Scratching Their Balls @ Shafther Honda
Lorinda gives Mr. Dipstick and his pit crew a one-star review
with Lorinda Birdwhistle
NOTE: The dealership name has been changed to avoid a defamation suit and to protect the innocent ladies who still have to take their CR-Vs to this dealer for extended warranty services.
It’s been a really long time since I bought a new car. I’ve proudly driven my Honda CR-V for 27 years, and it just hit 205,000 on the odometer last week. Nothing’s really wrong with the car, but I got to thinking this might be a good time to get a hybrid, especially one that doesn't require plugging in, what with the conflict in Iran likely to go on for decades and Shitler halting all funding for the charging station infrastructure. Honda has some highly rated hybrids right now, so I thought to trade in my beloved Brianna, before she dipped below $1350 in value per Edmunds. I was gonna need $1200 to put down on the lease, and if Shafther was willing to take my trade-in, as is, I was pretty sure I could swing the deal. It was going to be a bit of a stretch, but I’m a good negotiator. Plus, I’ve had the same job for over 25 years, and I’ve got a solid credit rating. What could go wrong?
By the way, how many of you early CR-V owners only discovered its way-cool picnic table after you got a flat? This sturdy folding plastic table (a standard feature from 1997 to 2006) served double duty as the floor for the spare tire well.
Gotta love this Jane Goodall takeoff 👇🏼 — an early CR-V commercial plugging its picnic table and usefulness in a rustic setting in which a Goodall impersonator is discreetly observing men (aka chimpanzees) in the wild, and copiously taking notes on their behavior. But I digress.
So, off I went, down the hill, into town, to take a gander at what was on the lot at Shafther Honda, the one and only dealer I’d ever gone to. Yes, I am stupid loyal to these guys. And I do mean “guys” — as there is not a single woman in sight at that dealership. Until this car purchase, I had no idea how other dealerships operated in terms of men and women on the sales floor (or in the service department, for that matter), as I’d never gone to any other dealer. I was, in fact, under the false impression that there must be a loophole for car dealers as relates to the hiring of women, since Shafther didn’t appear to be in compliance in any way, shape, or form with Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which (purportedly) protects women from hiring discrimination. Shafther was proudly an all-male, all-White sales team, with an all-male, all-Hispanic service team. The fuckers.
Really? No women ever applied for jobs there or were qualified to do the work? Unlikely. I know for a fact that my best bud, Nadine, had applied for jobs there more than once (like four times), and on each occasion, she NEVER heard back from them. Not a peep.
And Nadine’s the biggest Honda gearhead in town.
California, the state from which I proudly hail, has additional laws intended to bolster and enforce the Civil Rights Act. My state requires informative posters related to discrimination and harassment to be posted in a prominent location at all places of employment.
And sure enough, there it was, that very poster, at Shafther, behind their unattended reception desk, right in plain view. Surely staff had time to study this information ad nauseam, namely on any given midafternoon on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday — you know, those long stretches when there are ZERO customers, and the boys are just pacing the showroom floor trying to appear as though they are actually doing a thing.
I’m guessing the attractive young woman who once worked at this reception desk had grown weary of the daily barrage of “compliments” on her hair, clothing, and figure, as the desk now appeared to be permanently vacated. There were none of the telltale signs of occupancy: no organizer tray, Post-It Notes, business cards, pens, notepads, or paper clips. Not even a computer or phone charger. Clearly, Tiffany was history with a capital H. My guess? She wouldn’t be getting replaced anytime soon, unless they could find someone like Candy Wife from The Marvelous Midadventures of Flapjack. Now that would be sweet.
The guys at this dealership: fucking clueless, just like K’nuckles.
Despite this poster’s message, which reminds all idiots out there that the Civil Rights Act and Title VII remain in effect, Shafther Honda seemed confident that their noncompliance would go unpunished. And that did seem to be the case. I didn’t see even one complainer amongst the hundreds of Shafther Google and Yelp reviews. In fact, all the commentary about their dealership was suspiciously flattering and generic in tone. Also, the reviews had no typos or grammatical errors. I don’t think we need to pull in Columbo to connect these dots. Shafther had five-star ratings simply because they (or Honda) were using a review farm or a reputation management company. 💯 Pathetic. This was like reputational Viagra. The reality: these local Honda guys can’t get anything up without some pharmaceutical help.
But of course this was the case, the fake reviews, that is. Minus my compadre, Nadine, and me, our community was comprised of chickenshits — people who could never, in their lifetimes, muster the courage to write a scathing review or alert the California Civil Rights Department about Shafther’s suspiciously all-male staff and management. Uh-uh. Hell, they might meet one of those sales guys in the bleachers at Little League. Then what? I can see it now… their sons ending up with the 9th spot in the batting lineup for the rest of the season.
Small town politics. You know how this works.
Me, however? I’ve got what my doctor calls high immunocompetence. In layman's terms, I’ve got “the robust ability to produce an effective immune response against antigens, infections, and diseases.” These same personality and physiological traits allow me to respond courageously and forcefully against narcissists, misogynists, bigots, racists, and bullies. Yep, I’ve got cojones and a powerful uppercut. Methaphorically, that is.
And for that, everyone in town gives me a wide berth, as well as respect. 😂🤣😂
Y’all need to get familiar with this: the law.
Here’s a little factoid for those of you unfamiliar with CR-Vs: “CR-V” stands for Comfortable Runabout Vehicle. Not kidding. This is what Honda actually named their compact SUV. I like to imagine what their all-male marketing team might have named this car had they realized which demographic would actually be driving it, i.e., the not-guys demographic. I’m thinking Kohaku, Haruto, and Takeshi (the leaders of the Honda marketing team) might have called the CR-V the ML-V.
I’ll leave it to all you closeted Gen X misogynists to figure out what ML-V stands for. And you can shut the fuck up in advance, Tom (since I know you will hit this nail on the head), or I will renege on my offer to share a room with you at the Golden Haven Nursing Home when we come of age. Separate beds, of course. Keep your piehole shut. Let’s see what my readers conjure up before you spill the beans.
So folks, what do you think ML-V stands for?
OK, back to my car trading/buying experience, the actual point of this blog.
So, there I was at Shafther, armed with ratings from Consumer Reports, Car and Driver, Edmunds, and Kelley Blue Book. I had at my fingertips every detail known to (wo)man about safety, predicted reliability, cabin ergonomics, cargo space, usability for daily driving, fuel economy, horsepower and torque, drivetrain for handling, and road test results, as well as specifics about owner satisfaction. And I’d gotten pricing from four other dealerships in the area and was pre-qualified for a loan through my credit union in the event Honda Financing did not come through for me.
Here’s the stealthy part: last Friday, I took my CR-V in for an oil change and one of Honda’s complimentary multi-point inspections. Ha, ha! Yes, I am doubled over, laughing my ass off. Why? Because for the asses at Shafther, this inspection would come back to bite them in the ass when they gave me a lowball offer on my trade-in. All I had to do was show them their own beautifully printed out inspection sheet with every checkmark in the green column. And because they acted like asses, I was going to make them take up the ass if they made any more asinine moves on this trade-in or on my to-be purchase.
Those who know me know this: I am nothing if not methodical. For 27 years, I was religious about taking my 1999 CR-V to the dealer for all of its routine maintenance, per Honda’s recommendations in the owner’s manual. And this paid off. My car ran beautifully over the years and always got me where I needed to go. More importantly, even with 200,000+ miles, I always had perfect scores across the board on my multi-point inspections, including on tires and brake pads .
Imagine sales floor manager Walter’s surprise when I pulled out that 4-day-old inspection sheet from his service department after he expressed skepticism about my car’s value and condition and made me a lowball offer on the trade-in: $350. Insulting.
After that, no haggling was needed. Those fuckers were either going to pay me $1350 on this trade-in, or I was walking out the door. This they knew.
Hurdle #1: Cleared. Or so I thought.
Hurdle #2: Getting a quote and an offer on financing, in writing.
I knew exactly what I wanted from Shafther, and though I was hoping to close the deal that day, I was willing to wait a week or two if they had to special-order my dream car: a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. I wanted that car, not one of the 35 CR-Vs they had sitting on the lot or the 30+ gas-powered Civic Sedans. And I wanted the hybrid in any color other than Platinum White Pearl, which looks like Revlon nail polish from the 70s. All I needed from Josh, my designated sales associate, was pricing on the car and information on the financing available to me, specifically a 36-month lease with $1200 down and all closing fees wrapped into the monthly payments. And no, I did not want GAP insurance tacked on as I could get it through my insurance company at a sixth of the price offered by Honda. I had that in writing.
And I was not interested one iota in ballpark figures or estimates. I wanted to know exactly what Shafther was willing to offer me — an offer based on my credit score and that paid homage to my nearly 30 years of loyalty to the dealership. My family (my ex, my parents, and my kids) had purchased all of their cars from the Shafther dealership: 2 CR-Vs, 3 Civics, an Accord, and an Element. That’s quite a few vehicles, if you ask me, and I was the negotiator on every one of those sales. Shafther was lucky to have our business.
Please, Josh, no thank you on any of the bullshit add-on packages. Let everyone know that I absolutely do not want to hear the spiel. I have it committed to memory.
And pass this on to your finance manager: I will not entertain any high pressure tactics IF he wants to close this deal. No, I do not need undercoating. We live in fucking California.
To be clear: no add-ons.
Josh then said, “Great, let me pass this by my boss, Walter, and see if we can’t get the ball rolling.” Off he trotted across the showroom floor toward an office in the corner farthest from customer service, the office with the blinds closed, the door shut and a sign that read, “Knock before entering.” Hesitantly, Josh did knock, though quietly, then put his ear to the door as if listening for a response. A muffled voice could be heard, inviting him in.
Judging from his demeanor, you’d think Josh had just entered a SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility) at the Department of Defense, not the office of some delulu who was only making $42,000 a year at a podunk car dealership. With no benefits, btw.
Ten minutes passed before Josh reappeared, a downtrodden look on his face as he meandered back to his desk to deliver the bad news. Unfortunately, he could not provide me with a quote until they ran a credit check and he had completed the financial application, which could take 45 minutes or more. Did I have time for that? Well of course I did, I said cheerfully. I’d like to button this up TODAY, I said for the fourth time.
The prospect of a simple, straightforward sale did nothing to lift Josh’s spirits. Perhaps filling out financial applications was not the best part of this car sales gig, especially for a 21 year old who was still working on his GED and trying to lose his virginity.
Josh wondered if I had my registration, proof of insurance, both sets of keys for my trade-in, my photo ID, proof of residence in the way of 2 utility bills, proof of employment in the way of three paycheck stubs, a social security card and my birth certificate. And hopefully I’d brought my checkbook, he added, as they didn’t allow a credit card for deposits. Josh’s tone of voice gave one the impression he was hoping this request for documentation so early in the sales process might catch me off guard, perhaps queering the deal or at a minimum giving him cause to put off the quote. I had the feeling this math stuff was not Josh’s forté. It felt like he was looking for an out.
Sadly (for Josh), I had everything he requested, and then some, and all of it was neatly tucked into a folder, with duplicate copies for his sales manager and the finance guy. How convenient, right? You’re welcome, Josh. I would, however, be holding on to my car keys until they put the offer for my CR-V in writing. I knew how this worked. They would take the keys for my CR-V and then “misplace” them while they held me hostage until I signed a contract. This had happened to my friend, Leann.
I slid only the documents folder across the desk.
Next, came the hardest part for Josh: the laborious task of typing all that information into the confusing financial form used by the dealership. This guy didn’t have a post-doc in astrophysics, that was clear. Reluctantly Josh began banging on his cheap keyboard, punctuating every entry with some soft profanity and subtle teeth grinding. I began to wonder if perhaps he had a mild form of Tourettes. Then, abruptly, in his frustration with the data entry, Josh turned to me and blurted out, “There are many questions I’m required to ask; are you OK with that?” “Yes,” I replied.
This is where things started to go south.
Most of the questions Josh was required to ask seemed highly inappropriate for someone just looking for a quote on a car. Yet, for the first few minutes, I gave Josh, who was but a fledgling, the benefit of the doubt. I went along with the program, imagining how this might play out for my own son, who was about the same age. Josh wanted details confirmed on my gender, race, age and the number of children I’d had. Was I married or single or in a domestic partnership? Was this with a man or woman? Was I collecting alimony, did I own a home, or perhaps more than one home, how many cars did I own and what were the makes and models? Then Josh cheerfully inquired as to whether I’d like to share information on my religious persuasion or medical history. All of this would be helpful in finding the best deals for my situation, he assured me. Was there a special discount for Episcopalians? Or a higher rate for someone who had a full hip replacement? WTF.
This is where I stopped the interview dead in its tracks. I knew my rights and none of these questions had a flying fuck to do with my fitness for a loan or lease. Fuck him. Fuck this whole sales process. I wanted to speak to the general manager and NOW.
The blood rushed to Josh’s plump face. He was a bit of a dumpling and looked as if he might explode. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner, he told me. Of course Josh had only been on the job for a week, so “ever” was all of five days. Just wait buddy, your career in customer service is just beginning. Or ending, as the case may be.
Off Josh trotted in his expensive OluKai leather sneakers, back to that mysterious corner office. On this second go-around, Josh was in his boss’ office for all of 30 seconds before reappearing, this time with the ever elusive Walter What’s-His-Name, sales floor manager, by his side. Walter looked rather displeased at having to pause his first-person shooter game, Counter-Strike 2. Imagine that — him having to start his game all over, just when he’d been racking up the points. This might have ticked me off, too, had I been a player of these sorts of games. But then, I hate all games. From checkers to the games people with Borderline Personality Disorder play. No thanks. I’d rather pull weeds
It was at this point that Walter took over the sales process. He was not going to let some middle-aged lady with polyester cargo pants run ripshod over his new employee. They’d just spent $2500 plus airfare sending Josh off to Decatur for training and had given him a $1500 allowance for spiffy work togs. And thus the showroom showdown began.
Walter, feeling cocky, assumed the position in Josh’s chair, put his computer to sleep, unceremoniously shoved my manila folder of documents to the side, then spoke directly and deliberately to me, in a tone not unlike Pam Bondi at her Senate confirmation hearing. And it had the same effect: I felt the hair bristling on the back of my neck.
“Tell me, Lorinda, what exactly are you looking for in the way of a car?” Walter’s tone of voice could not have been more grating and insincere. Rather than using my voice, I shoved my printout with the car specs across the desk until it rested right under his nose. Joshua stood sulking behind him.
I wanted a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. This would be the fifth time that day that I’d conveyed this information to the Shafther sales staff.
“Oh,” said Walter, “Not sure if this is still in stock. Let’s do this, I will see what we have available and make a list and will run the numbers for your financing. I should be back to you before the afternoon is out. You don’t need to wait around; I’ll give you a call.”
“Alright,” I said, “But I don’t want anything in Platinum White Pearl. I really hate that color.”
“Of course,” he said. “Noted,” he said.
So off I went, though when I glanced over my shoulder as I exited, I saw Walter laughing and giving Josh the congenial shoulder slap as the other sales staff gathered round, big grins on all of their faces. The good-ol’-boys network was alive and well at Shafther. Clearly, everyone was having a good laugh at my expense — this hardy har har that would cost them my business forever when all was said and done.
Still, I was doggedly determined to give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I’d been a loyal customer of this dealership for decades and I genuinely wanted to see what they could come up with in the way of pricing and financing. I was intent on keeping an open mind.
And so I waited. Patiently. Then, PING! An alert from my credit union indicated that someone had run a credit check. A good sign, I thought, until for hours, the alert was followed by crickets. There was no news from Walter by the end of the afternoon, as he had promised. Perhaps he was caught up in a video game. I could appreciate that. Not.
The next morning: more crickets. Then, I checked my email during my lunch break, including the spam folder: no quote. In fact, there was not even a note assuring me they were just running behind.
By mid-afternoon, I was steamed. I called the dealership and informed their customer experience ambassador, Kayla (whose actual office was in Overland Park, Kansas), that I would be making a decision on a car by the day’s end, with or without Shafther’s quote. Within seconds, she pulled up my file, saw how many Hondas the Birdwhistles purchased at Shafther, made a contrite apology, and then immediately transferred me to the general manager at the dealership.
Arthur could not have been more self-abasing. This was his fault; he should have made himself available to me at the start of the sales process, especially considering my importance to the dealership, blah, blah, blah. And though Arthur was unable to pull up any information on progress related to my current sale, he assured me he’d get me the deal of the century — I just needed to tell him what I was looking for. He promised to have a quote and financing for me within the hour. And so, for the sixth time, I described all the specs on the car I wanted and on my trade-in and gave him a thumbnail of my financials. Really, all he needed to pull my credit report (again!) was my social security, which I gave him gladly, though not gonna lie — all of this was making me really pissed off.
But Arthur… he was true to his word. Within the hour, he got me a quote AND all the paperwork needed to button up the financials.
Sadly, Art’s quote was for a gas-powered CR-V LX without AWD in Platinum White Pearl (!), with standard financing for 60 months at 6%, and a down payment of $5000. And the offer on my trade-in: $500. Not a single detail was correct. Not a one.
Rather than heading over to Shafther to knock them upside the head, I got into my wonderful 1999 Comfortable Runabout Vehicle and headed over to my local Subaru dealer. In my recent quest to find the perfect new car, it had not gone unnoticed that Subaru had the highest Consumer Reports ratings of any brand on all its vehicles. Even better ratings than all those luxury cars. Maybe it was time to try something new.
And new to me it was — the entire experience. From the moment I walked into a dealership filled with women, made my way through their basic-as-it-gets application process, got a tour of the cars available on the lot, and was allowed a test drive, I was sold. I had not been talked down to, nor were there any of the usual parlor tricks, and I didn’t have to waste an entire afternoon twiddling my thumbs while the finance peeps put together paperwork not-so-cleverly filled with add-ons I’d not requested.
And here’s the best part: the Subaru Crosstrek Sport Hybrid in Sapphire Blue Pearl with AWD and every bell and whistle was 100x better than any of the Civic Hatchback Hybrids. Who knew?! And the car I wanted was right there, on the lot, fully detailed, with Yokohama Geolandar tires and a full tank of premium gas. Gina, my salesperson, offered me a fabulous price and a fabulous lease to boot, with exactly the terms I had requested.
The whole deal was buttoned up in a little over an hour by my new dealer’s female finance manager, Sharon, who additionally offered me $2000 on my trade-in. With tears in my eyes, I handed over both sets of keys for my beloved CR-V. She assured me it would find a good home.
Then off I drove in my spunky new set of wheels, blasting Little Red Corvette on my new Harman Kardon premium audio system with 10 speakers.
I had found a love that was gonna last… 🎶 🎶 🎶