I'd Rather Walk

Today I went to the Phil Long car expo extravapaloozarama, or whatever, to browse at used cars. It was there that I met the only white guy in existence who spells his name S-H-A-W-N. Shawn apparently thought that he and I were the bestest buddies in the history of friendship, and he kept on asking me dumbass questions, presumably to take my mind off the fact that he was trying to sell me a car. Shawn introduced me to several of his "friends" around the lot, all of whom kept trying to sell me a Chevy Cavalier. When I first spoke to Shawn, I said I was interested in a Subaru, and he instantly dragged me off toward this stupid Cavalier. Maybe, Shawn, if you could forget about the fact that you're an idiot for one second, you'd realize that I didn't say I wanted an effing Cavalier, you big fat turd.

It was so weird. The whole thing. I realized that I hate car salesmen more then I hate French people. On the other hand, I thought his little ploys to get me to give him more information were pretty hilarious. I'd have never thought it possible, before today, to be so happy and so uncomfortable at the same time. He asked me what my favorite band was. I told him. He asked me if I had a CD with me. Yeah, I just happen to have their greatest hits in my back pocket, moron. He asked me, "What are you studying in school?" Why? So you can pretend you're interested? I don't want to tell you any more than I have to, Shawn. He asked for my phone number. I gave him a fake one. He asked for a backup number. Jeez, this guy doesn't quit. I gave him my real cell number. That way, if he calls the wrong home number, then decides I "accidentally" gave him the wrong number and wants to call my cell, I'll be able to tell him in person to please never call me again.

I know. I'm sick.