Monday, April 26, 2010

Doody!


I get a lot of flack here on this blog of mine for being too hard on people. Some commenters think I'm snobby, that I'm being judgmental when I suggest people shower and brush their teeth before coming to the auto show. These people are really going to hate me now, because I am about to suggest something totally outlandish: that you crap in the bathroom. And not just in the bathroom, but in a toilet in the bathroom. And then flush. Don't forget to wash your hands.

But whatever you do, for the love of god, DO NOT TAKE A SH!T ON THE SHOW FLOOR.

The bathroom is right there! See the big giant sign? The one that says "Restrooms"? That is where one goes to relieve oneself of the bodily waste created when you shovel three chili cheese dogs into the gut overflowing your stylish Lee jeans.

You do not go in the middle of the display floor.

Unfortunately, not everyone knows this handy rule of thumb.

One morning, I am told, the early shift of booth babes arrived at their post. While walking the floor to prep for the day's crowds, they discovered a large chunk of what was most decidedly not a Baby Ruth, just laying there on the floor.

Where did it come from? How did it get there? Was it some sort of political message or could this person just not walk another 20 feet to the bathroom? The world will never know.

This was discovered minutes before the show opened and the crowds rushed in. The booth babes sure as heck weren't going to touch it, but they did form a sort of human chain around it to block attendees from getting too close while making sure none of them knew what they were being blocked from. Figuring no one would believe them if they tried to call it in, someone was sent to grab the cleaning crew in person.

This is not the only auto show poop story out there. Oh no, my friends, there are more people - many more people - who believe in freedom from such restrictive man-made ideological theories as pooping in bathrooms, that mankind and mankind's poop deserves to be free. That's great. Poop all over your yard like a dog if that's what you want to do. Just keep it out of my display, you disgusting cretin.

PS - Don't forget to check out this week's column over at TheTruthAboutCars.com: The Psychology of Auto Show Marketing.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Is that a tire iron in your pocket or are you happy to see me?


Keep an eye on the red shorts... I think that last woman would actually come with the car if he was buying.

Monday, April 19, 2010

New column at TheTruthAboutCars.com!

Guys, thank you so much for your support of my little blog! I've gained a lot of new readership over the past few days, and I hope you'll all keep coming back for more. And remember, if you have an auto show story you want to share send it to me! I will keep  you totally anonymous.

The ever engaging, informative and funny Bertel Schmitt got in touch with me about a month or so ago and asked if I would write something for this great automotive site The Truth About Cars. They had given me mention in a story or two before and sent quite a few readers my way, and were always very gracious. We kicked around a few ideas this is what has developed:

The Booth Babe Chronicles, a weekly column published Sundays and written by yours truly!

Check out my first piece, a wrap-up of the 2010 auto show season. Hope you like - I'll link to following pieces as they are published. And thank you to TTAC and Bertel for the opportunity!

Saturday, April 17, 2010

The Rochester Tranny

There's this weird dichotomy of experience that comes along with working on the auto show circuit, and that is this: you meet the most average of America, and then you meet the extraordinary of America.

I prefer the extraordinary. What passes for average up in here depresses me. (Acid wash denim? Really?)

Rochester, NY has just one of these extraordinary characters.

I am going to preface this description by saying that I love me a good transvestite. A GOOD transvestite. The average self-respecting tranny can give any beauty queen a run for her money. Hair, nails, makeup always perfect. Long thin legs perfectly waxed, thin hips squeezed into a sassy dress, killer heels. A good tranny never leaves the house without being fully done.

The Rochester Tranny is not one of these.

Okay, so you know the serial killer in The Silence of the Lambs? Not Hannibal Lecter. The "It puts the lotion in the basket" guy. That might be a somewhat apt description of what one first conjures when one is presented with The Rochester Tranny.

Picture this:
A middle aged balding man. Long hair - real, not a wig, and since he is balding it is very sparse in the front (but maybe like Brett Michaels he figures if it's long no one will notice). This thin, dry, balding head of hair is dyed orange. No makeup except bright red lipstick. Acid wash (there it is again) skin tight capri pants. A pink half shirt out of which pours a hairy beer belly. Shiny white ladies Keds sneakers with pink bobby socks.

Did I mention the hairy beer belly oozing over the waist of the skin tight acid wash denim capri pants? Please let that sink in for a moment.

So I see this guy (normally I call trannies "girls" since that's what they prefer, but if he's not going to put in the effort neither am I) and I can't believe he is serious. It must be a joke. Maybe a dare? Maybe a bunch of guys goofing off and more will come through my display in a minute? I grabbed a local salesperson and asked what the deal was.

"Oh no," said the salesperson. "That's what we call our 'local flavor.' He's been doing this for years."

Oh, dear.

I cannot believe the transsexual/transgender community of western New York is allowing this. Really, girls, help a fella out here. At least get him a wig and a whole shirt.

But this is truly one of the things I love most about the USA. Let your freak flag fly, Rochester Tranny.

PS - Bet you thought this post was about transmissions. Fooled ya.

Monday, April 12, 2010

I don't want your man

Ladies, I need you to do me a favor. You've got to dial down the hate.

It never fails. A young couple, usually teenagers or not far from it, will stop in front of my spinning platform and while the guy asks questions (regardless of whether or not he's trying to look down my shirt) his girl is busy trying to poison me with haterade.

Honey, first of all I've got a man. He's way hotter than yours and actually pulls his pants all the way up when he gets dressed. Second of all, don't hate me because I'm beautiful. (Sorry, I've always wanted to say that!) No really, second of all, it's not my fault that your man is a dog who can't keep his eyes where they belong: on you.

The auto show is full of eye candy for men. Between the cars and the models some of them truly do not know what to do with themselves. I literally had a 12-year-old ask for my number once. (Seriously, I asked him how old he was. That's another entry for another day.) The crazy thing is that most of the product specialists, Fiat brands aside, are dressed pretty conservatively nowadays in business suits and knee-length skirts, but I can assure you that the girls who are still working in tight little dresses are giving up nothing more than a coquettish smile.

So ladies, please remember it is not my fault that your man approached me and started a conversation. In fact, it is my job to talk with him about the cars and be friendly, as long as he isn't a jackass. If you don't want to see it, don't come to the auto show. Instead, perhaps your time might be better spent working on your self esteem issues or finding a more gentlemanly man friend.

I promise, I don't want your man.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Put your shoes back on, you pig

Today while working the New York International Auto Show I saw no less than three people walk through my display barefoot. BARE. FOOT. No shoes. No socks. Gross feet on gross floor, carrying their shoes. All three were women.

So here's what I assume happened: These dumb b!tches decided to break out their new strappy summer sandals for the first time in this glorious New York spring weather, on a day when they would be walking a good half mile at least just to get from their parking spot to Javitz, then another solid three hours on multiple floors covering the show and then were SHOCKED! SURPRISED! ASTOUNDED! when their feet started bleeding out.

First of all, don't come crying to me for sympathy. I stand in four-inch stilettos for anywhere from 6 to 13 hours a day. Let me play my iPhone app of the world's tiniest violin for you. Don't be stupid. Wear cute flats or riding boots.

Second of all, this isn't your living room. By the end of the show this carpet will have been walked on by 1.2 million people, all of whom have just walked through Manhattan streets. Have you looked at the streets in New York City? Have you seen what's on them? Allow me to enlighten you.

Here are some things I've walked through this week on NYC streets and sidewalks:
- Pee (human and animal)
- Gasoline
- Spit
- Chewed gum
- Tobacco juice
- Rancid milk
- Coal dust
- Dog sh!t
- Baby vomit

And then do you know what happens? I walk on the carpet at the auto show in those very same shoes! And so does everyone else in attendance! And all that grody crap that's on the bottom of our shoes is transferred onto the carpet! And then you walk on the carpet in your bare feet! So you now have pee, gasoline, spit, chewed gum, tobacco juice, rancid milk, coal dust, dog sh!t and baby vomit all over the bottoms of your nasty a$$ feet.

And you wonder why your pedicure lady starts talking smack about you in Korean as soon as you sit in the spa chair?

Friday, April 2, 2010

Too much junk in your trunk

Sometimes I can predict a conversation at the auto show from 20 feet away, long before I ever approach the person. While I learned long ago never to judge a person's station in life by appearance alone (that guy in the dirty work clothes may well drive a Lambo), you can certainly tell a lot about a person by the way they carry themselves and observed behavior.

When I see a large person make a face while climbing in and out of a car, I know this is the first thing they will say to me:

"The seat is too small. You make them smaller every year."

The seat is not too small. The seat is not any smaller than it was last year or five years ago.

The seat is not too small. Your a$$ is too big.

I understand that there are some cars that are, in fact, very small, and have smaller seats, and that sports seating can make a difference. I am not talking about these cars. I am talking about large sedans with some of the biggest, cushiest seats in their class. They are not too small. You are too big. And you keep getting bigger.

If you want to be big, that's your business. I am not here to comment on your struggle with weight loss or why you turn to food to comfort yourself after yet another booth babe shoots down your gross pick up attempt. (Large women rarely make this claim, interestingly. It is always the men.)

But it's time to get honest here. Do not blame my manufacturer for making seats smaller. That is patently ridiculous, and I have the measurements from the past ten years at my fingertips to prove that very point. The seats are not smaller, the dry cleaner did not shrink your pants, you are not "fluffy" or "big boned" and you're not Octomom eating for eight. If the seats in a full sized sedan are too small for you, then A) Please don't sit next to me on a plane and B) You need to stop lying to yourself and placing the blame for your discomfort on everything but the real issue.

Like I said, if you want to be big, go for it. It's your business (until my health insurance premiums go up to compensate for your weight-related illness costs). Don't blame your difficulties functioning in the world on external issues when it is your own body that is holding you back. If you're going to live it, own it.

It's not the seats. It's you.