April 3, 2002

  • Weasels.


    The car thing has finally been sorted out. I would love to say it was merely a misunderstanding and that there was every intention to pay - but I think not.


    The backstory:


    The car, an 18-year-old Saab died on a long 5 hour each way business trip, stranding my hub 3 hours out of town. Towing costs to our place would have run $600 bucks. Since it was the transmission, and a Saab, and this is Australia (land of tariffs and taxes) - it would have cost about another $2500 to fix. All this for a car that was only worth about $3000 to begin with. The motor club man towed the hulking carcass to a friendly local small town garage. The nice man at the garage liked the look of it, and told hub not to worry, he'd take care of it until Marc got home and figured out a way to get it home cheaply.


    Day 1: Man calls from friendly garage. Lo and behold! His boss wants to buy the car, and will give us $1000 for it. We do happy dance of joy - no towing fees, no hassles, no advertising. I am however, deprived of taking a sledgehammer to it on the front lawn.


    Day 3: No money. No cheque. Hub makes phone call to friendly garage. No one is available, but the cheque is in the mail. Lots of verbal backslapping and blokey stuff.


    Day 5 - Day 12: same. Only imagine ever increasingly loud conversations and stamping around the Magnet household as it becomes apparent the friendly bumpkins think we are slickers ripe for the slicking. The mortgage looms. The first new car payment is imminent.


    Day 14: BumpkinBoy calls home after heated discussion with Hub about said BumpkinBoy's boss. Rumour has it that Hub used words such as 'fucker', 'weasel' and 'baseball bat' and 'knees'. We stopped just short of using the phrase 'burn the fucker down'. After slamming the phone down on Hub, BumpkinBoy obviously relents and phones back. BumpkinBoy talks to wife who is nice and explains that if we were indeed the rich fools BumpkinBoy's boss thinks we are - we wouldn't be driving a 20-year-old car would we? Wife mentions 'cracker barrel dresses', 'siphoning water from the neighbours hose', 'giving our child a stick as a birthday present'… yadda yadda. BumpkinBoy agrees, counters with some ridiculous shit about funerals, bank robberies, assault charges - all of which have had a heavy toll on ToeCheeseBoss. Wife laughs politely and tells him that life is tough and then hangs up and opens a nice bottle of Black Opal Chardonnay.


    Day 16: Hub talks to ToeCheeseBoss's wife who slams the phone down on him. Calling her hub a 'slime ball' may have had something to do with it.


    Day 16.375: Hub talks to Bosses wife and calls her a nasty cow. And mentions that he's called the police before the phone is slammed down again.


    Day 17: BumpkinBoy calls on behalf of ToeCheeseBoss. Eureka. ToeCheeseBoss assures him he is sighing the cheque today and that it will be in the mail.


    Day 19: No cheque. ToeCheeseBoss will definitely do it today. Hub mentions that he has ToeCheeseBoss's home telephone number. And street address. Everything is oh so jovial after that.


    Day 21: Hub calls ToeCheeseBoss. ToeCheeseBoss is away. ToeCheeseBoss doesn't return phone calls, even tho nasty cow wife helpfully mentions that 'he has yer number, ya knows'.


    Day 22: Speaks to ToeCheeseBoss who says he's signed the cheque and his wife will deposit that afternoon. Obviously a mistake. We were obviously hearing in tongues.


    Day 23: No money.


    Day 24-26: No money. Hub calls ToeCheeseBoss who has some long story about the inefficiency of credit unions. Hub, having had horrible experiences with Aussie credit unions, readily concurs. Aussie banking ineptitude is legendary. Hub agrees to wait. It was after all Easter. God and Jesus and all that stuff.


    Day 28: No money. ToeCheeseBoss unavailable on phone. Hub apoplectic with rage and talking about gasoline cans, baseball bats and men with a lot of tattoos. Wife not even attempting to be morally righteous since she suggested men with tatts and has emptied out some milk cartons for the gasoline. Men with tatts lined up and waiting, slapping their palms with barely contained glee - all for a crate of beer.


    Day 29: No money. Hub phones pretending to be a lawyer and acting on behalf of Hub. Speaks to ToeCheeseBoss. Mr. Hub-As-Lawyer-man requests a faxed copy of the bank receipt to avoid further action.


    Day 29.875: Money in account. Dated today.


    I don't know what the moral of this story is - but my point is that if you are a country bumpkin trying to rip us off - try harder next time, cos the snare you set is the one that will catch you by the jubblies.


    Yah boo sucks Plowboys. Don't let the cows cornhole you on your way out of our lives.

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