The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When I bought my truck about 16 years ago, the nice salesman wanted to sell me a warranty, I forget exactly, but parts or labor, once the original guarantee of 50,000 miles for the drive train expired. I said, gee, I sort of expected not to have problems with your fine line of vehicles. And declined the offer.

Warranties, seems to me, are insurance policies. Against breakdowns, accidents, fires, hurricanes, you name it, against Fear. Maybe you’ve noticed how much your car insurance went up recently. Or your homeowners’ insurance spiked. Or, get ready, your health insurance going through the roof this month now that Obamacare subsidies have expired.

Our new dryer just broke down, nothing I can fix, and yeah, you guess it, I turned down the warranty, thinking this expensive appliance would last longer than 6 months without requiring repairs. The nice man asked if I wanted that extended warranty. Covers parts, not labor. Or vice versa — I never remember. Of course I declined the offer, what, me worry?

Plane reservations, vacation rentals, auto reservations — you want the policy if anything comes up, sickness, death in the family, temporary insanity and god forbid you can’t make it, only a good chunk of the fees to relieve your anxieties, save you losing a bundle, even a marriage, possibly that sanity you hold so dear.

Nearly everything now comes with a proferred warranty. Lawnmowers, vacuum cleaners, power tools, cookware, new children. Why take a chance?? Why risk owning a defective product, a lemon, a missed vacation flight? When, for a few extra bucks, okay, a lot of extra bucks, for a signature on the dotted line, that gizmo you bought, when it breaks, when it blows up, when it leaves you stranded on the side of a rush hour freeway in the pouring rain, you know that company that sold it to you will make it good.

If you believe that, call me, I got a warranty for their warranty. You’ll sleep a helluva lot easier.