Second-hand car dealers

There is a surfeit of contempt I keep in the large mass that is my body, and this is reserved mostly for telemarketers, Metro cops, politicians and, of late, second-hand car salesman.

You see, after four years of utter devoutness my Golf Gti finally passed away. She vomited oil all over the driveway and decided at the most inopportune moment that she wasn’t reporting for work. And that’s how I found myself standing in a car dealership looking for a new set of wheels.

I had a look at the new Golf Gti, but because I have owned 3 of them in the past I figured I would go for something else instead. Then I saw the 1M BMW, a car out of my price range and that would only be good to hasten my death. Even the BMW X5 is nauseatingly pricy; though, I could have it provided I ate beans and lawn clippings for the remainder of the five year payment plan.

Here’s the thing, cars are too bloody expensive. Even the crappy Japanese ones. And these aren’t even the one’s I’d be interested in owning. Then, there are the brands I like, which at this point in time are a complete fantasy unless I steal a set of keys to Patrice Motsepe’s house and befriend his wife. 

I sulked for an hour, eventually swallowed my pride and headed for a pre-owned dealership. In other words I resorted to buying someone else’s shit. Yes, pre-owned cars are about as cool as elephantitis.

That’s when I found her, a C Class 230 sports coupe; the one I have always wanted. The skidonk Benz had about 300 million miles on the clock, but the salesman assured me it’s had one owner – a woman who shudders at the thought of speed and red-lining the rev- counter – also, it’s never skipped a service. The package seemed so good I was tempted to ask if they offered happy endings.

Two days later I signed the deal and traded in the dilapidated piece of Volkswagen nonsense and drove off in my Benz, Beyonce belting out her notes while I puffed away on my ciggie: bliss.

At 10:00 the following Wednesday she wouldn’t start. Being the ever optimist I figured I’d push her down the drive and allow her to catch speed before trying to get her going. Bum in seat, I positioned the review so I could see behind me, and then the mirror broke. Or rather, the presstick holding it in place clung its last.

After what seemed like a three week walk and cursing like a wounded chicken in Ethiopia, finally I made it back to the dealership, review mirror in hand. The snake in a suit simply looked at me and gave me the shrug which I hear is popular among the bastards who sell other people’s rubbish to you.

What seemed to bug me most was strangely not the fact that I had been ripped of off a few hundred thousand rand. But rather that someone with the intelligence of 7nde Laan’s Ou Baas sold me a total heap of scrap.

Angry as I was, the God honest truth is people sell ‘seemingly’ good cars because they are stuffed. You wouldn’t drag the wife into the back yard and shoot her if she had a blocked nose, so why then would one trade in a perfectly suitable car.

Unlike me who is stingy and will fight for every cent given the chance, there are folks out there who can only afford pre-owned vehicles.  If that is you, at least have the common sense to use a reputable dealer. In hindsight I wish I had had the common sense at the time. If all else fails then one would naturally propose using public transport.

That too is problematic.  Riding South African public transport is as safe as stealing live copper wires while sitting in a bathtub. So that means you have to walk and run the risk of being dragged into a bush while someone with HIV has his way with you.

Your options are fewer than Limpopo textbooks. Which ultimately means the pre-owned car dealers have to stay. Therefore I propose they instill a new set of rules. In particular, one that protects the customer for the period up to a year after purchasing from them.

Sound bizarre, not really. A business is largely reliant on its image and how the public perceive them, and having a dealership renown for flogging rubbish isn’t going to down well.

Already there is a list longer than the ANC’s lies which is to do with the consumer protection act. Adding a new clause won’t do any harm, surely. Not that I am interested, but that would perhaps be ‘the bate’ I may fall for. If you’re going to con me into buying trash from you, the least you can do is help me fix it when it breaks.

Sadly, in all likelihood that won’t happen. Resultantly, the rich shall continue to buy new vehicles at a ball-bustlingly expensive price, and the poor, I’m afraid, are left to pick the best of the wheeled-trash.

Rather a sad story, isn’t it? As much as I didn’t want to drag those pot-bellied thugs we call government into this piece, unfortunately it all comes back to them. Instead of scoffing our taxes and using it to build compounds laden with willing, large-arsed women, they could invest in the public transport system. Though that would improve the country, albeit slightly, improvement isn’t on the agenda.

However much I’d like to nail the government about their poor service delivery, this really isn’t about them. It’s about a bunch of crooks that set out to catch people who can barely pay attention, let alone cars. Therefore I propose that people, rich or poor, who buy pre-owned cars, simply turn a blind eye when passing a second-hand car dealer- ship. This isn’t easy especially when you have no means of transport. My solution is simpler and cheaper, not to mention more fun! Get a wheelbarrow.