No, it’s not about Trump.
I’ve been trying for several months to buy a Chevy Truck, for a variety of functional and recreational purposes.
It turns out you can’t do that. Yes, I was surprised too.
To be fair, I do see people buying Chevy trucks all the time, but I call them victims, not customers. That’s different than what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to identify the truck I want, then buy it, without being a victim. I’m aiming for more of a “customer” situation.
You think that’s easy?
Try looking at the thousands of options for each truck. Then notice how little you know about each option. The infinite options guarantee that you will feel bad about whatever you pick. Science says people get anxious when they have too many choices. Chevy gives you infinite choices for features, and most of those choices matter, because trucks are tools. So there’s no real way to be happy about buying a truck because you’ll always think you could have done better picking options. And you would be right. No one can pick the right feature set out of a million options. So buyer’s remorse is guaranteed at step one, before you even start.
Well, I can think of one option that would almost certainly eliminate the buyer’s-remorse problem: buy a Ford.
Ahem. Yeah, I know; sorry, Bowtie guys. But you CF lifers already know I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, born-and-bred Ford guy, so there.
On a slightly more serious note, though, I do miss the old days, when a ton of good-natured ribbing went on between devotees of the various American marques. Now, who really cares? One anonymous egg-mobile is pretty much like another. Granted, new cars are superior to the old ones I love so much in pretty much every way, at least in terms of technology, ease of use, handling, gas mileage, etc. But I still say they ain’t got no soul, and I do miss all the back and forth about which rules and which drools between Ford, Chevy, and Mopar. Not to even mention all the snickering we all did about the danged rice-burners.
While we’re at it, somebody ought to bring back the Packard, too.
I mean, come ON, people. Tell me that ain’t slicker’n owl shit.