A conversation with some local friends sparked a synapse in my brain to recollect a comment I dropped on another post back in 2013. A complaint raised during this conversation was that a couple different people had extremely poor browsing/sales experiences at Scion dealerships.
Since this story is still buried in the drab grey commentariat on another post, I decided to resurrect it for the entertainment of oppo.
Today, we see how well that ambition worked for Scion. Great success!
Cherrypicked from the post:
“But here in the States, not so much. The entire Scion brand, FR-S included, has been clocking in less-than-stellar sales numbers month over month. My guess is that everyone who wanted an FR-S has bought one.”
And my rebuttal:
This statement I believe, but I don’t think the reason is necessarily what you state. I own a ‘91 miata and an ‘03 Corolla. I was at Atlanta Toyota having an airbag recall (yikes!) fixed on the Corolla, and while I was waiting to pick my car up I wandered out to the showroom to check out the FR-S on the floor, thinking to trade in the Corolla. First I walked around the car several times to admire the design styling, since it didn’t resonate with the hipster box-on-wheels or cutesy Yaris clone designs already vomited up at the purchasing public.
Having run a half-marathon around the display car without so much as a second glance from any of the exceedinly busy sales staff, I thought to have a look at the interior and maybe sit inside it. Ordinarily, this would probably be a reasonable avenue of thought at any car dealer’s showroom. But not here. After a light pull on the door handle didn’t open the door, I made the attempt again with all the cyclopean strength my 158lb frame could muster, yanking the handle with enough force to dislodge Excalibur from Sarah Palin’s puckered rectum.
The door didn’t open. The alarm, however, went off with a colossal racket, causing the entire population of the showroom to turn and look in my direction. Across the room, someone raised their hand, brandishing a remote entry fob.
Blip! Clunk. The alarm was disarmed and the doors unlocked. As I reached for the handle again, excited to plop my skinny ass into the driver’s seat, the doors clunked again and a taunting “Blip!” emanated from the car again. A tentative pull on the handle revealed the FR-S had once again been locked and armed. I leveled my murderous gaze at the bearer of the key fob, who continued to ignore me with unrivaled prejudice.
My stomach gurgled angrily. At least, I like to think that it felt the same fury I did, and rose to the occasion in a glorious act of rebellion.
I had to fart.
Incensed at the treatment I had thus far received, and feeling unusually immature about the whole situation, I casually sauntered to the rear quarter panel of the car, carefully placed my buttocks against it, and let loose the winds of righteous indignation against that unsuspecting FR-S. The flatulence reverberated with startling clarity against the sheet metal, echoing around the showroom which was still mostly silenced by the earlier cries of the alarm.
Once again, everyone stopped and turned to look at me. I raised my chin defiantly, patted the stale fumes out of the ass of my designer jeans, and strode back into the service waiting area, victorious, but lacking an FR-S.
(Heh, heh. Rebuttal.)
Ballasted is an author on Oppo because Doug DeMuro told him to, maintains a healthy if somewhat obsessive automotive passion, is owned by a single black cat, has never driven a Volkswagen Touareg, and probably never will. (Oh, and he’s fond of parentheticals.)