How to: Sell

I recently came across a group of young co-eds selling home made pasta at a local college campus. I see them and think: interesting, pasta as a fund raiser. Who the fuck would want to buy that? Why would you think it is a good idea to sell pasta to people? Outside. I approach these young folks, apparently marketing majors by the looks of the sharpie tagged construction paper listing their goods price points included, and I see that “pasta” has already been marked down from $3.00 to $1.00. Well that’s cheap enough for me, fucking cheap enough indeed. You got me, let’s see what we’re working with here. I see the pasta is being served in the cheap aluminum throw away serving trays you commonly find at royal weddings, presidential inaugurations, and other special events like church picnics and assholes. They even got those goddamned dangerous flame in a can sitting underneath. I turn to the nearest-eager-beaver-go-getter-run-around. I ask him for a pasta, he removes the foil covering and I see that these young folks are trying to push pasta salad, hot pasta salad. Fuck, fuck man, pasta salad served hot, under the guise of some sort of Italian styled pasta dish, or tuna noodle casserole even. Seriously all pasta salad. Different types too. I look the old man in the eye and ask him what exactly they think he’s doing here? He looks at me blankly, mumbles something about sweet black ass, then fetches the nearest club supervisor, most likely an academic advisor or financial aid clerk trying to set a personal goal of least work done in a single day. The new face looking at me over this piping hot dish of German pasta salad asks me if I would like a soda and chips with my pasta, fucking CHO slinger. I try to get an explanation of what their angle here is, I say “HEY what is your deal?” Is it some type of performance art thing? No? Your fucked, that’s it, end of story, no clue, no clue what is going on here. None. Absolostluety perfectly ok with doing this, ya this is how pasta fucksalad is served, isn’t it?

I turn away in tears, climb onto my stick shift, and try to thrust my way into 1st. Not even the joys of a manual transmission in all its prostate-stimulating glory can save me from the situation. As a slowly roll backwards in neutral I think to myself that a little more headroom would be nice in this situation.