A guy from ChemLawn came knocking at our door yesterday. I was eating lunch in the recliner, which is just three feet from the front door. The door was open, so the guy could see me in the recliner with my lunch. He didn’t go away.
I got up with my plate in my hand, chewing food.
“Hi, how are you?” he asked.
“I’m eating lunch,” I answered. I’m not normally this rude to solicitors, but I hate being interrupted when I’m eating, especially by people who try to sell me something I’m clearly not interested in, and if my front lawn doesn’t tell the door-to-door salesmen of ChemLawn that I’m not interested in their product, there’s nothing on earth that would.
“Oh, I’m interrupting your lunch, sorry,” he said, and then he plowed straight into his sales pitch.
“I’m not interested, sorry,” I jumped in, as soon as he stopped to take a breath.
He faltered, just a bit, then lept back into his script. “Well, let me just ask you this:” And here, he turned to glance meaningfully at the dandelions, creeping charlie, and quack grass sprouting all across our front yard. “How satisfied are you with your lawn?”
“I’m one hundred percent satisfied,” I said, wearing the most sincere smile imaginable on my face, because I was, in fact, one hundred percent satisfied with the lawn. The only way I could be more satisfied is if the lawn mowed itself.
“One hundred percent,” he repeated dubiously, and when I nodded and said yes, he thanked me and trudged down the steps and left me to my pickles, sausage and cheese plate, which was all I wanted in the first place.
This Is Drivel 