Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are opportunity, quarrel and service.
The Oldest Profession 2.0
Parents, man – it’s not like I wanted to be living in the basement of their split ranch, sleeping on a twin bed on sheets with cowboys on them.
I had plans, man. Dreams. Opportunity was knocking.
(They didn’t see it, especially when my schedule included several hours of Warcraft, followed by a power-nap or two.)
It wasn’t an intervention. Not exactly.
“Get a job,” they said in tandem, arms folded in angry, mock solidarity on the loveseat with the plastic slipcover.
So I got a job. A purveyor of novelties.
I sold shit, door-to-door, out of a case with a face. And fur.
I started in my neighborhood first. But you know how tough that is, in this economy? Nobody’s home during the day. And nobody wants to be bothered with a sales pitch at night, not over their delivered eggrolls and broccoli beef and American Idol.
I moved my operation to the ‘burbs. The big neocolonials, the neoeclectics, the Mcmansions with all those the lonely, stay-at-home Mcwives. Paydirt.
Mrs. Robinski was my first customer. And remains one of my best. What a woman, well-connected and willing to share her new toy. Kinky, though. Pilates flexible.
By word of mouth, I came to service the whole tri-state area.
And realized I was going to die – with a smile on my face, yeah – without some help.
And that’s how I ended up setting up franchises. Strictly a cash operation. Cash cow, man.
You know how many young adults are living in basements, their old rooms that their parents tried to turn into a sewing room or a workout room?
We even have a ladies division, strictly office temps, and that looks to be a growth market.
I still service my regulars, but with all those franchise fees coming in, I’m pretty particular on new referrals. Mostly, I think up new concepts in the trade – I’m toying with a same-sex division – and find legitimate investments for all that cash.
I bought a five bedroom in a gated community, moved my parents in and hooked myself up in the guesthouse by the pool.
Dad asked about the money, worried that it was drugs, so I told him. Squealed like a pig. And pressed into his palm the keys to a new Cadillac XLR-V.
He didn’t quarrel.
The Oldest Profession 2.0
Parents, man – it’s not like I wanted to be living in the basement of their split ranch, sleeping on a twin bed on sheets with cowboys on them.
I had plans, man. Dreams. Opportunity was knocking.
(They didn’t see it, especially when my schedule included several hours of Warcraft, followed by a power-nap or two.)
It wasn’t an intervention. Not exactly.
“Get a job,” they said in tandem, arms folded in angry, mock solidarity on the loveseat with the plastic slipcover.
So I got a job. A purveyor of novelties.
I sold shit, door-to-door, out of a case with a face. And fur.
I started in my neighborhood first. But you know how tough that is, in this economy? Nobody’s home during the day. And nobody wants to be bothered with a sales pitch at night, not over their delivered eggrolls and broccoli beef and American Idol.
I moved my operation to the ‘burbs. The big neocolonials, the neoeclectics, the Mcmansions with all those the lonely, stay-at-home Mcwives. Paydirt.
Mrs. Robinski was my first customer. And remains one of my best. What a woman, well-connected and willing to share her new toy. Kinky, though. Pilates flexible.
By word of mouth, I came to service the whole tri-state area.
And realized I was going to die – with a smile on my face, yeah – without some help.
And that’s how I ended up setting up franchises. Strictly a cash operation. Cash cow, man.
You know how many young adults are living in basements, their old rooms that their parents tried to turn into a sewing room or a workout room?
We even have a ladies division, strictly office temps, and that looks to be a growth market.
I still service my regulars, but with all those franchise fees coming in, I’m pretty particular on new referrals. Mostly, I think up new concepts in the trade – I’m toying with a same-sex division – and find legitimate investments for all that cash.
I bought a five bedroom in a gated community, moved my parents in and hooked myself up in the guesthouse by the pool.
Dad asked about the money, worried that it was drugs, so I told him. Squealed like a pig. And pressed into his palm the keys to a new Cadillac XLR-V.
He didn’t quarrel.
Comments
-Andy
It almost seems as if goin thru a frame by frame storyboard.
~Harsha
raise the bar
Nah.
One thing: Did you have any trouble printing the brochure? Or did you go straight to DVD with your service, er, product line?
I am already looking forward to your next weeks post!
(btw..thanks for your encouragement and kind words earlier!)
By the way, "Continued" is a link. I didn't leave you hanging this week. I took the opportunity to finish the story. :-)