Like in Office Space, only not funny
So I was going to talk about that silly, silly bitch A-Rod, but I realized my post would boil down to two things: one, like doy; and two, as much as I hate that unclefucker, I gotta wonder why him – just him – and not the other 103 guys. Although I did want to share this hilarious nugget from sfgate’s Scott Ostler: “Right now, Alex Rodriguez is munching contemplatively on nougat from a thank-you Candygram from Michael Phelps and trying to figure out what to do next.”
But then yesterday, thanks to some foolishly opened-to-the-sunlight blinds in my big living room window, I was forced to respond to the doorbell rung by some door-to-door salesguys. It’s this outfit that hits our neighborhood every couple of months, where the yutes generally work in teams, and try to engage you in this longwinded conversation about [you] helping people [i.e. them] get their lives back on track and whatnot, and they ask you all this personal shit, and cast their sales effort as some kind of “competition” for “points,” and but what they’re doing is selling magazines at like quadruple the normal subscription rate (seriously, three years of Shape for $60?) via a serious guilt strongarm technique. Usually I just say no thanks, don’t need no magazines, buh bye, right when I see them, but these two yesterday were a real prize – Talky McChatterson fired up his patter immediately, then opened my screen door to shake my hand, in such a way that I’d’ve had to respond really roughly in order to refuse, and then he and Silent O’Testifyin’ had me in their grip for like twenty goddamn minutes. And this was bad enough, but they just would not take no for an answer, and because I’d glanced at the list of mags, they had the order written up already – just waiting for my signature. I felt completely railroaded, but also vulnerable – I’m standing at the door, sick, in my lounging PJs, with my baby on my hip, the door open, hoping they can’t see the flat-screen TV … I mean, it felt like the joint was getting cased, and the fact that this team of fine upstanding citizens had already TOLD ME they were ex-gang-members (maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, but is someone coaching these kids to go door-to-door SAYING that??? WTF?) and Talky'd SHOWED ME the scar behind his ear from an alleged bullet, did not increase my desire to hand them cash or a check with my account number on it, you know? So … um. Yeah. My blinds are closed today. Kinda dark in here, but, well.
But then yesterday, thanks to some foolishly opened-to-the-sunlight blinds in my big living room window, I was forced to respond to the doorbell rung by some door-to-door salesguys. It’s this outfit that hits our neighborhood every couple of months, where the yutes generally work in teams, and try to engage you in this longwinded conversation about [you] helping people [i.e. them] get their lives back on track and whatnot, and they ask you all this personal shit, and cast their sales effort as some kind of “competition” for “points,” and but what they’re doing is selling magazines at like quadruple the normal subscription rate (seriously, three years of Shape for $60?) via a serious guilt strongarm technique. Usually I just say no thanks, don’t need no magazines, buh bye, right when I see them, but these two yesterday were a real prize – Talky McChatterson fired up his patter immediately, then opened my screen door to shake my hand, in such a way that I’d’ve had to respond really roughly in order to refuse, and then he and Silent O’Testifyin’ had me in their grip for like twenty goddamn minutes. And this was bad enough, but they just would not take no for an answer, and because I’d glanced at the list of mags, they had the order written up already – just waiting for my signature. I felt completely railroaded, but also vulnerable – I’m standing at the door, sick, in my lounging PJs, with my baby on my hip, the door open, hoping they can’t see the flat-screen TV … I mean, it felt like the joint was getting cased, and the fact that this team of fine upstanding citizens had already TOLD ME they were ex-gang-members (maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, but is someone coaching these kids to go door-to-door SAYING that??? WTF?) and Talky'd SHOWED ME the scar behind his ear from an alleged bullet, did not increase my desire to hand them cash or a check with my account number on it, you know? So … um. Yeah. My blinds are closed today. Kinda dark in here, but, well.
Labels: beisbol a been berry berry good to me, things that are bad for the world
posted by Gleemonex at 12:27 PM
3 Comments:
the last time i got tricked into buying magazines it was outside a kohl's and a cop pulled up and told the kids to get off the property. he drove off and they asked me if i would give them a ride to sonic. i said no but still bought 2 subscriptions because they were really funny guys.
Probably the same people that broke in my car outside of the Daycare Tuesday. Busted on the window on O's side and stole...drumroll please...my breastpump...guess they tought it was a laptop? Anyway got to vacuum up an Assload of glass out of the kids seats...but wish I could have seen their faces when they opened it up!!!
Hope you feel better..I was out with the same crap all last week...absolute misery.
Oh my god, I'd've paid cash money to see their faces! LOL, for real ... but sorry 'bout the $350 down the drain. Ugh.
Post a Comment
<< Home