Monday, July 14, 2008

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.

12 comments:

  1. If I want to be talked into buying shit, I'll watch early morning television, thank you very much. I'm more inclined to buy Shamwow and Green Bags than I am these photo whozits.

    But then again, I'm so easy to talk into purchases if I stick around any longer I'll have my very own melamine plate. Or twelve.

    Also, I'm taking bets on LB's response to this blog. The smart money is on "blood-soaked hatred topped with bile."

    Also also, if she would rather tell stories (from her post about the review), why doesn't she?

    Tertiary also, it took me 11.5 tries to spell "stories" right.

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  2. So I guess I scare people off now.

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  3. If that toast had some jelly on it, I might lick the screen.

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  4. How can she have the numbers she does? Are these the same people who would sit around all day and read the PennySaver or the grocery circulars? Are they old ladies for whom QVC is too fast-paced?

    Oh, and her daughter's Hanna Montana blog shares the same template as mine. Excuse me while I go eviscerate myself.

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  5. Oh, and I like her daughter's Miley Ray Cyrus, glitter-encrusted, what's your favorite color, spider pig blog better than hers.

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  6. I really don't need this shit on a Monday.

    I feel like I should be snipping her blog for coupons.

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  7. Someone is having the worst monday ever.

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  8. Hello, all. Justs got back from corrupting my young'uns by taking them to the warped tour.

    I'm tired, sunburnt, and more than a little crotchety. I'd rip this woman a new asshole, but I so lurve NJ for all the work he did while I was gone.

    I guess I'll just settle for gauging her eye out with a plastic spork.

    WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING, submitting this asshattery to us, bitch? The whole "blogging as selling" phenomenon speaks to all that is wrong with this world right now. FUCK.

    If you want to use your blog to sell shit, it has to NOT SUCK ASS FIRST. This blog is way too sucky for it to represent anything but the blogosphere's answer to Amway. And I fucking HATE that Amway shit.

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  9. Wow. Burnt toast as a rating. Could you at least cut and paste Jesus' face one it? Come on.

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  10. "on it" NOT "one it"

    Fucking kids have sucked my brain cells dry.

    Maybe this blog will sell them for me.

    The kids. Not the brain cells.

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  11. Damn. Burnt toast. At least throw her some cinnamon sugar, some of it was mildly amusing. I've decided to disown my current poor family and become adopted into her way more affluent family to get a free trip to Paris.

    I totally think the face on the burnt toast should be the Virgin Mary. I bet she was nicer than Jesus, what with her not ever sending anybody to the burning fires of hell to rot in pain for all eternity. But then that whole not getting laid thing might have made her a little testy.

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  12. The blog, and it's tremendously effective review, finally broke the camel's back regarding my feelings about women.

    I've had it.

    All of you harlots, turn in your goddamn keyboards to Nutjobber on your way out.

    ...

    Mind you, Shamwow is a seriously impressive product. I only saw that infomercial once, but it blew my mind right open.

    Opinion summary for 15/07/08:
    - women = fail
    - Shamwow = pass

    ~ Driz

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Grow a pair.