I Fantasise About Killing the Street Salesmen Who Try and Sell Me Broadband On A Daily Basis

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My friends and I, like the rest of you, have discovered the many uses of social networking app WhatsApp. Whether it be organising a group of disorganised fucktard friends, exchanging photographs of shrivelled penises, or exchanging words of unrivalled vitriol, there’s fun, and pragmatism for all the family. Recently, I’ve discovered that it’s been pretty darn useful for shifting my band t-shirts to friends:

‘Hi Sam: My new band t-shirts are available. Only £15 – If you don’t buy one, I’ll chop off your dick and rip out your nipples.’

Some would say that I veer on the side of the ‘soft sell’, but you see I’m of the belief that, if someone doesn’t want something, they shouldn’t be harassed into buying it. I just wish those cunts who hang around my local high street could heed such advice.

“Hello Sir, have you got broadband?”

It is the year 2015. I am a man in my 30s walking down the street with real legs. I have shoes, I have clothes, I have a haircut. So yes, I have fucking Internet. Of course I have Internet. People who don’t have Internet are either: a) Homeless; b) Elderly; c) Weird.

Even poor people, like myself, have Internet.

“I’m not interested,” is my reply. Which, I think you’ll agree, is the polite way of saying ‘fuck off’. But rather than take my words on board, the suited little wanker decided to persist and even upped his game by prancing towards me. I stopped in my tracks and fronted him up. The little pipsqueak ground to a halt as my eyes burned through his. A wind passed between us, creating a cloud of edible silence. He waited for my words: they didn’t come. His look of recognition confirmed that no words were necessary. I had won, and the little twerp had understood that his spiel of nonsense would have no effect on me. I turned on my heels and marched victoriously towards the library. I pulled on the door; it didn’t open. Eventually, after much persistence and a wondrous display of looking like an incompetent twat, someone from inside let me in. They also advised me that I needed to ‘push’ rather than ‘pull’. I couldn’t help feeling like a knob, but at least I was safe.

Once inside, I looked out to the street where the band of cheap suits gathered. Wide boys in their early 20s, strategically laying in wait to harass people with their feigned niceties and selling techniques stolen fresh out of an episode of The Apprentice. I detest these bastards. Like swarms of pigeons with misplaced confidence waiting to ask you whether they can shit on your head. Yes, I know they’re just kids trying to earn a living, and, like us, they’re victims of the world as we know it, and blah, blah, blah. But what really fucks me off about these pimple-faced little fuckers is that they actually believe that I’m going to fall for their bullshit. That their chat is sooooo good, and that I’m soooo thick, I’m actually going to fall for it. STOP WATCHING THE APPRENTICE YOU FUCKERS. Wearing a suit does not automatically make you a businessman; it’s just an upgrade from your last school uniform. Oh, and ‘NO’ means ‘NO’ – a piece of advice which may come in handy later on in life. Give it up. Become a drug dealer: at least that way you might have something to sell that I might actually be interested in buying.

So please, stop polluting our high streets, trying to sell us shit that we already have or don’t need. If you don’t stop, I’m going to follow you home, ring your doorbell repeatedly and ask you whether you’ve thought about buying a doorbell.

Repeatedly.

Every day.

For a week.

Then I’m gonna take a massive dump on your doorstep: just because that seems like fun. Then I’ll probably ask if you want to buy some of my band’s t-shirts. Only £15 – but if you don’t buy any, I’ll chop off your dick and rip out your nipples. They’re very popular t-shirts; my mate Sam bought two.

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