As an intrepid automotive journalist, I receive a great deal of correspondence from my dedicated fans and readers. Recently, one particular letter caught my eye for the unusual nature of its subject matter and how clearly it demonstrated the mindset of many a car buyer out there. So greatly did it intrigue me that I reached out to my ardent follower, and he was kind enough to invite me to his home to learn more about his particular situation.
Recently, one Scott Schlorslon of Mint Hill, just outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, went to his local dealership in search of a GMC Sierra 1500 for sale. Upon arriving at the dealer, he found the truck he was looking for, with the various features and options he had wanted, signed on the dotted line, and drove away completely satisfied with his experience. It was sometime later, his recollection is somewhat hazy, but Mr. Schlorslon assures me it was within a week to 10 days after his purchase that he noticed something rather unusual about his new truck. In his words, “It were then that I noticed it had a mustache.”
It was that sentence, precisely, that so intrigued me and caused me to learn more.
Mr. Schlorslon provided photographic evidence to me regarding his discovery, and based on the images provided, I must agree with his statement. There, in the images, one can clearly make out the bold and powerful front end of a full-size truck, the grille festooned with a luxurious and well-manicured mustache. The scale of this bristly wonder is most remarkable; just to be clear, this is no crude work of plastic or cardboard image attached to the front end of the vehicle. Every silken follicle is clearly discernible, each gentle wave of its form meticulously combed and sculpted into a Platonic ideal designed to capture the very essence of mustache-ness.
And yet, this is not the most remarkable thing about this situation. “That mustache were something else, no doubt about it.” Mr. Schlorslon told me, “I don’t recall it being on there when I bought it but must’ve been. So I did the only thing that made sense: I combed it, washed it off properly every couple of days, and treated it as well as I would my own.” It was on the third or fourth day of such grooming that, “it happened.”
“I’d just worked up a great lather with my favorite shampoo,” Mr. Schlorslon gestured toward an unspeakably large bottle of Mane ‘n Tail, “and I was starting to rinse it out. I has this big comb I use and I was working it through, making sure I get it all proper rinsed. I was combing, not too rough mind you, and it happened. The damn thing just… just fell right off the front end.” He paused a moment to collect himself. “Most horrible thing I ever saw… whole mustache just dropping off like that. Then it got worse when I looked at my…” he shook his head, as though trying to dismiss reality. “I can’t even call it my truck anymore. I mean just look at it!”
Looking at the vehicle parked in his driveway, one thing becomes clear: this is a Chevy Silverado 1500. But he told me he purchased a GMC Sierra 1500. “Can you believe this? Look at that disgusting thing! Who’d want a truck like that?” Attempting to better understand the situation, I asked him what he loved so much about the Sierra 1500. “What’s not to love? The 2.7L Turbo engine with 310 hp and 430 lb-ft of torque!” I informed him that’s available for the Silverado, and he spit at my feet. “Okay, smart ass. The Sierra got 20-inch wheels… a CornerStep rear bumper… and a beautiful 13.4-inch Infotainment display!”
I hesitate a moment, then notify him that all of those things come standard on the Chevy Silverado 1500 LTZ. The look in his eyes is one I’ve only ever seen twice before: once in the fixed gaze of a hungry wolf standing between me and a deer carcass it had been chewing on, and another time when my now-ex-wife looked at me across that courtroom. I was suddenly quite aware of the impressive collection of rifles, shotguns, and pistols that adorned the room around us in Mr. Schlorslon’s home. “How dare you?” He whispered.
Hoping to defuse the situation somewhat, I stood up and went outside to the truck where it rested in his driveway, the mustache lying in the dirt before it. He followed me outside, shaking his head in a mix of disgust and unspoken lamentation. I picked up the mustache, dusted it off slightly, and held it up in front of the truck’s grille. Mr. Schlorslon’s eyes became glassy, tears leapt in great rivulets down his cheeks as he looked at the truck, pure delight upon his face. “Beautiful,” he stammered, his chin shaking and voice crackling, “so beautiful.”
I then lowered the mustache to once again reveal the front end of the Silverado. Rarely before have I seen so much vomit come from a single person. Shortly afterward, I left Mr. Schlorslon’s home and didn’t stop until I was well past the Mason-Dixon and could tell I was no longer being followed. Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of the situation or the remarkable behavior of this man, other than to believe it perfectly illustrates the lives of those sad, twisted individuals plagued by the curse of brand loyalty.
Editor’s Note: We’ve received numerous messages, voice mails, and threatening phone calls warning us from publishing this recollection of events. While we have made zero effort to verify any of the information provided here, we’ve chosen to publish it anyways, purely out of spite. It’s an old tradition within the media and one we’re happy to continue. Thank you.
