There's no mechanic in New York I trust

I'm listening to Car Talk. Geez this guy is a jerk. "There's no mechanic in New York I trust." How can I express my outrage? And my twinge of guilt because he must be a lonely son-of-a-bitch.
He lives in Yonkers, works in Queens. He wants so bad to make friends with Tom and Ray but he's entrenched in being a clumsy jerk. Jerk, that's too clumsy a word. But what do you call it when someone is so afraid to look like a fawning idiot that he just puts down his subject like a-- oh, is that what I'm doing? And why does it matter? The car talk guys can handle it. I mean, the guy says, "You guys are funny, huh? You're always laughin'. You gotta be stupid to be funny, right?" And somehow they get him to tell them his problem, and once he gets it out he falls over himself trying to insert invitations to them to come fix his car themselves. "I don't trust-- There's no mechanic in New York I trust. Can you come fix it? I'll give you a danish."
To all this the Car Talk guys glide over it. They don't even bother to reply. I mean, they're classy. So in the time it takes me to rant about this guy they've moved on and are helping someone else. So why am I even talking about this? Because of course it resounds in something in me that I hate. Namely, my mix of shame and pride that muddies a simple impulse like admiration. Note to self.