Stop the Spiel

  

You say your car is leaking a reddish brown liquid that may or may not have the same consistency as barbecue sauce? The same taste, too, huh? Smell? That ain’t motor oil, my friend. I don’t know how it got there. But don’t take it in to the dealership. You’re not crazy, are you? They can’t help you there. They’ll give you the rote ordinary spiel for dealing with unforeseen vehicular issues, pinning the blame on you, the owner. It's a classic method of giving themselves spiritual absolution and you liability. You should’ve known better than to let a man named Uncle T-Bone, wearing brisket-covered overalls and a cowboy hat climb under the hood. That’s what they’ll say. How it’s your fault. Never let strangers touch your engine, son. That sort of thing. In between ripping you off, do you think they’re going to have fresh brioche laying around, just to sop up the mess? 

No dealership I've waited at as ever been that prepared. 

 

What you need is a sauce guy. Someone who knows the source of the problem and understands how to monetize it. A person with clear bottles and a clearer conscience. You weren’t planning on going into business, but now that your galoshes are sweet and tangy, what’s the harm? There will be doubters. People who claim they’ll never use a condiment that was this close to an engine block. Yet many of these yammering scolds will eat dirt-covered potatoes recently exhumed from a nearby vacant lot. A place rife with ferality of all kinds. That's okay, but a little sauce on the cylinders is a problem. Don't ask for consistency, because you won't get it.

 

You don’t need an explanation. You don’t need a five-paragraph persuasive essay about how Enzo Ferrari had a similar problem with Bolognese meat sauce when he was a young man cutting corners in Modena. You need a substantial cash injection. If only cash was flowing from your chassis instead of flavor.

 

People always want to tell you why, believing somehow that it helps. When that’s the last thing any sane person wants. Don’t explain to me how years of illegal barbecue distribution wound up in the autobody shops of known bootleggers on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. How mayonnaise spoils in the heat, ketchup looks too much like blood, and extra virgin motor oil is an idea whose time has not yet arrived. You want to know how much it’s worth, how much it costs and how long the whole thing will take. Spare me the details, okay? It's nearly dinnertime.