Timmy Burns

This past weekend, my cousin and I went to Bertera Chevrolet in Palmer, MA because they had said they had a 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee for around $10,000, and my cousin wanted to check it out.

Now, my cousin doesn't have a bunch of car buying experience, and since I'm on my 5th car in 6 years I kept her company. Bob, one of the sales managers at Bertera, had told my cousin that he had a customer that was looking to buy the type of car that she would be trading in.

We arrived at the dealership to speak with Bob, and he fed us a well polished line of bullshit:
'A family that has purchased a lot of trucks from us is looking for a Subaru for their girl who's going off to college,' (or something very, very close) 'And we're getting 65 trucks on this lot next week so Chevy has authorized some cash allowances for us, I think we can make a deal today.'

Great, Bob. Let's look at this 2002 Jeep.

So another small, greasy, sales guy comes over (I don't remember his name, he gets off the hook) and we walk to my cousins car to get the registration and the keys. The mechanic is going to take the car for a quick ride so he can appraise it.

We walk over to the Jeep, which turned out to be a 2005 for $27,000. They didn't have the 2002 anymore, it was sold. A classic bait and switch.

After reviewing some numbers with SmallGreaseChodeMonkey (a technical term for the nameless salesman) my cousin and I quickly realized that there is nothing on the lot that would satisfy the criteria we had set for the purchase.

But the vultures at Bertera did not quench their bloodthirst just yet.

With the keys still held in captivity, a taller, fatter, greasier sales manager came out of the side room. He tried to find another option for my cousin. She repeatedly told him that she was specifically looking for the Jeep Grand Cherokee, and wouldn't consider anything else.

TallFatGreaseDouche left, and SmallGreaseChodeMonkey came back. SmallGreaseChodeMonkey asked us to come take a look at another vehicle he thought we might like, even though we had told them there was nothing else on the lot. We walked outside, I joked, 'They're going to show you a Buick Regal..' and what we saw was much, much worse.

A 2004 Chevrolet Tracker. A sardine can with wheels. A shoebox with a motor. This wasn't even in the same ballpark, and if I can steal from Samuel L. Jackson, 'Not even the same fucking sport!'

I laughed out loud, we went back inside and TallFatGreaseDouche came back. He tried to make a joke about how he picked the 'wrong one' but no one was laughing. He then made the suggestion that my cousin look at a minivan. Our jaws dropped at his desperation for a sale.

My cousin told them that we were just going to leave. TallFatGreaseDouche said, 'Well. I'm NOT holding you hostage!' with a bit of contempt, perhaps because he hasn't seen his penis in years. My cousin quickly snapped back, 'YOU'RE HOLDING MY KEYS HOSTAGE.'

'I didn't know we had your keys.'

My cousin pointed at SmallGreaseChodeMonkey, 'HE TOOK THEM.'

SmallGreaseChodeMonkey got the keys, and we were out. No business card, the sales guy didn't even try to save the sale.

It was pathetic. A bait and switch turned horribly wrong.

The moral? Never go to Bertera Chevy in Palmer, MA.

-The BizzNizzle