Monthly Archives: April 2011

High End Salesman

A guy walks in, his tale of woe between his legs. He begins by wanting things he cannot pay for. Wants to have me give him a break. Make a deal. Be, you know, a good guy.

Obviously he doesn’t know me.

I did my best to explain the situation to him quickly (pay = stuff/no pay = no stuff) then stopped talking. Sadly, he didn’t.

He figures the hard luck sell will melt my evil heart. The problems began with the beginning of his story. He tells me that, before the shit hit the fan, he was a high end automobile salesman.

I am not casting aspersions upon this mans, ah, how should I say? Acuity, comportment, or dress but if he were selling dirt it wouldn’t be high end dirt.

“Yeah, it was great. Because I was a top salesman they gave me a three hundred thousand dollar car to drive around in. It’s all about image, you know.”

Yes, I think, it is.

Is that a dollop of peanut butter on your shirt?

At least I hope it’s peanut butter.

Now that he has my attention, he brings me from visions of him sipping an Antarctic Nail Ale in a Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 to his current state, nipping a Natty Light in a Nissan.

“You know it’s gotta be tough. I went from selling ten, twelve high end cars a month to not being able to get work. And I had years of experience. But, in this economy, people just aren’t buying.”

That’s right, people aren’t buying but I see plenty of rich motherfuckers shelling out huge cash for some big ticket shit.

“I mean, I could probably get work selling shitty cars but that’s impossible. Once you’ve sold cars like Jaguars and lamb more ghinis you can’t step back.”

No, please, let’s step back. Even if for a word or two.

Did he say, right into my ear hole, that he sold Jaguars and lamb more ghinis? Yes, he said lamb more ghinis. I rewound it in my head to make sure. I Zapruder’d that shit until I had 100% certainty that he said lamb more ghini.

I’m may not be the best judge of character or virtue but I’m beginning to think he may be lying to me about a few things.

“Besides,” he says. “I probably couldn’t work anyway. Yeah, I got that carpet tunnel.”

Two things sprint into my head (I’m not kidding, these two thoughts hit simultaneously with such ferocity I was momentarily skull fucked):

1) I hope it’s not shag carpeted. That would wreak havoc on city MPG.

2) The only way that could be a tragedy in his profession is if he was giving hand jobs with each test drive.

Slowly, I begin to regain my sight, vision, and mental focus.

Sadly, I begin to regain my sight, vision, and mental focus.

The Debate Ends Here

The 70’s were different.

To the best of my findings, this is from a DVD called Va-Va Voom that contains, per the blurb, Cher, Ann-Margret, Raquel Welch, Cybill Shepherd, Brooke Shields and Karen Black sing high-production, song and dance renditions of the big hits of the ’60s and ’70s. Cher, Ann-Margret, Raquel Welch, Cybill Shepherd, Brooke Shields and Karen Black sing high-production, song and dance renditions of the big hits of the ’60s and ’70s.

Culled from lost early footage of ’70s TV specials, here is rare footage of Hollywood’s sexiest screen sirens performing live at their risqué, revealing best.

I’m talking. . .

. . .to a couple of early twenties I know. They are dressed in the clothes of their age and error. . .I mean era. It’s a pleasant conversation. I like them. The don’t ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’ me to death in conversation so that’s a huge point in their favor.

I’m listening to them and, over their shoulder watch someone dressed as a nun (remember, this is the neighborhood where I work so one can never be to sure it’s an actual nun) seems to have taken a severe interest in the couple.

She’s checking them out with disdain that seems to be causing her agitation. I have to assume, because there’s no way she can hear what we’re talking about, it has to do with their dress or comportment (although within their age group it is, to me, far from the worst examples). Whatever it is it doesn’t take her long to make her way to us.

“I’m really ashamed at how you’ve turned out.” Wow! Maybe she’s pissed at me.

The boy turns around and slumps. He says hi to one of his high school teachers. This pisses me off. For one thing, he’s been out of high school for a few years. Two, she doesn’t fucking know him! I do! He’s turned out just fine.

She goes on to chastise us until I’ve had enough. Okay, maybe it wasn’t too long for your average person but I’ll take shit longer aimed at me than I will a friend of mine.

“Hey, sister,” I break in. “Can I ask you a question?”

“If you must.” She chews.

“Have you had a proctological exam recently because, although I’m not a doctor, it’s clear to me somethings crawled up your ass and died.”

I leave her standing there as I usher the kids into my office.

Just another day in the neighborhood in which I work.

The Vault is now open!

People are living longer.

That’s a fact. I think the first person who’s going to have to change his business outlook is Willard Scott. He’s going to have to change his birthday greetings.

“And here’s Moonbeam. She’s one hundred and seventy-five years young today. She enjoys Muay boxing, teaches a weekly kama sutra class, just had her sixth hip replacement and recently completed her eightieth triathlon.”

You know right after that viewers around the world will say,

“Moonbeam! What an old lady name.”

The Doctor Is In!