Death of a car salesman

Is there any profession worst than a car salesman? When you go to hell, is there a hell salesman. By the way, I do believe we all go to hell metaphorically speaking, whether it’s waiting for the dentist to come back in with that miniature captain hook object to scrap the enamel of your teeth and replace them with wooden teeth or having to get somewhere quickly and getting stuck at every freakin’ red light and backed up in traffic as long as the early bird buffet line at Boomtown Casino.

I imagine that when entering hell there will be the sleazy looking devil in a red pinstriped suit (yes, they have to be wearing pinstripes) talking like a sleazy personal injury lawyer. “Do you have bad credit with God? Do you feel tempted into hatred or bankruptcy? How about we get you into a new eternal cell with heat and power windows that show a view of the flames of damnation for no money down all you need is a living soul.”
Behind this devil would be thousands of people in red jumpsuits moving down a conveyor belt with huge billboards right next to them saying. “If you lived here, you’d been home by now.”

I spent this past weekend in my own personal hell. Shopping for a new car. The last time I bought a car, Johnnie Cochran was alive and part of the Dream Team representing O.J. Man, what I would give to have Johnnie on my team negotiating my new car deal.
“A man must fit into his car, like a nice pair of slacks. Remember, if the price don’t fit, you must resist.” My entire Saturday was spent at dealerships trying to get myself into a new vehicle. What a world we live in, when you don’t have to know anything about cars to sell them. As we arrived at the dealership to find a new car, a dealer shot out of the car office like Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes at a funeral. I can’t even describe what was going through my mind. Is this guy a salesman or is he going to sell me a new set of steak knives. After we exchange pleasantries, he showed me to one of the cars that I was intending to buy. I asked him some questions about the vehicle. Now, what I am about to tell you is the truth. Upon asking each question, he referred to the information sticker on the window of the car. “Let’s see, this car has 6 cyclinders, that means it’s fast. It’s got am/fm radio (Don’t all cars come with a radio. Excuse for asking but when was the last time you sold a car with no radio before or after David Sarnoff’s time.) “It’s got anti-lock brakes.” I should hope it has brakes otherwise how the heck am I gonna stop the car. How about selling me on something extra? “Humm, it’s got pleather steering wheel with automatic windshield wipers and manual door locks.” Thanks, I am glad I got the premium package.
Well, that’s about all I can write down right now. But I will finish up this later as we try to negotiate the nuclear arms deal of the century in over 4 hours. Later.