Stop Selling Your Kids' Crap!

I work in a joint that has an on-line classified ad bulletin board, where people can conduct intra-company yard sales, look for roommates, give away useless things that are cluttering up their basements so you can clutter up yours. Stuff like that.

One of the more disturbing trends I have noticed in this ad system is the sheer volume of parents peddling garbage for their kids. The only good thing about this on-line classified ad thing is that I am not subjected to these parents actually arriving uninvited at my desk pushing boxes of mint patties in my face, sending me on a one-way trip to Guiltville if I don't oblige and at least take a box of Samoas off their hands. Samoas weird me out, because they are one letter away from being a box of Polynesians and that just gives me the creeps. Anyway, it really gets my goat to see all of these adults pimping for their kids' schools and recreational activities.

At the risk of sounding really old, back in MY day, my parents wouldn't dream of selling my crap for me. If I wanted to take a school trip, or pay for sports programs, or wear casual attire in high school (yes, I went to a Catholic high school and they would bribe us by allowing us to wear casual clothes if we sold our quota of school crap.), I would have to get my sorry ass out there in the cold, rain, snow, whatever, and knock on the doors of people that, for all I knew, could have been pedophiles or, even worse, porcelain doll collectors. And I would sell my adolescent tush off. I even perfected the whole "Milk chocolate, caramel, or crisp?" follow-up question, if I was lucky enough to get a begrudging "OK" from the person whose soaps I just interrupted. I might have gotten door after door slammed on my runny little nose after lugging boxes of candy bars uphill, both ways, in three feet of snow, but it gave me character. And it also proved to me that I definitely didn't want a career in traveling chocolatiering.

And my success, or lack thereof, in hustling cheap Nestle knock-offs prepared me for the next step up in fundraiser merchandise. The magazine subscription. Now THERE'S a good one...you're sitting at home, hanging out , and the doorbell rings. Some acne-riddled kid asks you if you want to buy a magazine subscription. Not exactly an impulse buy, magazine subscriptions. "You know, before you came to the door, I never much thought about it, but now that you are here, it dawned on me that I want to drop 36 clams for a year's worth of Better Homes and Gardens. Sign me up, Clearasil Boy!" Quite the awkward situation as well to have to regrettably inform the wise-ass 19-year-old kid under house arrest on the other side of the screen door that my list of available rags doesn't include Juggs.

Then, there was one time I was in Cub Scouts and they would give you this albatross called "a kit", which was a cardboard suitcase full of the most obnoxious and useless knick-knacks imaginable. Who wants to buy a salt and pepper shaker off of a friggin Cub Scout? You are old and want to get helped across the street, you find a Cub Scout. If you need a potholder that has the thickness of rice paper with a kitty cat on it, you go to Target. The "kit" did little to advance the collective cause of the Cub Scouts, but did wonders to cultivate my deep rooted xenophobia and misanthropy. Thank you Cub/Boy Scouts! I didn't read the fine print on the motto: Be prepared to loathe your fellow man.

And the whole "whoring myself out for the uniformed man" process was humiliating. I had to pitch every sorry piece of shit I had. "Well, if you don't want this lovely trivet set, perhaps I can interest you in purchasing this ruler that has a calculator built-in. I can't tell you how many times when measuring something with a foot-long ruler that I have had to figure out the square root of 829. And now you can do it both in one crafty device! And it's only $12.99!" (Hey, it was the 80s...we had fancy stuff back then too. It just cost us a whole lot more. These days, you can get a calcu-ruler in a box of Fruity Pebbles. Back then, you needed to wait for some sorry-ass Cub Scout to come to your door).

I swear I would have an easier time selling beastiality convictions with a side order of leprosy.

But all of that was a good growing and learning experience.

Now, all of these parents I work with are their kids' bitches. There are roughly 14,000 seemingly grown-up grown-ups all trying to sell Girl Scout Cookies at the same time. "Hey, you can't throw a rock without hitting a Girl Scout selling cookies, but buy them from my kid instead! She's the only one who has peanut butter patties (aka. "Tagalongs"...not sure what the hell that's all about). Well, not really, but I'll lie if I have to in order to get your business. Help me help you get the coconut clusters you crave!" Personally, I love the ones that are a little too enthusiastic in their sales pitch: "It's classic cookie dough fundraiser time again!!!" reads the ad. Holy shit!!! Really??! This is SO weird, because I was just looking at my watch and saying to myself, "When the hell is it going to be classic cookie dough fundraising time again? It's been far too long since I have last parted with some of my hard-earned dough for a 3 pound tub of sugar". Yet, on the other hand, it seems like it was just classic cookie dough fundraising time! So, either time flies when you're a Keebler frickin' Elf, or some other brat beat your kid to it.

I have nothing against these kids selling this stuff themselves. Personally, I am just not a big purchaser of cookies, cookie dough, raffle tickets, construction paper, car wash vouchers, nuts, magazines, and photos of myself in compromising positions. So, don't take it personally, kid, when I tell you to bugger off. Now's a good time to learn that not everything you do is "cute" and deserving of me shelling out my beans with an assuring pat on the head for you and a mouthful of cavities from last year's Grandchildren of the Daughters of the American Revolution's sticky taffy drive for me.

But parents...stay out of it, huh? This is the first step of a very dangerous path of being an asshole parent. Selling crap for your kids. Step two is punching your kid's soccer coach in the throat because he didn't play Timmy enough in the second half.

Besides, sending your children out in the elements to sell all sorts of trash puts hair on their chest. And who doesn't want hairy-chested offspring? Not to mention, it's something to have on their resume when they apply for that lucrative Avon job after realizing that the whole Boy Scout-as-a-lifetime-vocation gig just ain't gonna pan out.

Not answering the doorbell,

Dim.