Dear fellow Ford enthusiasts… and by "enthusiasts," I mean all of us here who have even the remotest stake in the future of the Ford Motor Company. Share holders. Board members. Factory workers. Car owners. Corporate do-nothings.
It was reported in July that Ford posted its first quarterly profit in nearly two years—stock prices increased 31 cents a share—and this company managed to stumble into the black, a place it hasn't been since ABC's Lost was sort of interesting. Well, good for you. Good for us.
But an important question is: How did this happen? And why? Do any of us know? Was it an uptick in the market? Was it CEO Alan Mullally's "New Way Forward," or whatever the hell they're currently calling the process of closing plants and cutting jobs and paying the top guy $12 million a year?
I think the honest answer is, we don't know. Mullally himself—yeah, Alan, I'm doing it, I'm doing the thing that you hate: I'm talking about you as if you weren't even in the room—has tried to lower expectations by declaring that he's expecting a "difficult second half." Yeah, okay. What are we doing, taking pep-talk lessons from John Kerry now?
But anyway, here we are, spending an afternoon in the black. Two quarters ago, share prices were down $5.60-something a share. Now we're up 31 cents. This is like ducking into a hovel during the battle of Fallujah for an ice cream cone. You there, in the ridiculous business-casual getup—what'd you get? Mint-chocolate-chip? Good for you.
But listen up. Tea time is nearly over. To return to my metaphor, we're down to our last bit of sugar cone, and we've got a city full of Mehdi Army nutjobs trying to pave the way to Shasta Colaland—or whatever they call heaven—with our bodies. Except the terrorists, or extremists, or Islamofascists, or whatever they are this week, are automotive competitors, and their bombs are competitive pricing, and our bodies are market shares. Is that unclear to anyone? No? Then why are you looking at me like Stephen Hawking at his first visit to a strip club?
It doesn't matter. What matters is this: I have a plan. I real plan. A plan to put this company so far into the black that Michael Richards is going to be screaming at us every time his stand-up routine falls apart.
You there—yes you, at the coffee cul-de-sac. What's your name? McGuinness? McGuinness, put that down. Ever hear the term "coffee is for closers"? Yeah. I've seen your regional numbers. You haven't been involved in closing a deal since they sewed up your mother's cesarean. So put the carafe down and pay attention.
First of all, your new CEO? It's me. I'm not kidding. Mullally—seriously. $12 million? That's 150 $80k-a-year jobs shelved so you can do… what? Make us 31 cents a share, and still buy your suits off the rack at Men's Warehouse? You have got to be kidding me.
For less than what Mullally costs us in corporate jet transport each year, I will turn this company into the dynamo you and I know it could be. So Alan, hit the bricks. Yeah yeah yeah, take your smirk and your golden parachute and go enjoy yourself in your Subaru hatchback, or whatever it is you're driving these days. No hard feelings. Bitch.
Is he gone? Good. Okay. So here's the plan: Starting today, we separate the wheat from the shaft. The Freestar Minivan? It's over. We couldn't sell these things to Yugoslavia, and they produce the freakin' Yugo. Whatever's still on the lots, donate them to the Make-a-Wish Foundation. For the irony.
Aside from that, with the exception of our largest trucks, the top 50% of our fleet will now go into parallel production—that is, for each model, half of all units will feature gasoline engines, and the other half will be hybrid electrics. The bottom half of our fleet—those turds we keep shilling to the rubes who can't tell the difference between words like "surge" and "escalation"—they're going all-hybrid. That stupid-ass Focus hatchback? You know it.
As for our proud fleet of gas-guzzling behemoths—I'm thinking of the F-250, 350, 450, and any of our SUV's you'd care to mention—one word: Biodiesel. Smells like a fast-food convention, runs like rocket fuel. What? You don't like the smell of french fries? Not from the looks of the first six rows. Take my word for it: You hold a sales promotion for these beauties in the McDonald's parking lot a mile from the Daytona Speedway, and we'll have to open three more plants just to keep up with the demand on production.
On a related note, we're opening up three new plants. Our current factories have been producing the same engine concepts since Ron Jeremy's penis was only three inches long, and I think that was in 1953, when he was a fetus. It's just cheaper to build from the ground up. Also, you know what helps encourage people to buy cars? People having jobs. So, you know, I thought we might hire a few, instead of firing another 10,000 so Alan can buy his own island nation, or whatever it is he does with his money.
Also, this trend we've been following, where every last model looks more and more like the same peanut M&M on wheels with each passing production year? We're stopping that. I want fins, spoilers, hula-hoops, something on every model. Helicopter blades. Something, I don't care.
Okay, okay, I know: Retooling is expensive. A major overhaul of the production line, it's expensive. But you know what's really expensive? NOT SELLING ANY FUCKING CARS.
There. I said it. Did I hurt your feelings? Does my widdle boahd of diwectors need a bowttle? Suck it up. We're here to sell cars, not love the CEO. Which is me. Starting ten minutes ago.
I can see by the heat-fumes baking off the investors' section that this is not what you wanted to hear today. And I know why. It's because you all own as much, if not more, stock in petroleum production as you do in automotive production. It's been a cozy handshake for lo, these many decades, and it has put cash in every pocket you've got, including "nature's pocket," which is why half of you literally seem to have money falling out your asses. It's why we haven't made any serious fuel efficiency progress in the last 25 years. Because you're conflicted. Not conflicted as in "Sophie's Choice" conflicted, but as in "I know I'm screwing consumers and the environment and every measure of moral rectitude but I don't effing care" conflicted. As fuel efficiency goes, we're not even keeping up with the Chinese. The Chinese. Have you ever been to Beijing? Breathing the air is like inhaling a breakfast burrito.
And normally, I wouldn't care. I'd be happy to let you go on about your evil ways, content in the knowledge that most of you will be reincarnated as either dung beetles or Egyptian sex slaves in the next life. But here's the thing: We're pretty much out of gas. We're having to kill and die for it—well no one in this room, obviously—and it's causing us to behave irrationally. The globe's getting pretty warm, and even if there are enough holes in the scientific data that Quick Trip dropouts like Michael Chrichton can still shill pulp like "State of Fear" to the Flat Earth Society, I'd still rather start being part of the solution instead of part of the problem.
But listen. This is a matter of economy of scale. You will still make money. If you make 10 percent less in petroleum, but 20 percent more from Ford—is that really a problem for you?
Finally, I want to turn this company around because, damn it, I drive a Ford. It's a 1999 Taurus. I have tried to kill it repeatedly. Yet it struggles on.
So there you have it. A new, new way forward. We will make money, we'll save the planet, we'll stabilize the economy, and a whole bunch of other shit that's going to be just great. You can e-mail me with your suggestions, because I never read e-mail. I don't care if you burn me in effigy in the company parking lot—just sell some goddam cars.
Thank you for your time, and I look forward to our successful venture together.
Good day, and also: Fuck Mullally.