I remember the day you first brought your new Jag to my garage like the rest of the world will remember Sept. 11. You are a curse. You are my suicide bomber. Nothing has ever been right with your $120,000 car—the radio seems less clear than a friend's, the paint less shiny, the tires less round, the ride too rough, the steering wheel too small, the seats too hard, the engine too loud, the windows not quite clear, the pedals too rough on the soles of your Pradas. And while my guys work in vain to find a solution to problems that exist only inside your fucking head, you yell at us—or yell at your underlings over your cell phone. You're “very important,” you tell me. Your car is “very important.” Your business? “Very important.” And that's when you're whining about the little shit. You nearly blew a fucking artery when a real problem turned up and your Jag wouldn't start. “I'm too important for this kind of shit,” you yelled at me. It took me about two minutes to figure out the problem: you're so important that you couldn't afford the time to see you were pumping your very important car with diesel fuel. On the one hand, it killed me to see a fine machine treated that way—like seeing a fine horse whipped by an especially cruel hand. On the other hand, it happened to you, and it's going to cost you about 10 grand.
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