So the Big Three automakers are groveling in Washington, DC, begging for a bailout.

As an occasional new car buyer, I sense a rare and precious opportunity for revenge. 

Before giving them an answer on their bailout question, I’d like to usher each guy into a separate little overheated cubicle “while I go get my manager.”

My manager, wearing a short-sleeved white button-down shirt with a polyester tie, strides confidently into each cubicle and plays the first hand in his power game.   Under a blizzard of jargon,  stabbing percentages into his calculator, he breaks them psychologically.

By the end, my manager will have traded them up to a bailout package that includes grocery bag hooks for the wife, head-rest video screens for the kids, cupholders for everyone, including the dog in the way back, sunroof, moonroof, satellite radio with 24/7 Howard and Robin, year-round Christmas carols, lo-jack, GPS, and a glove box that converts to a laptop.  By the end, they’ll agree to 1000% interest on the full sticker price, just to get out of that ring of hell.

Then I’ll step back in, shake hands, and throw in the balloons from the aerial.  I’ll also procure their home telephone numbers and robo-call at dinner to ask how happy they are with their bailout, once a week for the term of the deal.  Service and repairs not included.

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