On Choosing a Japanese Jackass

I finally came to the end of a long process that in some ways isn’t much more enjoyable than eating sand in a smoked meat competition – buying a used car.

I had a five thousand dollar budget and sought to acquire a reliable and solid automobile capable of jettisoning my high-geared rump from place to place mainly in the pursuit of sales. Being effective in the field means that beyond the necessary sales techniques and splendid people skills, one must have dependable ‘wheels’.

Being sold on both Honda and Toyota’s stupendous track records, I’ve always put my chips in the Japanese auto ring. Supernatural stories abound of these auto-gems mounting up hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of miles and even when the dash looks like a Floridian retiree’s face and the body shows signs that it may have been used in an Israeli combat facility as target practice, they still zip along the pavement showing no signs that they are slowing. And so, I found a 1999 Honda Civic DX and stayed within my budget.

I truly dread this entire process. It feels like I’m in a strange version of ‘To Tell the Truth’ meets ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ where Monty Hall and Mark Goodson are trying to convince me to buy what’s behind door number three and I just know that I’m going to end up with a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni. Inevitably, I become racked with the fear of having paid far too much for a jackass from Toledo that won’t carry me an inch.

Well, I didn’t get the San Francisco treat, but part of my fear became reality when last night at 12:03 am the Honda’s headlights began to dim and then the dash and then the dome and then the panel went out completely as I found myself coasting to a halt on I-12 in my beast of burden. She’s at the shop now getting fixed up since she’s under a warranty watch for the next thirty days; however, I could have sworn that I saw Goodson lurking in the bushes just east of Lacombe.

I sure hope this is only a bridle problem.