I've also used it on a modern MINI Cooper with delicate, computer-controlled everything and all of the MINI's electrons seem perfectly OK with the CTEK, too.
Here's another "don't be like stupid-Stan" story.
One of my mother's greatest joys ("bless her heart") lies in being a martyr. Her stories of self-denial and hardscrabble upbringing are legendary in the family. She did have some really tough breaks as a kid (her mom died when she was 9), but her life has been pretty cushy for decades. In one of her 5 or 6 "go-to" stories, told for the entirety of my 60 years, Mom talks about how from the earliest day of her childhood, she had always wanted a red convertible - but her sensible upbringing and early start at adulthood (married at 19, I came along at 20) left her with yet another dream unfulfilled ("Oh well, it's probably for the best... sigh"). For reference, Mom couldn't spend what Dad made and left her in 2 additional lifetimes.
Anyhow, in 2010 or so, Precision Mechanical Services was firing on all cylinders, and mid-90s Mercedes SLKs with retractable hardtops could be had for under $10K. I would like the record to state that I'm not a red car fan (at all) - but that I located and procured a blazin' red gen-u-whine Mercedes-Benz SLK for Mom, in an effort to prove that I might be a son she could be proud of, sure... but at least in part just to see how Mom would react to being down one good martyr story, leaving her with the 4 or 5 remaining.
She was overwhelmed. Mom is one of those women of a certain age who struggle to express real happiness or heartfelt gratitude, and she was struggling. She fussed and fretted about what her church-lady friends would say - but she really was happy. Dad just dove in and drove "Mom's" car like he stole it (which I guess he did, in a way). He hauled her all over the country in that car. He also put it into a guardrail and had a "discount bodyman" fix it, but together Mom and Pop used the car until Dad got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2015. They parked it and never drove it again.
Dad fought hard, but died 2-1/2 years later. About a year after his diagnosis, I bought the 2 BR ranch next to the house we were building in the middle of Morton. Dad and I spent every day for over a year working together to gut and completely remodel the house for mom to live in after Dad was gone. It was one of the sweetest years of my life. After Dad died, I got Mom and Dad's place ready to sell, and finished the remodel.
Part of getting the house ready was rat-holing the SLK somewhere. I didn't have the heart to sell "Mom's" (Dad's) car, so I rented some covered space, drove the car down, parked it and disconnected the battery.
... which brings me (finally) to the point of this long and boring tale.
A couple of years ago, Mom said, "I think it's time to sell the convertible". I hemmed and hawed and deflected and told her she'd drive it again someday, but she won't. Since Dad died, Mom has broken down rapidly and pretty completely. She's still living next door, but I don't see how it'll be possible for her to live alone in 5 years.
Eventually I relented. I took the rollback trailer down to the storage place, dragged the car out, and winched it on the trailer. I brought it back to Stanistan, and connected my super-duper 200a jumpstarter charger to the car. I had the charger on the highest 12v setting, and went in the house. A couple hours later, I went to the trailer, hopped in the car, and started the SLK (still sitting on the trailer).
It was (understandably) running a bit rough with 5+ year old gas and a battery at least 10 years old. I disconnected the charger, backed it off the trailer, and onto the drive
I left it running, while I began pressurewashing 3+ years of grime and pigeon poop off the car. There had been evidence of rodents in the engine bay, and I made the first of two giant mistakes. I decided to pressurewash under the hood.
And there I was, merrily spraying away, engine idling roughly, when I sprayed something I shouldn't have, and the car died.
I'm not sure what happened to me at that point, but I did something colossally stupid. If I'd have been less emotionally invested, or had slept in a Holiday Inn Express the night before, or perhaps had not eaten those psychedelic mushrooms, I'd have just gone to Walmart for a new battery. I (sadly, however) did not. I plead temporary insanity for what I did do. I connected the big-honkin' "jumpstart charger" and set the phaser to "kill". I powered that baby up, the amp needle buried to the right, and the car cranked over like I was applying 24v to a 12v system
... which I was. For those of you who weren't raised getting long-slumbering 1960s vintage grain-trucks started in the fall - these super-chargers get their "200a jump-start" setting by jumping the transformer up to 24v and letting the battery act as a damper to keep from frying the points and capacitors and coils they're meant to scare to life.
A mid-90s Mercedes SLK is no 'murican grain truck - it is a highly evolved and quite dainty post-modern device with something like 14 different German ECUs all doing their German ECU things. None of these ECUs (it turns out) are designed to handle 24v. I almost immediately realized what I had done, and quickly turned the charger back to its highest 12v setting. But once a bell is rung, it cannot be unrung. The smoke, as they say, was out of the box.
On the positive side, I didn't see any smoke or smell anything burning. However, the car did not start. It did not try to start. It didn't cough like it might start. The dash lit up like a Christmas Tree. Deep from somewhere under the dash, I started hearing a driver clicking on and off and on and off over and over. Odd combinations of lights and fans were lit or running (and could not be shut off).
I disconnected the battery and closed the hood. I called a friend from town who is something of a German car savant and asked if he wanted to take a look at it. I ended up selling him the car for $1500, and I think he gave that to me out of pity for my poor, poor mother. I believe the toll was 4 ECU boards, one of which was something of a masterbrain for the whole thing, and was buried deep in the bowels of the dash. It took him a month of nights to get it back on the road.
Get the right charger.