Last weekend, the eclectic and shadowy author of B.L.O.G., Mike Calahan, was gracious enough to fly out to Chowderhead Ranch for an exclusive one on one interview. Good thing, because an email interview would have been way too cheap and easy.
I’ve been following Mike and his unique brand of humor for the better part of a year, and currently work along side him as a part of the hit collaboration, Long Awkward Pause. He’s a quipy, up-and-coming author with a sharp tongue and a robust head of hair – placing him among the ranks of other stylish hair icons like, Elvis Presley, James Dean, and John Stamos.
Like most artists, Mike is a reserved personality, but his work reveals that there’s a whole lot going on behind the coy grin and stylish, black frame glasses. If you haven’t already done so, I’d highly recommend sampling some of his work while enjoying your morning latte.
A dark roast toast to everyone joining this fine Tuesday morning.
Here’s a look inside:
I can’t even put into words how excited I am to have you here. I’m actually sweating.
When you asked to interview me, I just assumed it was because you were desperate for content and wanted to lose readership quickly.
Fret not. I’m fully capable of losing readership without your help.
Let’s kick it off with a burning question – I’m curious about the name “Calahan.” Is there some sort of religious connotation behind it, like, was Calahan an apostle or something like that?
That’s a question I get asked all the time. Well, after John the Baptist was beheaded, the people looked for a new leader with an undiagnosed mental disorder. Rodrigo the Manic Depressive was really into the idea, but then really against it. Drake the Paranoid was convinced everyone was making fun of him. Finally, they settled on Calahan the Dysthymic. Most people became atheists soon after.
As you can probably tell by the expression on my face, I’m not really a man of faith.
I’m not a man of begorrah, so it works out.
I’ll look that up later. Mike, why do you choose to remain such an enema in the blogging world?
I mean, you seem like a pretty private person. Is this accurate?
A bit. I mean, I readily share my credit card PIN codes and SSN’s with curious strangers, sure. But other things, personal things like, oh, ice cream preference or favorite belt loop are things I like to keep quiet. It makes me seem really mysterious and enigmatic, even though I’m not.
“Enigma” was the word I was searching for.
Let me know if you find it.
How’s the coffee?
It tastes fine. I won’t lie, I’d prefer not to have to share a cup, but the coffee itself is flavorful.
Excellent. Describe your morning routine for us. I’m curious how a day in the life of Calahan begins.
Well, after cursing the morning for arriving, I get up and make breakfast for my wife, pack her lunch, then feed the pets. Once everyone is taken care of, I then sit down for a full day of high-stakes online gambling. Let’s just say that Papa owes a lot of people a lot of money. Actually, I’m pretty boring in real life. Bursts of creativity mixed with anxiety about writing as a career is the best description.
Describe your writing style. Are you a satirist? Is most of your inspiration drawn from real life, or are your writings mainly fictional?
I write the occasional satirical piece, but I wouldn’t call myself a satirist. Honestly, I just write what I think is funny, something that I would want to read. Sometimes it is a situation that comes from real life, like many of my blog posts. Other times, especially with fiction, an idea comes to me while watching a movie or reading or even falling asleep. It might just be a gag that quickly balloons into a full story arch or it’s a character for which I want to find a good narrative. I have one short story that I use to play a prank on the reader, actually. The joke is in upending the reader’s obvious (and very natural) inference of the characters and setting. I thought it was funny, but it’s not published, so what do I know?
Now, do you consider yourself a beatnik?
While I’ve devoured a lot of the Beat writings, I don’t consider myself a Beatnik, no. Then again, I don’t consider myself a No-Goodnik, either. Nor am I a Sputnik. It’s possible I’m a nudnik, but I’m not really sure.
Who’s responsible for assigning the meanings to the acronym, B.L.O.G.?
That responsibility falls on me and me alone. I have gotten suggestions in the past, but it’s always a matter of finding the perfect picture to go along with the acronym. It doesn’t always pan out.
Any particular selection a favorite?
My personal favorite is the couple holding hands as they lie in separate beds. I called that one Biblical Living’s Obligatory Gap.
What was it like playing a supporting role in the hit 90′s movie, The Sandlot?
Oh, man. If I had a nickel for every time I got asked…
Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But seriously, did Bennie really steal home, or was that a camera-tricks thing?
He really did steal home, but there was a camera trick in that he is actually stealing second base. Much like Gary Cooper and The Lou Gehrig Story, that shot had to be reversed to make it appear as though it was home plate. It’s funny how everyone asks me about that movie, but no one ever asks about my roles in Intolerance and Birth of a Nation. Or my years in the old timey minstrel circuit. Or my time as an Andersonville POW in the waning days of the Civil War. Or my years as a double for Amy Carter, during the 1970’s. Or my current work investigating why Marvel’s Agent Coulson looks so much like infamous skyjacker D.B. Cooper and why the government won’t talk about it.
Tell us about your writing process. What goes into writing one of your pieces?
It depends on the piece, but it usually starts with a few notes, then research (when required) and more notes, then rough draft, then feedback from a few selected sets of eyes.
Your writing is flawless. I have to ask, are you paying a third party editor?
I am not paying an editor because my checks tend to bounce. I am currently sleeping with an amazing editor (aka: my wife), so I take advantage of that relationship as often as I can.
Talk about your now defunct teenie-bopper movie critic character, Valerie Atherton.
Valerie was part satire and part social experiment. In response to the seemingly male-dominated, boys’ club world of online movie blogging, I created a character that was opposite in every way possible. Playing to and against stereotypes, the character of Valerie Atherton was young, blond and naïve—but she was (despite an inability to grasp most films [ex: Batman has magic powers, Iron Man has a flashlight heart]) very sincere in her love of movies.
So people weren’t picking up on that fact that it was all a put on, correct?
What were some of the more memorable interactions that Valerie had with her “fans”?
The review that brought the most ire from fanboys was her review of The Watchmen. Specifically, her belief that it was called a graphic novel due to the violence, and that Dr. Manhattan was made of ice. The best response was: “Paint a bullseye on your forehead so that I may barrage you with ‘stupid’ bullets.”
What advice can you offer for other aspiring writers?
If financial stability is a necessity, then don’t become a writer. Hobos have a steadier income than I do. Other than that, my advice is to write what you would want to read. Be your own biggest fan, but also your own worst critic. Don’t let one outweigh the other, though. Maintaining that balance is key.
Anything else you’d like to add, Mike?
I’d like to add my name to a list of successful authors, but that’s more of a lofty goal. The only other thing I could add is 2+2, but the answer I get is generally wrong: Banana.
For more of Mike Calahan, click the banner below.
- LAP Update: Tour Stop Canceled in Kalamazoo, Michigan (longawkwardpause.wordpress.com)
- Because I Haven’t Got the Legs for Dancing (tipsylit.com)
- Mike Callahan: International Man of History – Teaser (thechowderhead.com)
If you’re not familiar with the name Mike Calahan, you’re probably living on a free-floating sheet of ice somewhere in the Arctic Circle. And if that’s the case, call your local cable company, get the Wi-Fi hooked up, and tune in next Tuesday for an opportunity to dive helmet-head first into the genetically-enhanced grey matter of the author behind the blog, B.L.O.G.
It’s a bit redundant, I know. But that’s exactly what makes him a literary genius.
I originally booked Mike for a luxurious, all-inclusive stay here at the Chowderhead Headquarters for last weekend, but unfortunately, he was already committed to some hairspray convention out in Tucson. We’re now set to square off this weekend for a one-on-one showdown.
Designer brand mouse. Collared shirts and ties. The sleekest pair of black frame glasses west of the Mississippi…
I might be in over my head.
See you Tuesday.
- Honor thy comb and thy hair gel, Chowderheads \m/
**If you have questions that you’d like me to ask Mike, drop a line in the comments and I’ll be sure to work ‘em in.
- Because I Haven’t Got the Legs for Dancing (tipsylit.com)
- Paranormal Housekeeping (thechowderhead.com)
- If you had 5 minutes to talk to a Dung Beetle, what would you say? (longawkwardpause.wordpress.com)
**In case you missed the introduction to this whole mess that I’m subjecting myself to, be sure to read here first: Chowderhead’s Official Sleep Deprivation Olympic Challenge.**
Well, Day 1 of the challenge began and ended with only a few minor burps, but all in all, things are going pretty smoothly.
It’s important to note:
I haven’t officially been awake for twenty four hours because I accidentally fell asleep during the first hour while watching an episode of The Real Housewives of some posh, tropical county. Shortly after that I slipped on a bar of soap in the shower and hit my head on the soap tray.
I still don’t really know exactly how long I was out for..
However, as the early hours of this study peel off the clock, I’m starting to feel like sleep is just an overrated, productivity-killing waste of time. I mean, how the hell are we supposed to advance as a society when everybody’s larding around for eight hours everyday?
I intend to take full advantage of those additional eight hours each night by catching up on a few chores that I’ve been meaning to get to for awhile.
Summary of Events, Accomplishments, and Other Stuff from Day 1: Continue reading
So I’m sitting on a park bench whining to some random nerd, when suddenly, he cuts me off mid-sentence and barfs something common, stinky, and cliche all over my new shirt:
Nerd: “Well, you know what they say: when life hands ya lemons, ya make Lemonade!”
Adam: (internal monologue) “Alright dude, atomic wedgie or wet-willy with mayonnaise…Take your pick.”
But before I could baste his eardrums with burger condiments I had a grand epiphany. Something came out of me that I didn’t think I was intellectually capable of producing:
Adam: “That’s a complete waste of an opportunity.”
Nerd: “(dumbfounded) Opportunity?”
Adam: “When life hands you “lemons,” you don’t just lard around getting porch-drunk on lemonade?”
Nerd: “What do you propose instead?”
Adam: “I propose that you start stockpiling your “lemons”and break into the lemon-packing industry after you’ve raised enough startup capital.”
Adam: ”Start by aggressively negotiating your warehouse facility and packing equipment, and purchase a large farming plot close to the equator. Build, train, and squeeze every last nickel out of an efficient labor crew. Continue reading
Maybe it’s the Yankee in me, but I absolutely hate waiting in lines. See, I have this uncanny, superhuman, x-men-like ability to subconsciously locate and endure the absolute worst possible line in the history of checkout lines wherever I go. Someone please contact Guinness. It’s world record wait. Every. Single. Time.
Tip: if you ever happen across me standing in line someplace, even if you really wanna talk to me or get my autograph or something like that, don’t do it. I’ll mail you an autographed picture of my bare buttocks – whatever you want – just do yourself a favor: go stand in the next checkout line over. Even if its twenty senior citizens deep. Trust me.
Here’s a brief list of typical scenarios that I face on a regular basis:
Baseball Team: sextuple (seven) scoop hot fudge brownie boat with sprinkles, half-fat caramel chocolate-mocha frappe drizzle, every single nut known to the Dominican Republic, freeze-dried watermelon rind puree, cat liver, fucking onions, and whatever else you got, lady. After three bites, the kid doesn’t like it or throws it up all over the floor, or on my sweet tennis shoes, and it goes in the garbage. What a surprise… Continue reading
Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.
I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy. I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know? Write it out, Chowderhead, just write it out…
See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying. Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter. That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.
Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…
What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane. Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress. At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”
That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios. Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant. That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back. But that was only like a violent vurp – not really full on hurl.
In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit. God I hate that word. They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia. Gnarly!
Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.” I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:
1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.
I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…
I’m rambling now. Shut up, man. Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff? I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know. Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.
Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know, The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”
Louisiana or bust…
- Vomiting Robot Pukes for Science (news.discovery.com)
- Larry the vomiting robot goes ‘viral’ while helping researchers study norovirus (thestar.com)
I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m still floundering away at The University of Microsoft Paint.
If you’re not familiar with it, MS Paint is a watered-down photo editing program that comes standard with every PC. The only thing it’s useful for is drawing a perfect circle, square, or trapezoid, then filling it with a primary color. Basically, it’s one step above an Etch-o-Sketch.
Since I’m in a giving mood today, I thought I’d give all you graphic artist snobs an opportunity to point and laugh at some of my crudely-edited pictures from the past. Up until now, none of them have seen the light of day. The tour you’re about to take should give you an idea of what I’m working with here.
In short, my graphic design skills are about four feet shy of a slam dunk.
I’m a wizard at blacking out teeth. Lucky for me, Suze Orman is already missing one. The caption saved this one. The sketchy-looking thought bubble did not. Grade D+
The caption saved this one too. Grade: D
What began as a Chariots of Fire-inspired tribute to Michael Phelps, ended in a craptastic horn sympony of wet farts being lit on fire. I blew this on so many levels. First off, I butchered the name. Phleps? C’mon man. Secondly, the Olympic Rings look like they just got off some Woodstock hippie bus after eating a handful of brown LSD. Needless to say, this one didn’t bring home the gold — or any medal for that matter — just a raging case of genital herpes. Grade: F
Where was I going with this one…This was actually an old piece from my graphic design portfolio. People who interviewed me described it as being preposterous, laughable, and harmful to pregnant women. One guy even called a couple weeks after the interview to tell me he’d gone sterile after looking at it. Liar. Needless to say, my computer drawing career never panned out. Now that I look at it again, I can see where they’re coming from. You did’t have to be a dick about it. Sheesh. Grade: F
Wait for it…
…and boom goes the dynamite. This one gets high marks for originality of content. Unfortunately, I’m not sure The Enquirer is gonna fork over any loot for this Photoshop hack-job. A Kindergartner could do a better job of cutting and pasting. Look at Bush — he looks terrified. I’ll bet this won’t be the first time G-Dub’s had a low mark stamped next to his name. Grade: D+
The shading is spot on in this one, but I kinda goofed on Sara Jessica Parker’s hair. Oh, and I totally forgot that she doesn’t eat carbs anymore. Sorry chicky, this ain’t gonna help straighten out the long face —-> Grade: D-
…Exhibit G: *G-Money*
Here’s an exception. Not much wrong with this one. Except for the fried egg in Becca’s hair. It was supposed to be a daisy. Whatever. If you print this out, don’t try using it at Walmart. They just busted someone recently who was trying to score change for a million dollar bill. True story. It’s obvious that Walmart invests heavily in counterfeit and fraud prevention. But who would wanna get rid of something with that pretty face on it? Grade: A+
Gary Busey is so grouchy around the paparazzi. I think he has a sugar problem. Or a coke habit. Probably both. By the way, fake blood is hard to do on MS Paint. It looks like cartoon barbecue sauce. Someone give this man a rabies shot. Stat. Grade: D -
More pickin’ on Bush. Wait. That came out wrong. Nevermind. If you’ve never seen the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off then you’re probably scratching your wig right now. Congratulations! You’re the only person on the planet that hasn’t seen it. The bong in the photo looks sort of believable, I guess. And it’s patriotic too! Who am I kidding. It all sucks. Grade: D+
I can’t imagine his monthly dry cleaning bill. Actually, who cares about that. I’m sending a Christmas card to the owner of the shop. What a saint for handling all those poopy pants. Grade: C
I even screwed up my tribute to David Dixon. Wait, is that his name or his nemesis? Either way, you make it look easy, my friend. Grade: F
End of Tour.
I hope nobody went sterile.
If you guys didn’t think this totally sucked, let me know. I have a lot more Fotoshop Fails in the dumpster out back. I could do a weekly bit called something corny like, “Fotoshop Fridays?” Meh. I’ll work on a title…
Oh, and check out the Post of the Week by Alien Red Queen. Nicely written, Ms Lady.
-Happy Blogging \m/
I’m not working a whole lot right now, so in an effort to conserve money, I went out and bought myself a $550 iPad. Yes, I know, Suze Orman fans, I have a low financial IQ – just like every other normal American. To say that I’m remorseful about this decision would be an understatement. At the moment, I’m approximately six and a half miles from having to siphon my neighbor’s gas at night.
Money aside, I’m in another crisis situation: for the past 72 hours and counting I’ve been on a Yatzy Addict binge.
If you’re not familiar with Yatzy Addict, it’s a knockoff app version of the board game, Yahtzee. I can’t stop playing it. I wake up in the middle of the night to take a leak, and one quick game turns into an all-night bender. In the morning I look and feel like a junkie: bloodshot eyes, bags, pasty complexion, guilt-ridden… If I don’t start working soon I’m gonna have to check myself into some kind of a rehab clinic.
I don’t play casually, either. I play with intensity. And passion. I yell at the computer and swear a lot. According to my dense logic, the computer is out to get me. It has sent evil avatars from space to destroy me and turn me into a boiling mess.
And to think, there was a time when I didn’t understand the allure of the tablet computer…
3 years ago
Adam: ”You want me to buy this iPad so I can play Angry Birds, you say? Stop right there. I’m perfectly happy with my stationary desktop computer that sounds like a microwave oven. What’s so useful about a portable computer that fits in the palm of your hand, and has a camera, and iTunes, and the internet, and that cool notepad thingy? Shame on you for being such a stupid consumer!”
…Now look at me: yelling at computer avatars in the heat of a Yatzy tirade.
I underestimated the addictive qualities of the iPad. I can’t put it down. For someone who once had hopes of weaning himself from the computer, the last thing I needed to do was run out and have one surgically attached to my fucking arm. To give you an idea of the magnitude of this problem, half the comments I left on your blogs this week occurred while I was sitting on the throne.
Yes. I know. But I’m a believer in making constructive use of down time. Wait, no. That’s not true. I waste all kinds of time. I guess staring at the back of the tablet for 72 hours straight would be just as productive. It would be a lot more boring, but equally as productive.
I’m like this with everything.
There’s a switch inside of me. It’s all or nothing. Last week it was Nintendo. Yes, the original. I thought it would be *neato* to relive my childhood, so I dug it out of the storage closet and spent the next half hour blowing in game cartridges. Low and behold, the fucker actually worked. The next thing I know, it’s four o’ clock in the morning and I’m still hunkered down, yelling at Link and Mario…
I guess my problems go way back.
Am I the only one suffering from iPad Addiction? Which app is your vice?
-Happy Blogging \m/
Author’s Note: I’d like to apologize for any mistreatment and/or agony caused by the profuse usage of capital letters during Sergeant Gunnery’s boot camp tirade. Sadly, the Sarge couldn’t make it today because he is now a semi-permanent fixture on my garage ceiling — courtesy of eight rolls of duct tape. Hoo-ah.
If there were a scientific method for measuring and ranking all the things that suck in this world, car shopping would probably fall somewhere between getting shot in the groin with a potato-launcher, and dealing with a bout of moderate to severe Seafood Poisoning.
Unfortunately, owning a car is a necessity for people like me, and every few years I find myself in the same pinch at the local motor mall.
Looking for a car isn’t the hard part. In essence, it’s actually not all that different from putting a fridge on layaway. The part that makes it less desirable than a spud to the hangers is when any of the following semi-fictional bullshit-artists enter the equation:
- Jerry Flannigan aka “The Dice Man”
- Ron Wystromski aka “Big Cheddar”
- Dick McGiven aka “The Shark”
- Ed O’Mallory aka “Fast Eddie”
From that point on it’s nothing but a high-pressure hassle.
Walking through a car dealership is like hiking through the desert with a piece of rotting meat tied to your back. From the moment I pull into a lot, there’s always some greasy sales buzzard wanting to shake my hand before I can put my foot on the blacktop. After introductions, I’m getting forcefully shoved past the econo-car section of the lot, and tossed into a pile of Corvettes, Cadillacs and Monster Trucks.
Meanwhile, there sits a tiny, imaginary man in my head, behind a xylophone, frantically playing an ambiguous tune. It’s a circus melody that perfectly captures the stress and confusion of the moment.
Many people feel the same way about the whole experience as I do. However, they go about preparing for it the wrong way. Most folks look to generic buying guides like Consumer Reports or the Suze Orman Show for tips and strategies on how to buy a car. This advice is shoddy, at best. Neither of these pop-resources highlight that being approached by a haggling salesman is an Act of War.
If you wanna avoid the runaround and get the most bang for your buck, car shopping requires a tactical, military-like approach. Hopefully you’ve already completed Tuesday’s Basic Training. You’re gonna need it.
Let me break it down by operation.
Operation 1: Reconnaissance
Begin by surveying the dealership for a few days with a pair of binoculars from across the street. Behind a bush. Determine which day is staffed with the fewest amount of Sales Pests. Identify a breach area. Keep a log sheet of your observations. Take pictures if you can, and carry an infrared lens.
Operation 2: Infiltrate the Enemy Establishment
After the surveillance operation, enter the lot at the identified breach area, and park as far away from the sales office as possible. Stealth is key. Use the vehicles in the lot to shield yourself. Stay low to the ground. Remember to camouflage: sweat pants and a dirty T-shirt with a Budweiser logo on it. You’ll be hard to spot if you look poor.
Operation 3: Create a Tactical Diversion
You will eventually be targeted. Remain calm. The key at this stage is to create a Tactical Diversion that will delay and/or weaken the offensive strategy of the oncoming insurgent. Note: the following tactics are battle-tested, but may lead to a brief jail stint if executed poorly.
Choose from the following list of Diversions based on your scenario:
- Parking Lot Tag – When the Sales Pest has captured you for introductions, immediately initiate a game of parking lot tag by firmly tapping him on the chest and yelling out:”Tag, you’re it!” If he doesn’t give chase, insult his mother.
- Cops and Robbers (or Cowboys and Indians) – This tactic is also childish. But who gives a fuck. Integrate a lot of somersaults and barrel rolls on the pavement into your evasive routine.
- Panic Button Hand Grenade – Request a set of keys for a vehicle. Once you receive the keypad, hit the panic alarm button and launch it grenade-style deep within the enemy compound.
- No Speaky English – If you’re not confident in executing any of the above tactics, use language as a sales barrier.
Operation 4: Identify Target Vehicle
While your Sales Pest is trying to catch his breath, and/or bent over a car, puking his lungs out, survey the enemy compound and identify the target vehicle for a test drive. Make sure it’s a Ford. And make sure it’s not Gold or Burgundy.
Operation 5: Highway Storm
After you’ve targeted a vehicle to test drive, request the keys. Bring your Salesperson. If he politely declines, try softening him up by applying reverse sales tactics: place your hand on his shoulder and ask about his beer league softball career.
After he’s in the vehicle and buckled up, put the pedal to the metal. Really open up the engine during your test drive. Do things to the target vehicle that you wouldn’t do with your current vehicle; brake torquing, neutral slamming, red-lining – get a feel for the beast.
If the salesman shits the seat, Abort Mission.
Operation 6: Negotiate Hostage Situation
At this stage, a hostage situation could mean one of two things:
1.). You’ve landed yourself in the sales office and are negotiating the price of a car.
2.). You’ve landed yourself in jail and are negotiating the terms of your release with a lawyer through a piece of bulletproof glass.
We’ll concentrate on the first one.
This is your opportunity to put the hammer down. At this point, the enemy should be showing signs of Post Traumatic Stress. Use these symptoms to your advantage. Make a lot of sudden, jerky movements, and drop things on the floor, like a stapler, to create loud noises. If that doesn’t work, try a computer monitor. This will keep the enemy in a vulnerable, defensive state of mind.
If executed properly, he’ll do whatever it takes to get you the fuck out of his office. When he’s cowering, immediately submit a low-ball offer on the Target Vehicle. Hold eye contact. After he prints a contract at the newly negotiated (low-ball) price, illegibly sign on the dotted line. Do not shake hands, and do not turn your back to him while exiting the cell. Before fully carrying out your exit plan, bark. Like a dog. Do it with passion and fury.
While he’s under the desk, make your break at full sprint.
Eat my Pants, Suze Orman.
What’s the battle plan when you go car shopping? Please share your funny stories!
-Happy Blogging, Private First Class \m/
- Car salesman brothers guilty of fraud (modbee.com)
- Bucks Blog: What I Learned the Hard Way About Leasing a Car (bucks.blogs.nytimes.com)