Dealing with a Salesman
By
Michael Casey
We had a salesman touting for business in the street, now this is such an open goal as far as I am concerned. It’s like sweets left unattended, do you think they’ll last in our house, in any house? Yes today’s guy was Irish in his black shirt, like a Country and Western star, or Johnny Cash. So I told him he looked like a priest, with the collar off, if he’s reading this now he can verify it. He said he was from Clare, so I said it did not matter, and did he not know that Kerry was the best county. Ask any Kerryman they will agree, oh and yes my parents were Kerry people.
The trick with salesmen is not to let them talk, just talk over them, and keep on talking. Don’t listen to them, just keep on talking over them. And go on a sidetrack, if he’s selling double glazing tell him to buy your house instead, then he won’t have to travel so much as he blitzes the area with his double glazing. And go on and on and on, Obama couldn’t keep up with my soaring rhetoric, maybe I should just be a politician and keep on talking nonsense BS, but then maybe my hands are just too small, even though my hair is so nice and silvery.
This really is a blood sport, me activating the nuclear BS option, but then again, salesmen deserve it. If you come to my door, this is what you’ll get. Or if I’m busy picking my nose I might open the door and bless the cold caller and slam the door in their face. A warning though if you hunt in packs, if you are these mad “religious” zealots who think no blood transfusions is God’s will and hand out their rubbish, saying it’s an “invitation”. Firstly me and millions would be dead without blood transfusions, their idea belongs to no God I would recogise.
So if you bang on my door, a vampire will appear, with tomato ketchup dripping down from my mouth. Yes, I will answer, you came to give me a donation? I’ll lick my lips like Hannibal Lector, taking their hand firmly, as firm as a Donald Trump handshake. I’ll scrunch up their rubbish as I sniff their hand, which I’ll then begin to lick. As fear and un-comprehension rises on their face, I’ll scream I’m Bad, I’m Bad, and you are SAD, and laugh like Vincent Price.
Usually that does the trick, I never get the likes of mad “religious” people ever again. If you believe in Death, don’t ever come near me, just leave me alone, as Michael Jackson used to sing. I have zero tolerance for their ilk. And just in case you think I’m joking I am not, however if you are a little old lady that wants a chat at the bus stop then you can have all the time in the world, as Armstrong sung.
Life is short, and I’m very lucky I had my quadruple heart bypass, so I’m not going to waste a second, and despite knowing I’ll still have lots of pain to some degree, maybe 50% of the time, I want to have some fun. And door to door salesman are an easy target. Sometimes it’s fun to hear them talk, but I’ll boast now, I can out talk anybody, and as you all know, I have a PhD in BS. What are you reading after all, it’s top quality Trumpian level of story telling, it all depends who you believe? And who would you prefer to open the door to?
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