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Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

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Everything posted by Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

  1. So I had four DEWALT cordless tools here - a 12v drill, a 20v drill, a 20v angle driver and an 18v reciprocating saw. The saw actually belongs to the Kid, and he "borrowed it back" a few weeks ago. I'm wanting to get a recip of my own and an impact driver, both in 20v. Might consider a circular saw, too. To that end, I'm looking at buying bare tools and batteries separately - doesn't seem to be much of a price break in buying a tool with batteries and charger as a set. Sooo... if the aftermarkets are decent, I'll seriously consider 'em. And unlike the Kid, I'm not using them daily.
  2. I like Dewalt power tools - particularly the cordless models. And I have a few. Now, my son, Sassparilla Kid, has a LOT of 'em... drills, drivers, saws, whatever, and he uses 'em. But the batteries have gotten to be danged expensive - and I cringe at the thought of spending a hundred bucks on a 20 volt drill battery. That said, I see aftermarket batteries on Amazon for much less. The Kid's a purist - he scoffs at the idea, but being an old pensioner, I tend to be a tad more budget concious. So... any of y'all have any experience with these aftermarket units? 2 genuine DEWALT batteries - $158.67 2 aftermarket replacements - $51.93
  3. Dang. I was expecting a thread 'bout gun sights. Some of my favorites are "Marble's!" That said, I've always loved marbles. And THAT said, I was shocked to discover how difficult they were to come by when I set out to have my cub scouts den earn their Marbles Belt Loop. Dunno if it's universal or just a california thing, but the toy stores wouldn't seem 'em - "it's a liability thing, 'cuz kids might swallow one!" Sheesh. Finally found 'em at Wal Mart, in the pet department - sold as aquarium decoration.
  4. I think I posted this a few years ago, but @Marshal Mo Hare, SASS #45984's "Mouse Trap" thread sparked the memory. So.... The Giant Mouse of Solano County “We have a mouse.” With that simple, four-word phrase, the Now-Former-Missus-Hardpan made a compound declaration: 1). We have a problem. By “we,” she really meant “I,” herself, had a problem, therefor “WE,” including ME, have a problem. 2). I (meaning herself), was not happy; therefore YOU (meaning me) had a new priority in life. And… 3). I (now meaning me), was responsible for addressing the situation post haste. All in all, I couldn’t blame her. Few people harbor a stronger dislike for mice than me. The diminutive representative of the Order of Rodentia and I have a long and antagonistic history that I will not elaborate on here. So… “No problem!” I declared. I immediately procured a “new old stock” Victor mousetrap from a box in the garage, baited it with the never-fail, irresistible combination of bread and Skippy Peanut Butter (Crunchy, of course!), and placed it strategically in front of the refrigerator – the site of the “mouse sign” discovered by the Now Former Missus. Now… just a matter of waiting and the problem would be solved! With that, we set about our respective nighttime routines – me puttering about for a bit then changing into my jammies and climbing in to bed; she changing into scrubs and packing her “lunch” for work – the night shift in the Emergency Room of the local hospital. [Note – for some reason, they don’t seem to like the term “graveyard shift” in hospitals.] Eventually, I had tucked myself in, was snuggled cozily in bed reading a book when the Now Former Missus walked in to give me a quick smacker and wish me “good night” before heading off to deal with the results of the latest session of the Vallejo Friday Night Knife and Gun Club. Just as she was about to leave, we heard a definitive “Snap!” from the kitchen. With a gleeful smile, she declared “You got your mouse!” I sprang out of bed and we darted into the kitchen to claim our prize. But… Huh! Where the heck’s the mousetrap?? It was gone! After a moment of searching, we found it across the room, behind the roll-away dishwasher. Empty. What the heck? Suddenly… “Shh!” the NFM said. “I hear ‘im!” “Huh? You hear him? What… squealing in agony?” “No! I hear him walking! Now ‘Shh’!” “Don’t be silly. You can’t hear a mouse walking – they’re quiet as a mouse! That’s why they call ‘em ‘Mice!’” “No! I HEAR him!” she declared, and with me closely following, walked across the kitchen and stepped down into the laundry room, snapping on the light as she did so. She paused, listening intently, then leaned over the washer and dryer, lifting the re-chargeable flashlight from its cradle and shined it behind the appliances, playing the beam over the area where I had been repairing a wall. “There he is!” she declared. I looked over her shoulder, just in time to see the last nine inches or so of an ugly, bare, tapered tail drawn into a hole in the plastered area. After a moment of stunned gazing, I turned and opened the back door. “Where ya going?” she asked. “To the garage to get a gun! That ain’t no mouse… that’s the biggest bleeping RAT I’ve ever SEEN!” Well, I fetched my pellet gun in to the house, loaded it, and propped it next to the bed. the NFM left for work, and I crawled back into bed, destined for a night of poor sleep. I was plagued by dreams of myself in an Alamo-type setting, surrounded by the entire Rodent Corps, feeling envious of The Boy Who Drew Cats as the haunting melody of a young Michael Jackson singing “Ben” echoed in my head. We actually had three cats at the time, but I felt quite sure that if they encountered The Beast, they would be single-handedly outnumbered, outclassed, and possibly in mortal danger. Come to think of it, even our two dogs, Woody and Sandie, would likely be the underdogs in such a meeting. Bright and early the next morning, I arose, dressed, and by the time the NFM found her way home I had made a trip to the hardware store for a Victor RAT trap. One of the BIG ones, capable of hurting fingers and toes. When she arrived, I proudly showed her where I’d set the trap – baited with bread and peanut butter, of course – behind the washer and dryer, evidently his choice of entrance and egress. We were safe! That evening, we were sitting on the sofa, enjoying a superb supper of Chinese take-out and watching Jeopardy on TV. My pellet rifle leaned against the nearby door frame. Woody and Sandy lounged on an area rug, each with a chew toy, and a couple of cats lounged nearby. About halfway through the meal, the NFM’s head suddenly swiveled to me and with a burst of anxiety she asked “Where do you think that giant mouse might be right now?” Kinda resenting having my supper and Jeopardy interrupted with a silly question, I rejoined with “Oh, ya never know…! Why, he might be right behind this very couch, at this very moment!” “OH! We better look!” Drat. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut until after supper? “Okay. We’ll look right after we’re done eating and after Jeopardy’s over.” “NO!” she said, an expression of alarm and anxiety plastered across her face. “We need to look NOW!” Recognizing from her tone that supper was officially over – at least until I demonstrated that we were safe – I sighed, and said “Oh, Hell. All right. You get a flashlight and stand by the end of the sofa; I’ll lean over, grab the back, and when I pull and lean it toward me, you look.” “Okay! Let’s do it!” She leaped to her feet and scurried to the end of the sofa, scooping up a handy torch. I sighed again, stood, turned around, leaned over and grasped the back of the piece. “Ready?” I asked. “Yes! Let’s do it. NOW!” I shook my head, and leaned back, lifting the furnishing away from the wall as she bent over with her flashlight on, peering into the freshly opened cavern. She gasped, let out a most un-humanlike shriek, then screamed “THERE HE IS! OMIGAWD, THERE HE IS!” I yelped and dropped the couch. She screamed, and the BEAST charged from it’s no-longer-secluded hidey-hole. Sandie started ‘Yipe-yipe-ing’ and running in circles. Woody stood and ‘Woofed!” a bit, unable to focus on the high-speed action with his cataract clouded eyes but still wanting to contribute. The two cats sprang up and hissed and yowled. I snatched up my pellet gun, but was unable to draw a bead on the not-so wee beastie in the cyclone of wife, rat, cats and dogs – despite her repeatedly screamed commands to “Shoot it! Shoot it!” Oh crap. I tossed the pellet rifle onto the love seat, grabbed the fireplace shovel, and joined the chase, with each whap! just missing sending the creature off to Cheeseland. Finally, and to my utter amazement, it seemed to dive right through the louvered sheet metal of the furnace, and disappeared into the wall. I studied that fixture at length afterward, and never did understand how it could squeeze in; seemed as unlikely as a horse fitting into the doghouse. But it did. After a few minutes, the tempest of wife, cats, and dogs waned with exhaustion. Three or four of us flopped onto the couch; the others pretty much dropped where they found themselves, everyone panting and all eyebrows raised. “Well… obviously, he has more than one entry point!” I said. Eventually we returned to our normal evening routine. The NFM went off to work, I went to bed, and all the critters slept with one eye open, except for their frequent nighttime patrols. I seem to recall having joined them in a couple of those patrols that night. Next morning it was back to the hardware store. This time I stocked up on an additional half-dozen Victor rat traps. The BIG ones; the ones that can break fingers or toes. I baited ‘em and studiously placed them all in places the “not-so wee beastie” could wander, but where the cats and dogs would not. And placed two of ‘em behind the sofa, back-to-back, to cover both possible directions of entrance. The NFM came home from the “office,” and I showed her the locations of the traps. She had a short nap, then up for the day, as she was off that night and wanted to be able to sleep. We did Sunday kinds of things, and saw no sign of the Beast. A nice Sunday supper, watched TV and read for a while, then off to bed. She would have Monday off, but I had a long day ahead of me. We read our books for a while, said our “goodnights,” then lights off. Just starting to doze when suddenly there was a loud “SNAP!” just on the other side of the wall by our heads – where the sofa was positioned. Immediately, there was a very audible squealing… abruptly silenced by a second “SNAP!” “OMIGOSH! We GOT ‘im!” I said. We both bounded out of bed; I grabbed a softball bat and the NFM a flashlight, and we cautiously made our way into the living room, snapping on lights as we went, a couple of cats and dogs trailing cautiously behind. She positioned herself in a line with the sofa – but not too near – while I grabbed an armrest and pulled the furnishing away from the wall. “There he is!” she exclaimed. “And he’s DEAD!” I looked… and sure ‘nuff, he was done in. It took two full-sized Victor rat traps – the BIG ones, that can mangle and remove fingers and toes – to bring him down, but he was a goner. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right back! I’m gonna go get a garbage bag and a shovel and we’ll get him outta here.” I did, and we did… we both remarked on his size and coloring. Not only was he HUGE (we estimated about six pounds), but oddly colored. If he was a horse, I would have called him a “paint.” Multi-colored; actually quite handsome, as giant mouses go. But we slept well that night – all of us… the intruder was no more, and the danger was past. Next day: Just before noon my desk phone rang. I answered, and it was the NFM. “Well,” she said, “I’ve spent all morning cleaning – hitting every place that creature could have been with a strong bleach solution. “And guess what!” “Uh… I give up,” I replied. “What?” “Well,” she continued. “I moved the entertainment center away from the wall [no mean feat for a girl – that thing was heavy!] And… there was another one, dead in the trap you’d put there!” Oh CRAP! Was there a colony of the animals? Hopefully it was only a mating couple, and hopefully we’d gotten ‘em before they were successful in that mating. A few days later, Thursday, as I recall, I had another call from her. “Guess what?” she asked. “Oh no…” I groaned. “Don’t tell me we have another ‘visitor!’” “Nope.” She said. She continued, “I was outside with the dogs when Merle [our next door neighbor] looked over the fence. I was talking to him for a while, when he suddenly asked ‘Hey, you guys haven’t seen any rats around, have ya? My two pet Fancy Rats got out last week and I haven’t seen ‘em since!’” “Oh NOoo… you didn’t tell ‘im, did ya?” “Oh HECK no! Poor guy – but now we know!” We sure did. Postscript: About a month later, she again called me at work. “Guess what?” she asked. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” I sighed. “But go ahead.” “Well…” she continued. “Merle saw me over the fence a few minutes ago… and asked if we could keep our eyes open – his pet boa constrictor got out, and – ” “QUICK - CALL THE REALTOR!”
  5. Cats. More expensive in the long run, but darned effective.
  6. I just feel sick. The party that has historically persecuted minority peoples continues to do so... they've just changed their target minority section of society.
  7. I once had all but one hoof of a blacktail buck stuffed into the trunk of my 1974 Fiat 124 Sport Spider. The day after returning from a week-long, unsuccessful hunting trip to Siskiyou County, I was driving through the hills above San Mateo when the buck dashed out in front of me. The car suffered a cracked headlamp; the deer a broken neck. He fit, after I moved the spare tire and tools into the miniscule back seat. And oh yeah - different zone, but I tagged 'im with my unused tag... "just in case." Two or three other times I had blacktail bucks crammed into the front-end trunk of my '73 Super Beetle. (Them blacktail's ain't very big)
  8. Ms Helen Brimstone just bought herself a complete set o' Hexclad. I don't think I'll be sending her the link to this test....
  9. @watab kid, the maternal side of my family has roots in Minnesota; good German and Norwegian stock, with surnames like Marquardt and Corneliussen.... I'm sadly happy that those kin who moved west long ago did not live to see what has become of both states.
  10. Good grief. Right... WE voted for the ammo law. And WE didn't vote it out. Shame on us. Hell.... shame on me ~ it's obviously my fault.
  11. "Building" some holsters, including a set for a sister. Pondering decorating with turquoise; Tandy has phony "dome rivet" spots, but wondering about perhaps a single large (real?) mounted cabochon on each holster's "strap." Might anyone have alternate suggestions on where to find such?
  12. ‘Ol Roy One of my biggest problems - and it is my problem - is that I will lend something to someone and forget about it until I need it... and then can't remember who I loaned it to. On the other hand, there have been a couple of times when I did remember who I loaned something to - but when I asked, they didn't remember borrowing it. Usually small things, but... But the absolute worst case was when the Former Missus Hardpan came home one day and informed me that I was going to loan my tractor (a Massey-Ferguson 135) to her work buddy's husband the next weekend. I'd never met the guy, but The Boss had spoken. Saturday, his wife and he arrived, had coffee, visited a spell, then off they went, with him driving the tractor to their place about a mile away. Tractor was due back by Tuesday. Tuesday came, and no tractor. It came back sometime the following weekend, as I recall. Oh well. And so it began. Ol' Roy would call and ask to borrow the tractor - I would balk and the Former Missus Hardpan would intervene (or she would lend it to him if I wasn't there) and away it would go, usually to be returned only after a series of nagging phone calls. Then one day he brought it back, and coasted it into my driveway - "Har! Just ran out of gas and managed to coast into your driveway!! Har!" he laughed and grinned. Uh... it had a full tank when you took it, dude. Another time it came back minus the grille door. "Roy! Where's the rest of the grille?" "I dunno.... someone musta stole it," and off he went. Then he borrowed it again without asking - he'd bought his own key. I went out one day to saddle up and move some dirt, but it was plumb gone. That time I hiked to his place and sure 'nuff, there it was. I drove it home - and ran out of gas just as I pulled in. Of course, I had just filled the tank when I’d last used it. That did it. I lowered the boom - NO MORE! But I have a soft heart (and a soft head to match). Ol' Roy called up one Tuesday evening and was almost in tears... he was DESPERATE! He absolutely needed to borrow the tractor and a blade; he had a huge pit that needed filling - it was a safety hazard and he HAD to get it done before the weekend... PLEEZE?? Yer kidding... right? I held out as long as I could, but after "the look" from the Former Missus Hardpan, I finally caved - with him SWEARING that he would have it back Friday evening, as I told him that I had a critical need for it for a project I was starting at dawn on Saturday. He understood... and would ABSOLUTELY have it back to me and he showed up an hour later and drove it home. Friday evening. No Roy. Saturday morning. No Roy. Later Saturday morning. No Roy. So I called his wife. “Sheila – where’s Roy?” "Oh! Roy went fishing before dawn!" I hiked over to Roy's, luggin’ a can of gas and shaking my head the entire way. "His" key was in the ignition. Well! Looks like I now have an extra key! Of course, the tank was bone dry. I dumped in the gas, drove home, and said to the Former Missus Hardpan - "Do not even THINK of lending that tractor or anything ELSE to that man!! EVER!!!!" She got the message. About six months later, he called... and asked, "I don't s'pose you'd consider...?" My answer was a curt "Nope!" followed by the *click* when I hung up. But wait… there’s more! Jump ahead a few years. Now with a change in “family status,” had moved away for a year, then back to Madera Ranchos. One Saturday I was up early, tending to my morning ablutions, when I glanced out the bathroom window of my little rented cottage. “Holy Mother of Pearl! Wotinell is THIS?” Somehow, on that warm springtime morn, my front yard had been transformed into a veritable winter wonderland. Or so was my first impression, at least. But after a moment of study, I came to the shocking realization that I HAD BEEN TP’D! Indeed, every tree and bush was heavily adorned with white streamers. As I would later learn, an entire Costco pack. Somebody had had fun. But I was not amused; indeed, I was a tad miffed. And it took me over an hour to remove the stuff, relying on a telescoping boat hook and tree pruner to reach and snag the tissue bunting and ribbons which wafted gently, if not gaily, in the morning breeze. Now, hold that thought. Early afternoon and I was driving down the road when who do I spot but Ol’ Roy hisself, tinkering on something in his front yard. Well, despite his material shortcomings, Roy was on balance an affable sort, so I pulled over to chat for a spell. “So how are you today?” he asked. “Actually, I’m kinda grumpy!” I replied, and in response to his querying raised eyebrows, I proceeded to describe my morning. When I was done, he groaned, “Oh, no,” turned toward the house, and yelled “Son! Get out here!” A moment later his high-school aged football player youngster popped out with a huge grin. “Yeah, Dad?” “Kid,” he queried, “didn’t you say that you and your buddies were gonna TP your coach’s house last night?” “Yup! It shore was fun! Ya shoulda seen it, Dad! We used an entire Costco pack! Coach’s whole corner yard looked like a winter wonderland!” Ol’ Roy leveled a not unkind glare at the lad, took a deep breath, and announced, “Kid… you guys got the wrong house.” When I saw the look of shame tinted devastation on the young man’s face, I had to laugh. My grumpiness was erased by the knowledge that I was not maliciously targeted. Boys will be boys! But wait – there’s still more! Maybe a year or so later, I ran into Roy somewhere, and while we were talking, he asked if I’d like to go along on a drive with him in a week or two to collect a fishing boat he’d bought. A really cool, almost twenty foot, jet-drive aluminum boat that had been the personal boat of Luhr Jensen, owner of the famous fishing lure company of the same name. “Mebbe! Where?” “Oh, just up to Fish Camp.” “Why shore, I’ll go along!” Well, on the Friday before the trip, I stopped by to ask what time the next day we’d be leaving, and if he’d be picking me up or if I should drive the two miles over to his house. “Well, I wanted to ask you. It seems that my truck broke – can we take yours?” That little annoying tingling started up on the back of my neck. “Uh… well, Roy, I don’t think that’d be a good idea. Ya see, my shock absorbers are shot. I’d intended to change ‘em, but haven’t gotten ‘round to it. And it wouldn’t be safe to haul such a heavy load with ‘em like they are. Nope – not safe at all. Sorry!” “Oh, no problem! It’s Friday night, the parts stores are still open – we can go get your new shock absorbers and put ‘em in tonight!” Hm. I really hadn’t planned on spending a bunch of money that night, but the prospect of assistance was appealing. “Well… maybe….” And before I knew it, I was writing a check for over three hundred bucks for heavy duty shocks, including load-leveling air shocks for the rear. Not surprisingly, there was no offer to help with the purchase. To expedite the story, we finished the install at about 0200 Saturday morning. “Okay – pick me up at five thirty!” Roy instructed. “We need to get an early start!” Well, that figgers. I raced home, grabbed a meager two and a half hours of sleep, and was ringing Ol’ Roy’s doorbell at 0530. No answer. I continued to ring and knock. Still no answer. Grumbling, I trudged back to my truck and used my cell phone to call his house number. After about twenty or so rings, his wife answered with a sleepy and annoyed “Hullo?” “Sheila – where’s Roy?” “Well, Rod, he’s asleep! Do you not realize what time it is?” I apologized for the wake-up, and advised her of the reason for my call – “Roy told me to be here at 0530, I’m here out front, and he ain’t!” She assured me he’d be right out. About twenty minutes later, Ol’ Roy staggered out of his front door. He crawled into my truck clutching a pillow, buckled up, snuggled in and instructed me to “wake me up when we get past Sacramento.” SACRAMENTO?? “Waitaminnit. Just whereinell are we GOING? Fish Camp is EAST, not NORTH!” “No no no… we’re not going to Fish Camp – we’re going to Happy Camp.” “Happy Camp? Where the Hell is Happy Camp?” “Why, Happy Camp is about sixty miles up the Klamath River. When you get to Yreka, turn left.” And with that, he started a snore serenade that lasted for over two hours. Finally, someplace north of Sacramento, I spotted a Denny’s and pulled off the freeway. Roy woke up, looked about with a confused expression, and demanded “howcum we’re stopping?” “Well, Dude, you said to wake you up after we passed Sacramento. We done passed ‘Sackamenna,’ we’re going to have breakfast and top off the fuel tank. And by the way,” I added, “you ARE sponsoring all fuel and food on this excursion!” A short while later, with both the truck and our bellies filled and thermos topped off, we were underway – me driving and Roy snoring all the way to Yreka. We stopped again for fuel, and a by now refreshed Roy chattered away the rest of the trip to Happy Camp – which was beneficial, as it kept me awake. Actually, Highway 96, which followed the Klamath River, was so windy and crooked with switchbacks and hairpin turns that we averaged a bit over forty miles per hour for the next seventy plus miles. But we made it. Now, I could write a whole story about the visit and the boat acquisition. But at this point, suffice it to say that Ol’ Roy completed his transaction, we hitched on, and I handed him the keys as I announced that HE was driving. I’d had enough. I had driven almost five hundred miles on two and a half hours sleep – while HE slept – and it was HIS turn! Roy didn’t grumble too much, but he slid behind the wheel and we were off. When we’d passed Yreka, he suggested that it might be a good idea if we stopped in Redding and got a room for the night, and continue our trip in the morning. “Nope. I have stuff to do and gotta get home!” I proclaimed. B’sides, I knew I’d get stuck paying for a room. I don’t know if it was my words or the accompanying sharp look, but Roy did not argue – and somewhere around 0200 Sunday morning, we pulled into his driveway. Unlike Roy, I had not slept; rather, I made it a mission to ensure that he stayed awake. Wearily, we unhitched the heavy boat trailer. Roy lumbered off toward his front door without a word said, and I saddled up for the short trip home. As I approached the first stop sign, I placed my foot on the brake pedal – and was rewarded with a pronounced shimmying of the steering wheel. Evidently, Ol’ Roy had ridden the brakes on the snake-y Klamath highway; that and the four thousand plus pound load had literally fried the brakes. Nearly six hundred dollars for a brake job. When I let him know, Ol’ Roy just shrugged and said “Well, your brakes must’ve been old and obviously were ready to be replaced. It's a good thing they lasted until we got back!” Atta boy, Roy! And no, you still may not borrow my tractor!
  13. And then, from Louisville a bunch of decades ago....
  14. Well, there's the new Taurus Deputy.... Not a bad looking revolver ~ MSRP $606.98. I hope it does better than their Gaucho, produced from '05 to '07.
  15. I think Unique's gotten about as scarce as Trail Boss....
  16. Folks, all the above comments and suggestions are appreciated. A few things.... I provided the insurance company ten comps ~ they have a contract company that provided three. They were determined to downgrade the value of my car based on two factors - relatively high mileage (compared to their comps) and deductions for ten "optional equipment" items that their company said my car did not have, based on their VIN research. Their representative literally argued with me, saying the car has a five-speed transmission (it has a six-speed), cloth upholstery (it's leather), basic sound system (BOSE system with disc changer), etc. I had ten comps, they had three, and they totally misidentified the model of my Miata. - I contested this, and literally provided them with the entire Mazda production list for Special Editions, which included Zelda's VIN, and a Forbes Magazine article on this model - plus lots of photographs. - They demanded copies of receipts for the clutch and tires, which I provided (nearly $1,500 spent two weeks earlier). - The net result of this was "Well! Since it IS a Special Edition, we have to increase the 'buy-back' cost to you by $390, but that does not increase the value of the car because it has high mileage*, and we will NOT reimburse you for the work done." (154k) *Note: With a classic car (it is!), mileage is generally considered less critical to value than overall condition. I explained that I did not expect them to reimburse me for the work; rather, that information was to illustrate that the vehicle has been extremely well maintained and in fact is one of the better examples of the model still on the road. I advised them that although my career was in banking and accounting, I had majored in Industrial Arts with a focus on Power and Transportation, and that my son majored in Industrial Technology, and IS a technician and mechanic - all scheduled maintenance items have been met or exceeded. I also told them that not only had I been a department head and project manager for a major U S bank, was a trained appraiser. In other words, I "know my 'stuff'." All in all, it doesn't seem to matter one whit to them - attempts to escalate have just been bounced back to the lower level reps I've already spoken with. Now, regarding pursuing legal action: with a value difference of a couple of thousand dollars, this is most likely not worth the effort. Many hoops to jump through; BTDT. - A similar accident years ago took over three years to settlt, with a net difference of a couple thousand $. - I would have to sue the other driver, who lives in another state. I could do this in small claims court ($10k cap), but again, the net difference could be minimal. - And on the "P&S" part, how much is a ten-day headache, longer stiff and sore neck and shoulders, and lots of sleepless nights worth? They offered $1,900 with a $7500 "reserve" for future medical expenses. Healing up, with no expectations of long-lasting issues - as I'm a Medicaire dude, their money is pretty safe; it would cover reimbursement for co-pay costs. I'll get $120 of it for my ER visit. Bottom line, it's been a significant annoyance, but not the end of the world. Again, glad it wasn't much worse - it could've been. But I'm still annoyed, dangit.
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