According to recent reports, car dealers are informing auto manu facturers that they have too many electric vehicles on their lots and are dialing back orders until their current inventory is soId. Scott Kunes, Chief Operating Officer at Kunes Auto and RV Group, explained that his company is turning away additional EV inventory.
“We have turned away EV inventory. We need to ensure that we have a good turn on it,” he said, as reported on Business Insider. Kunes said that automakers are “asking us to make a Iarge investment….and we’re just wanting to see some return on that.”
Sam Fiorani, Vice President of global vehicle forecasting at AutoForecast Solutions, outlined how EVs aren’t practical for many Americans as they would have to alter their lifestyle when switching from a gas-powered car. “It’s not just that these vehicles are expensive — which they are. We’re talking about a much more nuanced Iifestyle change,” said Fiorani. EVs obviously have a more constrained range than gas-powered vehicles, and charging stations can be sparsely located.
EVs are also notably more expensive than traditional combustion engine-based cars. According to Consumer Reports, the average sale price of an EV is over $61,000, or $12,000 more expensive than the overall average in the auto industry. “It’s hard for the average customer to make that leap while spending an extra $10,000,” Fiorani continued.
Electric vehicle horror stories have also plagued the news, where consumers share personaI anecdotes of the dysfunctionality of these cars. Recently, a Ford F-150 Lightning owner was forced to ditch his EV on a road trip from Winnipeg to Chicago.
The all-electric Ford pickup retails for well north of $100k. However, based on the sentiment from disgruntled consumers, it seems this truck does not live up to its price tag. The man called electric vehicles the “biggest scam of modern times” after his experience with his F-150 Lightning.
While many have lofty projections for EVs in the Iong term, it’s safe to say that these vehicles are not ready to replace the reliability of traditional automobiles. Although, this hasn’t deterred some woke, blue states in the U.S. from preemptively enacting electric vehicle mandates.
For example, California announced it would ban the sale of new gas-powered cars by 2035. Such mandates have drawn concern, particularly from automakers who will be forced to play within the guidelines of these new regulations.
“Whether or not these requirements are realistic or achievable is directIy linked to external factors like inflation, charging and fuel infrastructure, supply chains, labor, critical mineral availability and pricing, and the ongoing semiconductor shortage,” John Bozzella, president and CEO of the Alliance for Automotive Innovation said in a statement. “These are complex, intertwined and global issues.”
Also, many concerns surround the feasibility of a mass transition to electric vehicles. As it stands, this could limit people’s autonomy as driving ranges are limited and charging infrastructure is insufficient. Furthermore, there couId be an affordability crisis as many Americans can’t even afford a new car, let alone the price of a new EV.
MY 12-YEAR-OLD SON DEMANDED WE RETURN THE 2-YEAR-OLD GIRL WE ADOPTED — ONE MORNING, I WOKE UP AND HER CRIB WAS EMPTY
The morning sun streamed through the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. I stretched, a contented sigh escaping my lips. Then, I froze.
Lily’s crib, nestled beside my bed, was empty.
Panic clawed at my throat. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. “John!” I yelled, my voice hoarse.
John rushed into the room, his face pale. “What’s wrong? Where’s Lily?”
“She’s gone!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Her crib is empty!”
John’s eyes widened. “Oh God, you don’t think…”
The thought that had been lurking in the shadows of my mind, a fear I had desperately tried to ignore, now solidified into a chilling reality. My son, driven by anger and resentment, had taken Lily.
The ensuing hours were a blur of frantic phone calls to the police, frantic searches of the house, and a growing sense of dread. Every ticking second felt like an eternity. John, his face etched with guilt and fear, was inconsolable.
“I should have been firmer with him,” he kept repeating, “I should have never let him stay home alone.”
But I knew it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I had allowed my son’s anger to fester, I had underestimated the depth of his resentment. Now, I was paying the price.
The police arrived, their faces grim as they surveyed the scene. They questioned us, searched the house, and offered little comfort. “We’ll find her,” the lead detective assured us, his voice firm, but his eyes held a grim uncertainty.
As the hours turned into days, the initial wave of panic gave way to a chilling despair. I imagined Lily, frightened and alone, wandering the streets, lost and vulnerable. I pictured her small face, her big brown eyes filled with tears, her tiny hand reaching out for comfort that no one could offer.
The search continued, but hope dwindled with each passing day. Volunteers scoured the neighborhood, posters with Lily’s picture plastered on every lamppost. The news channels picked up the story, her face plastered across television screens, a plea for information.
But there was no trace of her.
The guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. I replayed every interaction with my son, every harsh word, every dismissive glance. I had focused on the joy of adopting Lily, on the love I felt for this small, vulnerable child. But I had neglected my son, his feelings, his needs. I had failed him, and now, because of my neglect, Lily was missing.
One evening, while sitting on the porch, staring at the fading light, I heard a faint sound. A soft whimper, barely audible above the rustling leaves. I followed the sound, my heart pounding, my breath catching in my throat.
Hidden behind a large oak tree, I found them. My son, huddled beneath a blanket, was holding Lily close, his face buried in her hair. Lily, her eyes wide with fear, was clinging to him, her small hand clutching his shirt.
Relief washed over me, so intense it almost brought me to my knees. I rushed towards them, tears streaming down my face. “Lily!” I cried, scooping her up into my arms.
My son, his face pale and drawn, looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of shame and relief. “I… I couldn’t let her go,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “I know I was mean, but… but I love her too, Mom.”
As I held Lily close, her tiny body trembling against mine, I realized that the past few days had been a painful but ultimately necessary lesson. It had taught me the importance of communication, of empathy, of acknowledging the feelings of those I loved.
That night, as I rocked Lily to sleep, my son curled up beside me, his head resting on my shoulder. We had lost precious time, but we had also found something unexpected – a deeper, more profound connection. We had faced our fears, confronted our mistakes, and emerged stronger, more united than ever before.
The road to healing would be long, but we would face it together, as a family. And in the quiet moments, I would cherish the sound of Lily’s laughter, a sweet melody that filled our home with a joy I had almost lost forever.
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