Manufacturers’ Dirty Laundry

Santa’s SUV sleigh stashed several strong sizable sacks, sojourning from the Delaware beaches to the home of some special children in Northwest New Jersey over the Christmas holiday last month—sacks of dirty laundry.

Early in December, Santa (aka Granpa) and his helper (Gramma) began to notice their clothes washer wasn’t working properly. Using AI and following YouTube suggestions, they tried to determine what the problem was and how to fix it: nothing doing. So, Santa called the manufacturer (a household name in appliances) to request a certified repairperson to come to repair it: nothing doing. Instead, Santa was transferred to a third-party warranty issuer, who offered to send someone out for a visit...at the price of $360. A quick calculation revealed that to be a fraction of the price for a new machine—in fact, a very small fraction of the price of the highly-rated Speed Queen brand. Santa’s washing machine was builder-grade, having been included, along with four other major appliances, in the purchase Santa had made for Mrs. Claus’s heart’s desire: a home by the beach, on which purchase they had closed in March of 2024.

As he had done for some fifty-five years—in a prior, much different career in the markets—Santa picked up the phone and stipulated, on a recorded line, that what he didn’t want to happen was for someone to come to the house, ascertain what was wrong, then announce he didn’t have the necessary part in his truck to do the job, and then disappear: sorry, too bad. Instead, it was disclosed that, at the price of $360, the first house visit was indeed a “diagnostic” visit; and that there could be no guarantee that the manufacturer-certified technician could fix it on the first visit. It was then proffered that I could, for the same price, spread over the course of a year (!), with no interest charged, purchase a renewable warranty. This would provide that, once repaired, if anything went wrong again, it would be fixed—free of charge.

In order to get a certified someone to come to the house at all? $360. And that, with no guarantee of anything—other than that, at some undefined point in the future, this appliance, which had been not more than eighteen months in use, would be repaired. The duration of the manufacter’s original warranty was, naturally, only one year.

By this time, 13 December, Santa had been without the use of a washing machine for more than a week. Experience over the years had taught him that there is generally more benefit from action than in inaction in such matters; and the thought of showing up at his children’s homes wearing soiled Santa clothes clinched the deal. Two days later, on 15 December, a technician showed up, connected his diagnostic equipment, and offered a disquieting “yep, that’s what I thought—I know that sound—I’ve seen this a lot with this model.” Mumbling something about “factory back-orders” and such, he then quickly disconnected his cables, asked me to sign a card indicating he had been there, and assured me that “someone would be calling in a couple of days” to schedule a repair. Santa’s grumbling that this was exactly what he had told the manufacturer he didn’t want to happen fell on deaf ears.

On Friday the 19th, ahead of the holiday languor already in full bloom, and having received no such phone call, but having tracked down the service company to learn “the part is on factory back-order,” Santa resorted to Grinch Mode. While preparing for his trip up north to visit his youngest and her family, he called the manufacturer; insisted on being connected to a supervisor; recited the model and serial numbers; and instructed the supervisor to drill down and give him an estimated time of arrival of “the part on factory back-order.” Despite having regained his composure during a twenty-minute period “on hold,” upon hearing the answer, Santa’s iconic smile vanished, along with the heretofore “ho-ho-ho” and twinkle in his eye:

• The failure of the computer board “part” in question had drawn many such complaints and service calls;

• Because of this, in the summer of 2025, the computer board had been redesigned and the manufacturer had issued a TSB (Technical Service Bulletin)-not exactly a recall: a recall would have required the replacement of all such parts, with no cost to the customer.

• The part was being manufactured at a factory in the south of Mainland China. It was to be sent on a container ship, not via air freight.

• There was thus no guarantee of when this particular part might arrive. However, when pressed, the supervisor stated his earliest estimate would be “in mid-February; maybe as late as June.”

Santa was not happy. Coal for these guys, for sure, he thought. He consulted his elves.

Informed by his elves that a certain number of redesigned boards had in fact already been made and sent to certain distributors in the United States—available to Select Service Providers—quick as the crack of a reindeer whip, Santa was once again on the phone, informing all three involved–the manufacturer, the third-party warranty company, and the service provider—that he knew who was being naughty and who nice; and mentioned that the law firm of Dewey, Sue ’Em, and Howe might be calling—“after the holidays,” of course.

As he was allocating some coal to the manufacturer’s CEO for Christmas 2026, Santa noticed an Saturday, 10 January 2026, a package had arrived on his doorstep in coastal Delaware. It was not very heavy. It was “the part!” He immediately dispatched his newest reindeer, Textus, to the service provider, following up Monday morning, 13 January, to schedulee a technician for the earliest available time. On Thursday afternoon, a very skilled technician showed up, removed the old part, replaced it with a newly designed and manufactured computer board, accepted a small donation for his chilren’s Christmas fund, and departed. Santa felt like a child on Christmas morning! The joy of clean skivvies on demand was nothing short of wonderful!

So, what, dear reader, is really going on here?

Simply put, having taken a bite of the globaloney sandwich most U.S. manufacturers dished up more than a half-century ago, and desiring to escape the impact of the fundamentally flawed and profoundly immoral monetary system involved—itself exacerbating the insidious process of inflation—manufacturers have fixed their repair costs for products using the legal sophistry of warranties. Unlike a lifetime guarantee, which relies on a manufactuer’s deserved reputation for, and delivery of, excellent products and services, a warranty is a contractual relationship—one increasingly buffered, contractually, by the separation of manufactuers and warranty issuers. Publicly-traded manufacturers, often driven by quarterly earnings-per-share goals, can both lower their cost of goods sold—along with the durability of their products—by advancing the notion of “don’t worry, it won’t cost you anything, if it breaks down during the first year, or if you buy an extended third-party warranty of some kind. Oh, your time, the inconvenience, safety or health concerns? Not our problem: we don’t factor that into the cost of the warranty–only the estimated costs of repair.”

Because, you know—it’s just dirty laundry, after all.