Rochester Writers

The playing field for local auto lot spokespersons is flooded with a ragtag group of pretenders and nincompoops, men and women oozing with such chicanery and desperation that it nauseates me to sit through their 30-second shill sessions. There’s the totally old-school Dioguardi guy holding up signs, as if it’s 1964 and the technological miracle of video captioning never happened. There’s the über-cute girl from Cortese Auto Block, who, with her dimples upon dimples, closes out her ad by proudly proclaiming (and punctuating with a nod, nonetheless) that the lot is in Rochester…as if that’s some sort of commendable accomplishment in and of itself. Of course, I can’t forget that assclown Mike Ognibene, who ends his ad with the most cringe-worthy of contrived catchphrases: “WE’LLSEEYOURIGHTHERE!” Good gravy, I can picture that guy practicing that line in front of a full-length mirror at home, working on getting that de-escalating staccato bark just right. And then there’s the third-tier guy whose name I couldn’t remember if I wanted to, the guy who closes out his ads by halfheartedly flopping some bills back and forth and not-so-convincingly declaring that “we saaave yoou moooney.” Honorable mention goes out to Bob Johnson Chevrolet, who, from time to time, resurrect their 80’s-esque “adult contemporary rock video” ad, shot in grainy black and white and starring what appears to be a distant and less-attractive relative of Richard Marx, replete with mullet and five-day stubble. Dude not only sings of how he likes to “recommend ’em to my family/recommend ’em to my friends,” but he also references muthafuckin' Charles Dickens (!!!) when he proclaims that, apparently, the folks at Bob Johnson Chevrolet have gone “above and beyond my (dramatic pause) GREAT EXPECTATIONS!” Zounds! 

But amidst the motley crew of local auto lot spokespersons, only one can be king…and that one is a man I like to call Dick. Now his Christian name isn’t Dick, mind you, it’s actually Rich Ferrari, and he’s Executive Vice President and General Manager of Dick Ide Honda and Dick Ide Pontiac – but that’s a mouthful. “Dick” just rolls off the tongue so nicely, and given that a) he’s representing Dick Ide and b) “Rich” is only a few variants removed from “Dick,” I feel as though it’s acceptable to refer to the man as “Dick.” Besides, “Dick” just seems so…apropos. 

If you’re not familiar, Dick’s schtick is to do the “Barbara Walters Interview” style of pitch – as opposed to looking in the camera and rambling, Dick speaks to some third person who is presumably off to one side of the camera. And, if my instincts serve me correctly, that person is a moron. Y’see, Dick doesn’t pussyfoot around with all the “Oh, we’ll treat you with courtesy and respect!” spiel. Oh no, Dick foregoes all such niceties and delivers his pitch with impatience and condescension: “When’s the best time to buy an air conditioner? When it’s 90 degrees out and sweat is dripping off your face?!?” It’s as if Dick is just waiting for you to respond with something stupid, so he can release the hounds. My wife and I enjoy filling in Dick’s gaps by finishing most of his sentences with something like “…you fucking asswipe!”

But don’t get me wrong – I don’t find Dick’s acerbic delivery off-putting. Frankly, I loves me some Dick. In my book, Dick is a giant among an endless parade simpering, sycophantic ninnies. Dick doesn’t have time for you to figure out that he’s got the best deal in town. (“We give you everything upfront in 30 minutes or less!”) Dick dares you to shop somewhere else and see what kind of crappy “deal” you get. Dick means business, you jackass. 

Lately, though, the tone of Dick’s ads has changed a little. I’m halfway wondering whether or not Dick has been receiving fan mail from embittered misanthropes (such as myself), given that there seems to be an intentional amplification of the Dickitude. Dick seems to be forcing it a little. Whereas before, you couldn’t really be sure if he really was being a prick or if that was just your interpretation, now there’s no mistaking the tone. As a long-time Dickophile, I’m not too nuts about it. I liked the old Dick – it was as if he was the guy you just met at some party, and after proclaiming your favorite records-of-the-week, he would just drolly reply, “Oh. That’s cool.” Later in the evening, you’d still be wondering: “Did he really think I was cool, or was he just fucking with me?” I enjoyed Dick’s previous level of ambiguity. Did he really want you to purchase your next new car or quality used vehicle from his highly trained staff of experts, or was he just fucking with you? Either way, you still had Dick on the brain while lying in bed that night. Now it’s just a little too easy to write him off. 

Regardless, Dick is still the man as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I might even give Dick a little business on principle alone. That is, of course, if I ever stop being such a frugal stick-in-the-mud and decide to purchase a car for more than $2,000. Under those circumstances, I’ll be sure to give Dick 30 minutes of my time. And if you had any sense about you, you would too…you fucking asswipe!