So your good friend Bryan probably isn’t welcomed in Advance Auto Parts anymore.
No, this isn’t a story that involves gratuitous nudity (or is it?) or shoplifting, this was just me trying to get a new battery for my baby today. I don’t talk about this much, but I have 3 cars, in addition to the one my fiancé has (which I now claim partial ownership of, since I took over maintenance). I like to be modest about the whole thing. Unemployed? Yes. Bad with money? No. When I’m not driving my getaway car, I also have a Mustang GT I got myself for a birthday present 2 years ago as homage to my dad, who had one of these bad boys in Wimbledon White when he was younger.
“I have over 400 horsepower when my battery works. When it doesn’t… closer to zero.” >:(
So I went to start it today and the battery was dead. I tried to jump it with my Audi, but no luck still. The battery’s only 2 years old, so I hopped on over to Advance Auto Parts to swap it out under warranty.
Easy, right? Of-fucking-course not.
The old guy behind the counter tests the battery and says that it has absolutely no juice in it, but might hold a charge. I said it won’t; I tried. He says he’ll grab me a new one, but first he’ll look up my warranty info. Unfortunately, he can’t find my information in the computer. He even scans my old, beatup receipt from 2 years ago, and there’s nothing. He needs help from the manager, who’s over in the corner talking with someone else.
So bring in the douchey manager. Yeah, you know the type. Mid 20’s, spiked hair, soul patch that screams, “See, I have a tiny muff of facial hair, take me seriously in life.” He’s over 6 feet tall and lucky if he weighs 120 lbs, and is 99% likely to wear man panties aka whitey tighties and pick his nose when people aren’t looking.
So our first introduction is him asking me about the battery. “It’s toast,” I say. “Won’t hold a charge.” His
professional estimate dickish assumption is that I don’t take care of my car well enough, and he doubts the battery is bad. Meanwhile I’m holding my tongue, because I just want my (goddamned) free battery.
He then marches back to the battery testing machine, rips the paper report out, and says to the old guy who’s been helping me, “What the hell? This isn’t a dead battery. It just has no charge. I bet you ANYTHING if I hooked this up to a trickle charger it would be 100% fine.”
The old man, who’s embarrassed by this, says that he knew this. And I say, “Actually, I charged it with my other car and it still wouldn’t start up afterwards.”
Douchey McDoucherton is now typing furiously on the computer, trying to look up my receipt, using the same methods the old guy did. Apparently he thinks that by typing in the exact same thing, he'll get different results. I already hate him. I bet he goes home and masturbates to animal porn.
"Oh, well there's your answer," he says, about me jump starting my Mustang with another car. "You NEVER do that. Ever."
He's still pecking at the computer, not looking at me at all.
After some awkward silence, I ask, "Uhhh, okay, so what was I supposed to do instead?"
He rolls his eyes, which are still locked on the computer, and says, "You hook it up to a soft charger and charge it gently for a little bit. It's common sense."
Common sense my asshole. I want to use my jiu jitsu and put him in a triangle choke until his eyes pop like bubblewrap... but first, my (goddamn motherfucking) battery.
Finally! -- I get my receipt and my free battery, aka my chance to speak. Even now I'm not looking at being terribly dickish, but I'm not going to be walked all over.
"For future reference, the smugness wasn't appreciated. I've never had a problem jumping a car and I don't think a 'soft charger' really is common sense."
He rolls his eyes yet again and says, "Well maybe you should learn more about cars."
So let me preface this by saying that what I said was pompous, arrogant, and equally dickish. But before you judge, just remember that every single one of you have done this at one point in your life; that moment when you're in a verbal fight with, well, anyone, and both of you are really upset, and you want to be the one to take it to the next level. You just want to say the most barbarically hurtful thing you can. You know what I'm talking about, that moment in the fight where you tell your spouse that you faked liking their burnt lasagna. Where you tell your best friend his girlfriend was a whore before she met him. Where you tell your mom she was a shitty parent. Don't pretend you don't know about this.
So as I'm walking toward the door, cradling the battery in my elbows, I scour my brain for the most dickish thing I can say and lay down this little gem.
"So what's it like knowing that I own 4 cars worth more than you make in a year? Or maybe 2 years? Is that what it's like to be at the bottom? You act like cocky shit, but guess what dipshit, you're the manager of an auto parts store. Congratu-fucking-lations, you failed at life."
And as I leave, cradling the battery in my elbows, I give the classic slow, sarcastic clap. He's saying something about me getting the fuck out, but I don't care.
I've won. Oh, and I guess I need to find another parts store. Totally worth it, though.
Stay classy, friends,
Beer: None yet, but need one badly
Shower: Great for washing off this smug sense of self satisfaction
(click for sarcastic, slow animation)