Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Mr. T and Me and the Pegasus Makes Three

There’s a certain level of audacity some sales reps at a company whose name shall be withheld display from time to time that almost ascends to the level of awe-inspiring. For example, someone at Nameless Corp sold a text marketing program to a fucking Amish dude today.
Yeah, you read that one right. Some poor Amish bastard is now the proud owner of a pricey text marketing program. You know those guys. The ones that drive around in a horse and buggy and maybe have one land line to service about ten families. That’s who just got sold text marketing. Some dude named Yoder who makes really nice chairs and has about a dozen kids.
The balls of it. Just breathtaking. I almost want to stand and clap. But then I remember that there’s at least a small percentage chance that Hell is for reals, and I truly don’t want to be stuck there with the kind of douche nozzles who would sell a goddamn Amish guy text marketing.
Frankly, if I could bottle this level of gall, I’d probably be some sort of millionaire. It’d be me running around TV making an ass out of myself in a narcissism driven bid for president, except I wouldn’t be spouting a bunch of racist, misogynist horsecrap.
Either that or I would be paying some scientist to genetically engineer me up a functional Pegasus. Then I’d buy a mountain, and I’d have it renamed Fuck Mountain, and we’d fly to the top of Fuck Mountain and live in peace with Mr. T and the rest of the A team.
Knowing me, it’d be a solid option B.
You know what, I may not be able to bottle that kind of piss artistry, but there is something to be taken from it. You know, more than the message that I need a new job and some people really should be warming a bench in jail. I make some really spiffy things. Usually, I don’t put them out there because of that annoying little voice in my head that says “you’re not good enough, Melinda.”
It’s not that that little voice is entirely wrong. Being self-critical keeps you from walking around with a comb-over and a raging sense of entitlement. But if I could manage to take a dash of that unbridled balls that sales rep had to sell an Amish person a product he neither needed nor understood and apply it to a good end…holy shit, the places I could go.
And the best part is that I could actually live with myself at the end of the day. Because, you know, the whole not a fraud thing.
Incidentally, if anyone wants to help kickstart my fund to buy Fuck Mountain and genetically engineer a Pegasus, message me. #Don’tStopBelieving.