildings. [Ding] “Play artist: ‘Soldiers of Allah‘”

So, I filled out his form and he ran my credit. They didn’t want to use the financing I already had set up, even though all but $699 of the final price after tax, licensing, registration, and documentation would have been paid for. After an hour, the salesman comes over, extends his hand to shake mine, congratulating me on my new truck purchase. When he showed me the offer, I literally laughed. He wanted two grand down, and the monthly payments were almost $600. I told him no fucking way. The financing I brought with me didn’t require any down payment as I would write a check for nearly the entire final price of the truck, and my monthly payments would only be just over $350 a month. The salesman wanted to see this fantastic financing I had, so I showed him. He took the paperwork to his finance manager, and they came back with an offer that exactly matched my pre-approved financing. That’s better! We shook on the deal, and we started the process of filling out all the paperwork.

By this time, I’d been at the dealership for four hours. I sat in the 2008 Shelby and looked at a 2008 F-250 Super Duty that was in the showroom. I went down stairs to their “lounge,” which consisted of a coffeemaker, a bench seat, and a TV tuned to CNN. There was a much-needed restroom in the lounge, too, but watching a repeat of Billary and Osama’s last debate was about as much fun as sticking my cock in a brake disc turning lathe.

Finally I was called into the finance manager’s office. I felt like a rock star, signing my name on every sheet of paper thrown in front of me. There had to be a forest, an entire goddamn forest of old growth trees used to make all the forms I had to sign. Jesus, why is there so much paperwork? What the fuck was it like before 1980? Damn!

When I was done, I had to wait for my new truck to leave the detail bay (they wanted to make it pretty for me to drive home). As I was waiting, talking Seahawks with the salesman, the finance manager came out and asked if I wanted lower monthly payments. What a stupid question. That’s like some hot blonde chick asking, “May I please suck your dick?” What am I going to say, “no?” C’mon! I went back inside, and they were able to lower my interest rate by one and a half percent. Six more signatures later, I was out the door again and into my freshly washed new truck.

Before I left the lot, I loaded a couple MP3 discs that I removed from the old truck into the changer, adjusted the seats and mirrors again, and plugged in my phone charger. The cockpit of my new truck is pretty fucking sweet; there seems to be more little green lights than a Christmas tree. After a few right turns, I was finally headed north on I-405. The clock on the radio said 8:10. No way! I checked my phone and sure enough, the clock of the truck was wrong. It was 10 minutes slow. It was 8:20pm. Sonofadryhumper! Nearly six hours at the dealership. The trip home was nice, though I had the music turned up, and I got a chance to really open things up. Trying to create separation from “pacers“, I got the truck up to 95 miles an hour on I-5 between Mount Vernon and Burlington. It didn’t even feel like I was going that fast. It’s going to take a while to acclimate myself to the feel of this new truck.

I haven’t had a chance to take any of my own pictures, but here’s the images from the dealer’s web site: front view, rear view, driver seat, rear seats, dashboard, gauges, radio, grille. I’ll get some nicer pictures on Whidbey Island’s next sunny weekend.