Oh HELL No, part 3

June 3, 2005 at 9:41 am (Rant Goodness)

"I gotta get the oil changed."
"Yep, you do. Where are you going to have it done?"
"Hel*Mouth"

He's taking BABY? His pride-and-joy? The hottest sedan ever made? To HEL*MOUTH? I have trouble forming the words to explain just how sick and wrong that truly is. He starts to explain that while letting anyone wearing a Hel*Mouth name tag touch his limited edition, high-performance, great, big, fast wet dream of a car is the uber-sacrilege, it's difficult to fuck up a simple oil change when he's standing right there ready to hurt anyone who doesn't treat Baby with the awe and respect she deserves.

While Honey babysits Baby during her ordeal, I wander the Hel*Mouth until I figure they've had enough time to either do the fucking work or pick themselves up off the floor where Honey would have left them after the wholesale BoA resulting from fucking with his Baby.

The obviously fake strawberry blonde with the neon red short short nails is busy chewing gum and reading the wrong manufacturer's part book for another customer. She ignores me while the guy she's showing off her 43-point IQ to gently hints that what I want might only take a minute. She ignores the hints and ignores me. Meanwhile I see Honey wandering the Automotive section, kid-in-a-candy-store grin firmly in place. He explains that while the oil change itself is only 15 minutes, there's no promise by Hel*Mouth that they will START the oil change anytime soon. He was told to come back in 90 minutes. Yippee shit.

I go back off to wander the yarn section, marveling at how there are only three colors of Hel*Mouth's signature all-cotton line and wondering why it's SUCH an insult to the slack-jawed inbred NASCAR fan behind the cash register to ask if other colors can be ordered. Fine. Fuck you, skanked-up TMR two-bit whore–keep your "How DARE you ask questions of the Oracle of the Hel*Mouth fabric section" attitude and I'll order my yarns online.

Finally, 90 minutes after hitting the bay, Baby's ready to go home, so I check out and we get away from the Hel*Mouth, me making a mental note to bring Holy Water next trip. The first note of "Oh, HELL no!" rears its ugly head within seconds.

"They opened the passenger front window. Took me 10 minutes to put it back in." True that the power window does need fixing, but who the FUCK plays with the windows during an OIL CHANGE? He'd declined to have the car vaccumed so no one should have been IN the passenger front area, let alone playing with the windows! I decide that a look at that service invoice is a good idea.

"Uh, Honey, did you actually DECLINE having the battery checked?"

"Nooooooo! They never asked me if I wanted to skip that."

Oh, nifty. I quickly go thru the rest of the 15-point check he paid extra to have done.

It turns out that the point about an Impala SS having no grease fittings (translation: thingies to squirt lube into/onto) is pure prevarication because Baby needs her lube more than most cars and has six of the fuckers, not ZERO as noted on this sheet. These silly asshats lied again about "recommend replacement" on the Air Filter check (again, not mentioned or asked about during the service). It is also bullshit that "customer declined" having the battery checked–turns out in the tech's notes that "Battery Charger N/A" means this nearly-new fucking Hel*Mouth location has NO battery charger to do the check that they charge people to have done! Nice. Donkey-fucking NICE.

It gets worse.

Honey asked, "Tire pressure?" "Thirty all around," I replied.

"SHIT!" Turns out the wide, high-performance shoes Baby wears should be inflated to 40 in the back and 32 or so in the front. He pulls into a gas station and makes with the tire gauge and air. I hear air being LET OUT of something in the tail. Turns out the asshats inflated one tire to 70 PSI. VERY not cool–those tires each cost more than a set for my entire damned CAR! The little banjo-playing motherfuckers just goosed the air pressure in the tires without checking it afterward.

Needless to say, the air in the car was blue all the way home, each invective bluer than the last. Moral of the story: Even if the guy in the overalls says you have an excellent car, that doesn't mean he actually knows how to service the fucking thing. Especially if that's what the demons at Hel*Mouth pay him to do.

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