“Hey chief, can I take two seconds of your time to talk to you about this awesome product?”
No; no, you cannot. Salespeople are the worst. I get that you need to make a living and all, but I mean… Damn. It is one of those jobs where you really need to have a feel for the room. If the grimace on my face isn’t signal enough to not accost me, then try listening when I repeatedly recite the line, “I’m not interested.” You’re not going to magically change my mind about whatever skincare package you’re selling. I’m sure it does somewhat work, and that’s great. But you proving that to me doesn’t change the fact that I’m just trying to shop at the mall in peace.
Next time one of these assholes tries to hold me hostage, I’m just going to look straight ahead and run.
5B. Special mention: Door-to-door Salespeople
This is a special breed of troll. Your job is the equivalent of little kids selling candy bars to raise money for their tee-ball team, which is sad enough. Don’t embarrass yourself even more by refusing to leave my doorstep. Yes, I am clearly home, and yes, I’m ignoring you. I heard you banging on the door; how could I not? I just don’t have time for your bullshit spiel. Standing there like a lost puppy dog isn’t doing anything, either. I’m in my own home, therefore I clearly have nowhere else to go. All I can do is hide. The ball’s in your court. So do me a favor, get off my porch, and run somewhere to get a real job. You’ll thank me later.
There’s nothing more traumatizing than missing 7 Fridays in a row and having the professor actually take notice. Every class I’ve ever taken is really just an exercise in seeing how well I can fly under the radar, undetected, for 16 weeks. That’s the goal.
It is really frustrating, though, that the one day you decide to actually show up and grace everyone with your presence, this motherfucker, like clockwork, always decides to stop you for a chat. You wonder why I don’t drop by more often? First of all, how do you know my name? We are not on that level, Jeff. Secondly, why the fuck do you care? You get paid the same either way, so calm yourself. Really don’t see a problem here.
Also, let’s not forget that if I was the one who needed to talk about something, this guy would be zooming out of that room as fast as humanly possible because he “has somewhere to be.” But now that it’s all about butting into my business, he suddenly has time. Interesting…
The best maneuver to avoid your convo with Jeff? Find the nearest exit sign, put your blinders on, and run.
It’s college, and, unfortunately for my boss, I am not taking this summer job very seriously. He undoubtedly will, at some point, decide to come up and give me the most passive aggressive advice that he can. It always starts with a warm greeting, asking how I’m doing, etc. This quickly morphs into teaching me a life lesson about being a man and doing the right thing.
How would my parents feel if they saw me acting like a hooligan? Is this how men act? No, but most men actually have real jobs, sir. This is a country club. If I was a man, I’d be playing here, not working. As for my parents, I think they’re just happy that I’m not in jail or something; they couldn’t give two shits about how I bullshit my way through this summer. We both know you’re not going to do anything, sir, so if that’s all, hop your fat ass on that golf cart and run along now.
If you’re drunkenly stumbling home from the bar while minding your own business and a police officer approaches and politely says, “just wanna talk!,” you’re totally fucked. Here’s some advice daddy’s lawyer won’t give you: if you’re ever in this situation, you just gotta run. Nothing you say at this point matters.
Actions speak louder than words right? Well in this case, actions refer to you hightailing your shit the fuck out of there before doughnut boy can reach for his taser. Words don’t mean shit when he is so clearly looking for trouble — and that’s exactly what these guys are about: trouble. Police officers that lurk around bars waiting for overtly drunk college kids to fuck up are not there to make everyone safe; they’re there to fill their quota sheet.
So moral of the story — and I can’t stress this enough — if you’re in this situation and you see the opportunity? Run.
As our distinguished readers have probably surmised at this point, I have a history with really psycho girlfriends. How I attract these merciless succubi is beyond me, but it has happened multiple times. There’s a short list of innate traits inherent to this class of psycho women.
For instance, each had their own way of politely asking to have a casual conversation about an issue in our relationship. It only took a couple of go-arounds for me to realize that our definitions of “casual conversation” were always wildly different. For me, it literally means just having a chill conversation where we can solve any problems. You know, all constructively and shit. For them, it more closely resembled an opportunity to use accusatory language while simultaneously burning my shit, both metaphorically and literally. Obviously, I was not the biggest fan of the latter. If your girl is ever “just wondering about something,” run..