#my cars value
That Time Mazda Paid A Handsome French Doctor To Feel My Balls
Anyone who’s fortunate enough to stumble into the world of car writing quickly discovers that it’s the greatest grift in human history, a virtually non-stop travel orgy of luxury hotels, business-class airline travel, open bars with premium Scotch, foie gras, steaks, little toasts with cr me fraiche and salmon, champagne pours, free leather driving shoes and race-team jackets, unlimited access to the most glamorous and powerful cars in the world, and once, in my case, a testicular exam in Paris.
All the industry asks for in return is our integrity. Most of the people who practice automotive journalism, the world’s oldest profession, are readily willing to give up their professional honor because they make about as much money every year as the average Dunkin’ Donuts shift manager.
Still, for some, mere Platinum status on Delta isn’t enough. A while ago, a thread on the Facebook page of Dan Neil, the Pulitzer-Prize-winning car writer, told of the European car hack who walked out of his luxury hotel, which he didn’t pay for, carrying a flat-screen TV; of the archetypal guy who emptied his mini-bar three nights running; of the dude who stuffed fireplace-stoking equipment into his golf bag and said “charge it to my tab;” of hundreds of dollars worth of unauthorized luxury spa treatments; or, best of all, of the Scottish journalist who produced a 17-page printout of all the porn he’d watched in a Korean hotel room over the course of three days, causing him to be nicknamed “Mince,” because that’s what happens when you wear the skin off a sausage.