I'm Not Buying It

Imagine getting dragged to a yard-sale: you’re milling about in the driveway because there’s really nothing visible that’s even remotely interesting much less worthy of purchase, so you’re bored to shit and twice as grumpy, looking balefully at whomever roped you into this situation and trying to discern whether or not it’s bad etiquette to light a smoke, when, to your horror, this woman walks up to you and starts with the chatting. Suddenly, you’re convinced that this, possibly, is the most coma-inducing circumstance a fine, well-heeled young man with an allergy to boredom could find himself trapped in, so you light your cigarette and pretend to pay attention to this random woman as she talks lest you be seen as a boor with no manners and even less sympathy.

After a couple of minutes, after a couple of yarns involving problems procuring a passport, you realize that you’re not pretending to listen anymore but, shockingly, actually listening; uncharacteristic politeness causes you to step away for a moment to grind your cigarette into the road instead of this woman’s garden, and then she starts in with the Hard Sell, an unflinching barrage of sales-pitches and nonstop "reminders" of the gift-exchanging occasions that are fast approaching, and you stop her, pleading with her to tell a few more stories - she tries, but accidentally hits you in the head with her hand-held sign imploring others to sell their crap at her yard-sale, and then, a huckster-born, she drifts back into a salesmanship so profound that it makes you want to burn a pile of cash on the street to see who would run out in front of cars just for a sniff of sweet, sweet money, and you finally understand that you’ve been had, that she was only telling you stories so that you’d feel compelled to buy something because you’ve spent all fucking morning wandering around in her yard.

Luckily for you, you aren’t actually all that polite, so in lieu of buying anything you slap down a because, while the last guy couldn’t tell stories like this woman, at least he wasn’t constantly poking you in the shoulder and asking if you needed a plate with Winnie the fucking Pooh on it.