Mechanic

Car Trouble?  You got a good Mechanic?

It's EEKshow Time

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:14

It's the eagle show.

SPEAKER_01 0:29

It's the eag show. Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.

SPEAKER_00 0:44

I'm gonna try that one on one of the episodes. Oh, I just did it! Fuck out of my face! Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello. I had one lesson! None! I put all of this together, fucking solo, podcast style, spitting and fucking tripping, kid! Eekshow.show! Info at eekshow.show! You fucking know! Your name ain't Bo. You gotta grow your grass! Put some fucking fertilizer down, bitch! Shit's fucking got a little fucking rotten smell to it. Dogs love to fucking eat that shit up. Especially my dogs. Who? Love my dogs. Both of them. Both of them. Both of them. Like a gangster kid. Everybody out there in Eek Show Lin, I bid you a good morning and a good afternoon and good night. If I don't see ya. Truman Show. Excellent flick. You got a good mechanic? Do you ever have to go to a mechanic because you're you know what type of car you drive or the situation you're in? Do you have a car dealership that you go to because you got a lease, you own your car, you own multiple cars, you drive a fucking rot box like I did fucking years back. Volkswagen Jetta Wolfsburg edition with a Pat's fucking sticker right on the back. It's like a fucking bullseye on the back of a fucking girl's lower back. On the line, I get it. Tattoos are cool, but the pat sticker was right on the back of the car, and my former boss didn't like it because he thought that didn't express somebody that's successful in sales. Successful in his job. He tried the car with a pat sticker on his fucking car, so he's not breeding success. Well, look at me now, motherfucker! Eek show fucking ripping and dipping, God! Great boss, totally teasing. If you're listening, goddamn, I love that fucking velvet coat you wore to Saratoga when we first went to the track. You were fucking walking around like a pig and shit in that fucking thing. We won that day too, so that's good. Love the horses, love the ponies. Just a great, great event. Typically in the summer, for the six to seven weeks that freaking track is open in upstate New York. Grab a fucking pretzel, couple sides of fucking mustard, and dip that pretzel in it like you got nowhere else to be. Dipping and ripping, dad! Fucking pretzels! Unreal. So do you have a good mechanic? Do you ever go to the mechanic? Have you ever been ripped off by a fucking mechanic? Mechanic, the movie! Good flick! Not sure where he's from. Australia, Europe, fucking Greenland. Guy's from somewhere, not in the US. But he sure is making fucking bank in our country. God bless him. Mechanics can be tricky, man. You know, you go in for a fucking oil change and you find out, you know, your fucking exhaust system, your catalytic converter, catalytic, sorry, I say that word all the time. I mean to my customer, you know. Your catalytic converter, your exhaust pipe, and the uh igniter coils, all of them need replacing. I mean, have you seen the fucking the rust on those igniter coils? Uh actually, mechanic, I haven't because I don't fucking crawl under my car with a fucking flashlight and look up into the fucking engine ever, let alone on a fucking weekly, monthly, or fucking quarterly basis. You fucking piece of dog shit. You go to get an oil change, and you know uh, you really should have replaced that filter. You know, I just got an oil change like fucking 3,000 miles ago, which technically might be fucking six to eight weeks or 12 weeks, and you fucking say ask me about the fucking air filter then. And some people actually get it then, and now you're asking me again. All you want is to fucking upsell me. I wanna go into a place like a fucking store, and if I want a goddamn fucking bag of chips, I pick it off the rack, whatever kind I like, sour cream and onion, barbecue, maybe salt and vinegar. And then I fucking pay for it and walk out. Now the brand I want is also my choice. Do I wanna get the fucking ass fucking face brand? Maybe uh oots? No, oots is okay, but do I want to get the ass brand? I don't know. Fucking whatever the brand is that sucks, or do I wanna get Cape Cod, Kettle, the crispy, delicious fucking fried chips that make you fucking dream of living on a goddamn fucking island. I want that choice. I don't want to go into the store and say, hey, we need to get a bag of chips, and now like, no, you gotta get some popcorn too. You're checking out, and they're like, no, sorry. Uh actually, if you're gonna get chips, you gotta get soda too, some napkins, and a fucking bim. Imagine if you every time you went to get something you need or you know you need, you're fucking upsold. The mechanic's like, oh my god, I just don't know how you drive around with that windshield. It really needs to be replaced. You got fucking snot rocket stains all over the inside, those fucking fruit flies this time of year in fucking New England, those are making splotches all over your window. You gotta replace that. Sometimes these are people that are old fucking women that never go, and I'm not making fun of women, I'm just saying women that never go to the mechanic, never have changed a tire. Some of them don't even pump their own gas. They just don't have any fucking commonality with a car or fixing a car or what's wrong with it. I actually know about cars and shit that goes wrong with them because I drove a fucking road box that had problems every other week. I drove the thing across the country 3,300 miles from fucking LA to fucking New Hampshire and had fucking multiple shit things go wrong throughout the trip. And one of them was in Missouri where I stayed in a hotel. I thought I was gonna be fucking murdered in. That's a true story. So mechanics can be tricky, man. Sometimes you'll get a nice one. They'll be like, listen, you really don't need new brake pads, but you know, they'll tell you facts. Your car's got 70,000 miles on it. It's this year, this is how much tread you've had, these are the tires. So maybe if you think about it, here's maybe an idea of what the cost would be, but you don't need to do it. Great fucking sale! Calm, honest, you can at least say, okay, 70,000 miles. I've fucking walked or run 70,000 miles on these shoes, right? Something you know, your own fucking feet, and there's rubber on the sole. So you know you gotta maybe get a pair of new pair of shoes, even if you don't have to or want to. And if you get the shoes, I want you to get fucking Puma suede skates. Because then you'll look cool when you go to the movies. I just don't understand that difference. Do these mechanics get paid on commission? Probably not, but they want you coming back. It's like a plumber. If he shows up and you walk out of the room, whatever problem he came to fix, he's fucking he's dilly-dallying. He's trying to figure out how do I get back here? How do I get back here for more money, more problems? More money, more problems, more plumbers. Fucking you better be a fucking plumber out there being straight laced, kid, or I'm gonna find you and fucking put a goddamn plunger that I just fucking unclogged my own shit with right in your fucking face. You're gonna have a good old-fashioned fucking shit paint job on your fucking nose, eyes, and chin. No fucking money spent for your next Halloween costume. You'll be a fucking shit face. Win all the competitions. Be asked to leave because you fucking smell so bad. I just want a fucking straight-laced, honest mechanic. And that's where I'm going right now. The car seems to fucking rumble and bumble during the fucking every time you go over 40, my guess is it's something to do with the injection, fuel injection fucking pump, the fuel pump, or the catalytic converter. All of it's happened to me before, but this jeep is not that old. This thing's been fucking purring like a goddamn fucking cat eating fucking delicious fish. So what will happen to me? What kind of mechanic will I get today? What kind of fucking upsell or commonality or shit experience or nice experience will I get? I'm fucking rolling the roulette wheel when I pull up to the fucking mechanic. What do you do? Do you have a mechanic? Do you trust him? Do you trust her? Have you ever had a woman mechanic? Have you ever had a good looking woman mechanic? That's a movie. Good looking woman mechanic. That's the whole movie title. Can't even fit it on the goddamn fucking advertisement sign out front of the theater. Good looking woman mechanic. You can't even let any people know about any of the other movies because that one needs fucking three or four lines. But I'll tell you what. Fucking extra large Coke Zero, little popcorn with some fucking butter. Push the straw down into it and make sure you got all that shit sweating through the whole fucking batch. You damn well right. I'll be there fucking maybe the sixth or seventh row, right in the middle. Fucking incline, decline, maybe fall asleep for 20 minutes of the movie, wake up and have a couple fucking Skittles. Marshawn Lynch, I'm just here so I don't get fined. Love that guy, man. Fucking classic. Marshawn Lynch, I never had anything against you. We beat you. You beat us. Football-wise. You're very funny and uh you're entertaining and a hell of a running back. Nice work. The mechanic experience is really just uh that's a crapshoot, man. And you you don't want to be there, right? You don't want to go. You're going typically because you gotta get something done or you don't know what's wrong. Right? That's the that's a doctor's visit for your car. Might as well just say, are you like on the way out? Yeah, put a fucking giant lollipop in my car's hood. Because he's had a fucking rough run of this. He didn't want to be here. Give him a fucking lollipop. Stuff it right in his fucking antifreeze tank. Make sure it's a fucking blow pop so you can fucking chew the gum at the end of it. Used to love that fucking shit. I haven't had gum since my daughter had got braces. I made a pact with her. I ain't chewing gum because you can't chew gum. That's called fucking bond. That's called fucking loyalty to family. That's called fucking friendship. So how about your mechanics out there in each show land? Do you have one? Do you like one? Do you hate one? Do you have a bunch of them? What kind of car do you drive? Do you drive a fucking sled? Do you drive a fucking Porsche? Ferrari? Tesla? Jeep? Truck? Subaru? Fucking Dotson? What kind of fucking what kind of ride you got, Cad? And does it have issues? Because you need a good mechanic. You do. At some point. Because if you have a bad one, I've had a bad one. Because I had a shitbox. And I had constant problems every goddamn fucking month. And every time I went, it was like a stressful situation because not only did I sometimes know what was wrong, but something new was gonna be fucking sold to me. And it's hard to always say no when that's not what you do for a living. It's hard to say, I mean, you could say whatever you want, but sometimes the mini tiny sales creep into the reality of what you're there for. Like I said, if you go to the store, you're not even sold, like you do get a bag of chips, you might get a second bag of chips. You might get uh some ice cream with the chips. You might get a fucking can of fucking jolt. Drink that and fucking jump off a cliff. Cause you're so fired up. Fucking jolt. Remember that shit? If you want your kid to run the bases like they're on fucking crack, have a can of jolt. Fucking targeted towards kids. You know what I mean? Like, what kind of normal adult is drinking fucking jolt? Unless you're a goddamn fucking heroin addict. You know, and you're not gonna fucking you can't fucking market to heroin addicts because they don't have any fucking money. They're not gonna buy jolt. They're gonna buy anything. They're gonna steal. If they steal, they're stealing to do more heroin, not to fucking get jolt. But I'll tell you what, if you haven't had jolt, shit's fucking no joke. Like triple caffeine, triple fucking sugar. I hope you find a good mechanic out there. My one thing, what have I noticed? Uh it's very recent. Fucking the NFL draft. If you have a draft pick and you need interior or exterior, outside, inside linemen, go with someone who's got fucking great hands, agility, and size. 6'6, 300 pounds of fucking chicken meat. The triple fucking squad box of chicken with fucking 55 pieces and none of them are drumsticks. To all fucking breasts. Go with the fucking 300 pounds, 6'6. Uh-huh, 6'7 linemen. That's what I noticed. The Pat's drafted a fucking giant. So I hope he works out. Utah, baby. The Utah Yates. This is the Eek Show. Have an excellent week, day, and I'll talk to you soon. Peace.