Rant - Auto Mechanics

What do auto mechanics and politicians have in common? Grease.

It astounds me how one can take an automobile in for a routine “free” tire rotation and leave $600 lighter having purchased a plethora of “emergency” services that are required to keep one’s car from spontaneous combustion. Is there anyone more crooked than an auto mechanic? I say nay. It all boils down to the fact that any professional, unless honest, can drill you in the rear-end quicker and stealthier than an army ranger in an oil slick.

My father once explained to me that people are compensated based on how unique their skills are. For instance, anyone can dig a ditch. Some might do it more quickly than others, but a ditch can be dug by any scrub. You could give me two chopsticks, an intravenous drip of Mt. Dew, and Phish’s epic 1997 tours on CD and I could dig a ditch to Uzbekistan given enough time. Therefore, ditch diggers are paid on the low-end of the salary spectrum.

Inversely, there is only one human on the face of the planet that can speak to an auditorium full of astrophysicists regarding the future of faster-than-light travel and still manage to leave them drooling in incomprehension. There is only one Stephen Hawking. As such, Mr. Hawking makes more money than a ditch digger. Surgeons make more money than doctors, attorneys make more money than paralegals, and Roy makes more money than Sigfried. Dude survived a freaking tiger maul. THAT, sir, is unique.

There is, however, an unfortunate byproduct to this phenomenon, kind of like what happens to “Splenda” after it digests. Stephen Hawking could at any time tell us that in 36 hours an enormous undetectable Red Dwarf will collide with a supernova, travel through a wormhole, and push a fleet of ill-tempered aliens off course toward our lush earthen oasis, resulting in invasion and complete destruction of our planet. No one could second guess the only human in existence that could know such a thing, therefore we would all panic and lock ourselves in churches, synagogues, and mosques.

A neuro-surgeon could accidentally nick my occipital lobe with his scalpel causing me to forever believe I am Joan of Arc and blame it on a degenerative heretofore unnamed disease that was unpreventable. My family would have no choice but to nod their heads and take me home to my divine mission of reclaiming my homeland from the English.

While a tad more detailed, these examples are not unlike the nonsense an auto mechanic is capable of conjuring. Since I can barely locate my gas cap, I am forced to believe what they say and fork up the cash. They shall burn in hell. Along with the tiger that mauled poor Roy.