No Soliciting

I do not want your cleaning product.

I do not read your magazines.

Jesus can have my soul when I'm finished with it, and if you ask me one more time if I want your rewards card, I'm gonna fill out that content sheet with a bunch of offensive words just so I can happily imagine the look on your grandma's face as she's trying to type it into your data base.

I will, however, buy your cookies.

But only the thin mints. And only one box.

I will not buy them on my way into the grocery store, but I might buy them on the way out.

And if your Dad is out there with you, I assume you're pretty cool, and that the two of you will be going out for a burgers before coming home to play Halo 4 and therefore, I will buy your cookies.

Yet, if your mom is with you, I just assume she's an obnoxious twit who is making you do this because she never really amounted to anything but a loveless marriage to an upper middle class building contractor who played baseball in high school, and therefore, I will buy your cookies because the Girl Scouts support abortion and gay rights.

(Don't be so easily offended. You know exactly who I'm talking about)

And I'm not misogynistic, I've just spent too many years in suburbia.

I will not, absolutely will not, buy any more insurance than is legally mandated.

Insurance plays only two roles: 1. To frighten you into believing something bad will happen and 2. To make it as difficult as possible for you to cash out when something bad happens.

Terrible, terrible product.

Terrible terrible people who solicit it.

I hate them more than I hate those people on Facebook who post chain letters for curing cancer, even though, that is exactly what Facebook is for; unabashed opinions and disease control.

Did you know that Geico is short for Government Employees Insurance Company?

I don't honestly know why that would be important, but it makes me nervous anyway.


I guess it may suffice to say that I'm not a fan of solicitation.

At all.

Yet WaitDad is at a point now where I've gotta start selling stuff.

Cause, you know, the best way to get rich quick is to record a song, and post silly pictures, and write a blog about it.

But only if you can find fans.

And only if you've also generated content that they can buy.

Content I can create. Content I can sell. But I've got to generate traffic and Raley's won't let me stand outside their automatic doors with a business card and a box of thin mints, even if my dad does it with me.

Which means I have to become a marketing genius.

Or hire one.

Probably hire one.

And then I have to listen to her.

Cause she's a genius, and I'm just a blogger/musician/amateur mud wrestler, and will most likely be paying her actual money, to tell me to do things like going door to door, and terrifying people into thinking that if they don't read my stuff daily then something bad will happen, which Geico will not cover.

Artists are decisively arrogant to compensate for the crippling pain of low self esteem. After content creation comes a tipping point where the artist either dies or is lifted above the mire with shameless self promotion, baby kissing, hand shaking, and door to door guerrilla self promotion.

I can no longer survive with just my big toe dipping into some icy water, for it's polar bear time and I'm gonna need someone to hold the towel while I jump off the dock.

Between the hamburgers and Halo 4, my boy also deserves the kind of role model who can grab a hold of his fear, shamelessly walk into a crowded room and tell his story, and play his songs and sell an album or two.

However, and this is a promise, if she makes me create a rewards card, I will absolutely make sure that your grandmother isn't doing any of my data inputting.

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