Now with the market for buses in the tank, and the soft economy and all, well selling a bus is for the most parts … Bad News. Or as they say down south, this dog aint gonna hunt.
There are times I want to sell mine, I truly do.
I am sure you can relate to what I am saying here.
When the new fuel filters are on, and it has lost its prime and it won’t start, that is a good time to think about selling it. When you are stuck under the differential of an old Eagle because your belly is too big and your overalls are creeping up and the material is really biting into your crotch … well, make me an offer.
When it is extremely cold and all the fuel lines have frozen and the wrecker has not arrived, I think about selling it. When I stand there at the fuel island and watch all those digit’s roll over and over, but the fill nozzle doesn’t seem to want to click off … well you know the drill.
When I am sharing the rear bedroom outside of Gadsden, Alabama, with every known skeeter in the world, because the generator won’t start …
Do I have a bidder, make me an offer.
Life as we know it is full of trade-offs. If I sold it I would not be able to appreciate the fundamental differences between depreciation and outright collector insanity. Selling the bus would also free up the “where do I park this whale” issue, and I could buy something a tad bit smaller, like a used Aircraft Carrier.
Being bus-less would severely reduce your ability to move huge rocks in the parking lot of Cracker Barrel when making a blind right-hander. If you sold it, you could buy a smart car that gets about 800 miles per gallon and get back out in the Fast Lane … You remember the Fast Lane, right?
Think about it guys, if you sold your coach where would your wife store the sixty-nine pairs of shoes that she is taking to BCI bus meeting in Pahrump Nevada, a place where six billion people have never been. What would YOU do with the multiple tool boxes and spare parts you lug around the country in the summertime for back of the lot repairs and for ballast in the winter.
If you sold your bus, you would have clean fingernails, levi’s without holes in the knees, and your lower arm would not have a patchwork of skin colored Band-Aids and purple bruises. You could actually go back to using your given name, instead of your super-secret-CB-code name.
The possibilities are endless. You could put the pictures of the grandchildren back into your Droid and get rid of the …. “This is when I first got it” photo’s of the bus, sitting in someone’s back yard in Clovis, New Mexico.
Thinking it over. It appears in my case the best thing to do is to hang onto it. I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do know this …. Life is always better for me … When she has a place for her shoes.