Sales pitch

Dear Mr salesman man (because you’re always a man), this is what I want to say to you: fuck off.

You come up to me in my own driveway as I’m unloading a fresh batch of martinis from the car and you try to sell me new walls, paint, clean drains, pipes to put on the roof, insurance, religion, and body parts. And when you try to sell me newspapers you talk like you think I’ve never heard of them or the news or world events or the world. You are a patronising, small-brained prick. Yes, I know what’s going on in the world but clearly you don’t or you wouldn’t be trying to sell me this propaganda rag.

And you don’t take no for an answer. You know that? You don’t fucking respect the word no. It’s not a difficult idea: whatever you’re selling I don’t fucking want it. How tough is that? So when I say no, you just keep going like an apprentice rapist, so I have to keep saying no no no no no no no until it hurts.

Oh, I’m very polite about it. I just go ii desu, ii desu, ii desu, which, you know, is a nice way of saying no thanks, it’s a nice way of saying no fucking way, just fuck the fuck off out of my fucking face, out of my life, out of my fucking wallet, but you don’t take the hint, do you.

You just stand there all sweat and bad teeth and gibber-jabber bollocks and you won’t go away, and then there’s another one of you there thrusting at me with another crap thing I don’t want, and another you and another you and you don’t fucking go away.

No. Absolutely fucking not. No way.

You are no fucking use to humanity. None whatsoever. You produce nothing. You contribute nothing. You create no meaning, no insight, no value; you hang there in no useful space, a leech on the back of the producers and doers. Take yourself away back to that Golgafrincham ship of fools so we can shoot you into deep space to contaminate some dark matter somewhere. (Apologies to dark matter.)

No, and no again. I am an adult. I can make up my mind for myself. I, and only I, will decide what I need and when I need it. My needs are no business of yours. You don’t even know me. How can you possibly know what I need or want?

Just for the record here’s a sample of my needs and wants: love, my family, a hug from my cat; a very few good friends to whom I don’t need to explain myself; some time with my stories and drawings; a good book to read, some music to listen to, a picture to be inspired by; the occasional view of mountains or the milky way; a glimpse of wild animals living life their way without humans or salesmen. How come you never sell me those things? You’re all dishrags and rag ties and great deals that will make life complete but which won’t, and some kind of non-specific brain disease.

No, let me amplify on that secret: I know what I want and when I don’t have it I have the initiative to go out and get it.

And the other secret, if you haven’t guessed it by now: I smile at you, I’m reasonable, and I pretend to be patient, but behind that careful declining what really is going through my head is fuck the fuckety-fuck off you slimy piece of crap.