I hate insurance agents.
Last weekend, I fought a war. Me, against 11 pretentious and well-heeled soldiers who expect large and obvious targets for their new shiny rifles. There’s only one moving target – that’s me, and I braved on, not even a dirty waist apron as an armour.
I overestimated my opponents. I imagined them sophisticated, discerning, well-learned. I looked in disappointment as they walked in, single file, still plenty wet behind the ears. I sniffed in despair, Who’s gonna appreciate all my effort? Maybe I was trying hard too hard to impress, but I realised that my education was too specialized. Either too haute-cuisine from school, or too cheena from home. Learn some moderation, my dear, I shook my head.
“The mussels from *name deleted were more impressive.”
Ma’am, if you knew how much (or little, in fact) time the mussels took and how much (or little) it costs in comparison to my salad you would cream your pants knowing how little you paid for it this time. Yes, Cuz I’m never gonna do your business again. You hear me? *Name deleted won’t be here to lick your wrinkly ass and polish your wine glass with her farts. I won’t even serve you the leftover bits from the office dog’s lunch because I’d rather spend the time cleaning out the rubbish bin than washing the plate you tainted your saliva with.
You can take your business, your Edna Mode hair, your pompous ass and your bloody insurance deals and stuff it down another bitch because This Bitch just ain’t cheap enough to crave your bone.