FTS Fun
I am constantly amazed that the Upper Management at the World Domination MotorCar Corporation continues to snub me.
First off, Mike (Helen) Keller is sent off to BFE to get “More Experience” in the MegloManiac World of General Sales Managers at their bustling Thoeny, Montana Campus… (Their first choice of Thule, Greenland had been over-booked by those Geniuses of Automotive Marketing – EDSEL!!)
Then The Mostly Infinitely Capable Replacement Niles Porkannoy, Mike’s replacement, is lured into The Dark Side by an exquisitely disguised Sith Lord masquerading as William Von Beakman.
And so now we have the rather anti-tall but always hungry Nosh Job as our DSPM QWERTY Alphabet Soup of a man. (Why Alphabet soup? Well, because, really, nobody gives a good goddamn what the letters mean. They are all tied to the pay scale anyway – the more friggin’ letters you have the more money you get…. Simple!
As an example:
Me: AG or Alignment God = damed little money
FTS = a buttload more money than I get – but then again, you have to answer to Beakman…
DSPM = Armored cars follow you around just to carry your “chump change”….
William Von Beakman, MSRP, SUV, MPG, BYOB = Forget about it!!! Ever look at the face on a one Trllion dollar bill? Yup, that’s him!!! )
As the ultimate personal insult, they found out that my friend and local FTS Scott Writt was still on the payroll for some reason, and then, well, they made him go away…
I called to ask for him at the office formerly held by the pudgy little bastard and a voice like those you hear on a Crime Show (where some damned illiterate redneck hillybilly puts a hankerchief over the phone and all of a sudden sounds like James Earl Jones) answered. I knew immediately it was that World Domination MotorCar Corporation instuctor/Singing Cowboy and Star of the Hit Fox TV Show that showcases Amatuer Singing Cowboys, American Bridle, Hank McWilliams. “Who? Scott Writt?? Never heard of him… And BTW, Troy, shouldn’t you be finishing that blue Lowlander you have on the Alignment Rack? You do realize that the customer is waiting and that there is a nail in the left rear tire, don’t you? I know I taught you better than that! And you may want to top off the brake flu-” I hung up quickly, realizing that Big Brother was indeed watching…
It was then that I figured I had better sound the alarm, muster the troops, assemble my zip ties ( I’ll explain later ), and prepare to do battle.
But with who?
Who would those Dastardly Bastards at The World Domination MotorCar Corp send against us, the poor, downtrodden muldoons that have to actually work for a living? What un-holy Hellspawn would be looking at our sloppy documentation, our shotgun parts replacement, the fact that we have more flush equipment than spark plugs?
As if in a dream, I heard a voice while I was navigating the battle ground known as Bell Road: A voice whispered in what passes for my mind… A voice promising pain and pleasure… I turned off the radio where Tanya Roberts was selling TimeShares at a Las Vegas Swinger’s resort and the voice disappeared. It wasn’t until I laid my head upon my fluffy pillow that night that I had The Dream.
It was as if I was as insubstantial as air. Floating. Hovering. Then, as if a soft zephyr of a breeze pushed me across the familiar streets of Surprise!!! Arizona, I was standing at the doors of the MEGA Superstore, FTS R US… I turned and saw approaching me a sight that normally chilled and liquified my bones but, in my astral form, merely made me wet myself. Approaching me at his normal bulldog, “give ground or die” pace was William Von Beakman, MSRP, SUV, MPG, BYOB.
As I cringed and threw up my hands to protect myself from his Hellfire inspired breath, he simply passed by and entered the store. Regaining my composure and control of my bladder, I followed as he immediately headed to the Damaged and Discounted table. Rummaging through the obviously returned Chrysler and GM FTS (Flatulant Technical Specialists) the noise he made as he rummaged through them was a veritable “Wall of Sound” as he pushed their “Push Here to get Factory Help” Buttons and got all manner of advice including “Did you check the TSBs”, “Just replace it and let me know what you find”, “Use Factory Tool J4290-G46023 (or Generically available Magic 8 Ball) and follow it’s advice” and even a “Look I’m kinda busy here at a fancy pants lunch some poor bastard Service Manager is having to pay for, you’re the tech just fix the damned car, my lobster is getting cold!!!!”
As he was turning to walk away he spotted something that made his Professionally Coiffed Mustache bristle dangerously: A Boob Ripoffsky FTS!!! He asked the nearest clerk about this. “Well, hell!! To be honest, I know he wasn’t an FTS, so I just tossed him in with all the other stinky reject POSs…” the clerk replied.
“Good call” muttered William Von Beakman as he steeled himself for having to pay full retail for his replacement FTS.
Wandering over to the Luxury FTS aisle, Beakman was rather annoyed that all the available models had British or German Accents. “I Say!! That does look like a bit of a rather tough nut. I suggest a cup of tea, a roaring fire and The Collected Works of Chaucer to open our minds a bit as we contemplate the alternator…”
Disturbed, he went off to the Affordable Luxury FTS aisle where they all has Boston accents: “How ya doin’ How ’bout them sox, eh? That does look like a bit of a rather tough nut. I suggest a cup of way overpriced coffee, a roaring fire and The Collected Works of Henry David Thoreau to cleanse our minds a bit as we comtemplate the alternator…”
Aggravated, he went right to the Economy FTS aisle where they all had South LA accents and sported a vast variety of AK47s, 9mm automatics and crack pipes. “Hey, Essay!! What up Yo-Yo? Busta ‘a couple ‘a caps in it and if that don’t make it right, cap the owner’s freakin’ ass!!! Can’t give ya no bad survey ifn they’s done dead, eh, Homey? Word.”
Vibrating with frustration he finally sashayed over to the “Unclassified/WTF/None of the Above” FTS aisle. There standing alone and forlorn was a single, rather petite man. Looking a bit like an overaged Underwear Model with a cheap pornstar mustache was Sauren Muncey, former technician. When Beakman pushed his button mutiple times, there was no a response. Upon giving up and starting to turn away, Beakman was surprised to hear a very small voice say “Leave a message, I’ll get back to you someday before you die…” Upon hitting the button 27 more times he finally heard “You have submitted your request in an improper format – for that, you must die!!”
Eyes widening, a large vicious smile playing across his granite features, he turned to the nearest clerk and said “I’ll take this one!!! Wrap him up for immediate delivery to the dungeon, -er, I mean, training room at the World Domination MotorCar Corporation Headquarters…
Later on the same day I heard a sound as if it were the screams of a thousand Service Managers and Warranty Administrators as they were informed of the coming holocaust. Still following Beakman in my astral form, I found him in the World Domination MotorCar Corporation Headquarters dungeon as he waved his arms and muttered incantations over his prostate* subject…
“There are Nine Dealers in the valley and One FTS to screw them all…” gleefully raged a rapturous William Von Beakman as let loose upon the earth the Anti-Wright, our new FTS. He seems to have a standard 5 answers to all requests:
#1 The technician is an idiot!!
#2 No!
#3 Have the customer pay for parts and you can pay the labor.
#4 Well I would have authorized it in a timely manner if you had submitted it in the proper format. However, now, well you’re screwed. Have a nice day, asshole!
#5 If you continue to struggle I will inform Beakman of our…impasse.
Hey Lauren, it would have been soooo much easier to listen to Cecily and just come out and introduce yourself. Trust me. It only gets worse….
*And yes I _DO_ know the difference between PROSTATE and PROSTRATE….assholes