Last Friday some young punk knocked on my front door as I was finishing lunch. He was selling magazine subscriptions (supposedly under the authority of some larger legitimate organization) to finance a personal trip to the Caribbean. I fell for this schtick last year, “renewing” a Rolling Stone subscription because the smooth-operating young man hawking the goods made me feel a) ageless and beautiful ; b) lucky to live in my neighborhood; and c) completely seduced and impressed by his slick salesmanship. I’m not kidding. This man could talk Howard Stern into celibacy. Or Thomas Pynchon into a splashy media campaign to promote his next book.
So because J (home for lunch) snuck off to hide in the living room, I politely listened to and tactfully declined the pitch, although this young salesman could have really given last year’s huckster a stroll for the money in a suave-off. “Sorry,” I said as nicely as I could in my sing-song, please-believe-my-fake-regret-to-end-this-moment voice. Instantly, he snapped into snark-mode (with a whiff of K-Fed pseudo-tude): “Don’t be Sorry. That’s a board game.”
He really said that. Slightly baffled, I had to pause for about five full seconds to absorb what he meant by that strange comeback. And then I got it.
In response, I wish I would have said this: “I can see you haven’t got a MONOPOLY on magazine sales in this neighborhood, because I fell for this BUNCO last summer. So I’m afraid that today won’t be your PAYDAY. You’ll have to look into some less DICEy CAREERS. This OPERATION seems to be more TROUBLE than it’s worth, and hardly worth the AGGRAVATION. I don’t have a CLUE how you get people to fall for this RISK-y and TRIVIAL PURSUIT; it BOGGLES the CRANIUM.”
Instead I cowardly sicked him on the elderly women that live across the street from us. And yes, that’s how you spell “to sic” in the past tense. I looked it up, bitches.