After desperately trying to sell my sporty little car for two months, I was frustrated beyond belief. I had almost decided that the vehicle that had served me so well during the past ten years was cursed.
Early on during the first test drive, a loud mystery rattle developed that defied detection. I touched every part in the engine compartment that could possibly move even a millimeter, which included some areas still hot from the test drive. I have the scars to prove it.
The potential buyer, a young man who looked like the real-life version of Waldo, wanted nothing to do with my reassurances that the exceedingly annoying noise was new and couldn’t possibly be anything serious. He quietly left while I was still cursing with my head shoved under the hood and my butt sticking out.
I haven’t heard the noise since.
On every test drive after that first one, something seemed to go wrong, sometimes dangerously. There was the blowout on the freeway that cost me $300 in repairs and nearly caused a frumpy middle-aged fellow to bill me for a new pair of shorts. Then a one-time leak of some unidentifiable fluid scared away a perfectly nice elderly gentleman. The strange smell from a phantom source that started minutes before the overprotective daddy with a college-aged son test drove it was the last straw.
I took the buggy off the market and canceled every ad, resigned to driving the clunker for the foreseeable future.
I never had another problem with it after that.
We’ve all heard stories that begin with the words, “A blonde walks into a bar…” Well, that’s how this one ends. I was out one night after work having cocktails with girlfriends when a perfectly gorgeous bombshell with platinum hair and assets in all the right places walked in and whispered something in the bartender’s ear. She was the kind of girl who makes other girls sniff and turn up their noses and then kick their drooling boyfriends under the table.
When he pointed her in my direction, I wondered why he would want to do such a horrible thing to me. I didn’t want to be on the same planet as this girl, let alone standing right next to her.
She was very nice, of course, and told me she’d seen my car in the parking lot and had been looking for one exactly like it for a really long time. She asked if I would ever consider selling it and if she could test drive it. I quickly said yes but harbored deep reservations.
The car behaved perfectly.
I know many men who think of cars as being female, but I think that one definitely was not.
About the Author:-
This is a guest post from Are You Selling, a website dedicated to helping people sell their cars without too many worries.
So how did you find today’s guest post? I decided to wait and peek in at the end because this story was far too interesting to destroy with overdone introductions (you get my point…).
Anyway, if you liked the author’s style you may want to hop over and try another post they contributed on the blog:-