Deranged Mind

September 23, 2007

My morning paper and the stress it brings

Filed under: Shopping — The Deranged One @ 12:27 am

so·lic·i·tor

n.

  1. One that solicits, especially one that seeks trade or contributions.

The above is from an online dictionary – can somebody tell me where it mentions that solicitors have approval to stalk?

I have an ongoing battle with my newspaper carrier. I wish him (or her) ill will. I used to have a good carrier. He would bank the newspaper off the garage door and land it under the eaves where it would stay dry and was easy to find. He delivered my paper for about two years. Then he followed his dreams to the City of Angels to become an actor. No shit, that’s really why he moved. He’s probably pimping himself in West Hollywood while waiting for his big “break.” Poor guy.

Anyway, his replacement sucks. I usually have to search for the paper and I had to change my watering schedule or the sprinklers were guaranteed to ruin it. And heaven forbid I should try to suspend delivery whilst on vacation. The assclown will continue to deliver the paper then after I return, I’ll stop getting it. Best yet, he consistently delivers my paper to my next door neighbor and we get hers. Calls to the paper have been unproductive, to say the least. And it’s not like I can subscribe to another paper. Well, I could, but the same idiot would deliver it. As near as I can tell, he delivers for both local papers and the Wall Street Journal. And before anybody gets outraged that I would call my newspaper guy an asshole, chew on this: We have a couple of neighbors down the street who are OG’s – they’re in their 80′s and have lived here since our subdivision was new. They were having the same problems with their paper ending up wherever and when Connie called to complain about the paper landing on their roof, the next morning their house was egged. The following week when they called to complain about the paper sitting in the gutter, the next day the house was egged. Coincidence? I doubt it – they’re nice people and they’re too old to have the ability to piss off anybody other than the newspaper jerk.

And what happened to the days of old when the newspaper boy was about 10 years old, wore a canvas bag (were they called satchels?) and rode his bike delivering the papers before school? I guess your friendly neighborhood kidnapper/molester/murderer came along. So now the newspaper boys have been replaced by an adult in a car who in my case, could care less if I get the paper because he’s not going to come to my door with those 2 ring receipt books (remember those?) hoping that I give him a tip when I pay for the next month because I pay online. No, if he came to my door, I’d stick my boot up his ass.

I know, what the hell does any of this have to do with solicitors? Patience, friends and neighbors, I’m getting to it.

I went to the store first thing this morning for groceries. I was planning to cook chili and cornbread for dinner. I walked out to get in my truck and there sat my paper in the gutter. Under 2 inches of water. It’s been raining for the past 2 days. Could asshole wrap the newspaper? No. Could he try to at least make it under one of the cars? No. And now I’ll have to let the damn thing dry out for a few days before I can even throw it in the recycle bin. So I throw my soaked newspaper into the bed of my truck and head for the store. I get there early enough that the usual pack of morons isn’t there yet. I go inside, fill a basket full of junk, head back to the front of the store to get shoe phone reception to see what the missus is calling for (paper towels), finish my shopping and hand my hard earned money over.

And then it happens.

Nothing irritates me more than the damn solicitors who line up outside the doors. They hit you up on the way in, then hit you up again on the way out. I don’t want to buy their wares on the way in because God knows how much I’m going to have to send on food and I usually don’t have anything left on the way out. Plus, I don’t need Girl Scout cookies, I don’t want to donate to Catholic Charities and I don’t want to buy a candy bar to get a kid out of the ghetto. I once broke into a nervous sweat when I saw a Hare Krishna bus sitting in the parking lot, but I was somewhat disappointed when I found no devotees flocked outside the door.

So this morning, as I walked outside after forking over way too much cash, I cursed the gods starting the rain just as I’m about to make my way out. Then I saw them. Three of them. Twenty-somethings who looked like they’d spent the past few nights sleeping under an overpass. What are they selling, I wonder. I didn’t really need to wonder since about .000359 milliseconds after setting foot outside, I was set upon my one of the jackasses. And it went a lil something like this:

Solicitor: Hey man, you interested in subscribing to the Times?

Me: No.

Solicitor: It’s less than a dollar a week.

Me: So.

Solicitor: That’s less than the price of just the Sunday paper.

Me: No, I’m not interested.

At this point, I’d made it halfway to my truck, it’s pouring and jackass is following me. I can feel my patience starting to ebb.

Solicitor: If you subscribe for 2 weeks, you’ll get 2 weeks free.

And at that point, I’d made it to my truck. I glanced into the bed and saw my waterlogged paper from the gutter. And I unleashed.

Me: What the fuck part of “no” don’t you understand? I don’t want your paper. It’s a piece of shit. The writing sucks. The editors are illiterate. And my carrier is a slacked jaw retard. I wouldn’t use that paper to wipe my ass. Now get the fuck away from me.

Solicitor (scurrying away): You don’t have to be an asshole.

Me: And you don’t have to be a fucking stalker.

Man, everything about my newspaper sucks.

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