So, after the terrible experience I had with my relative staying for a whole day harassing me to become a salesman for Multiplicitus, a multilevel company, you may wonder why I would even consider signing up. My wife seemed very suspicious of my motivation when I told her, and she wondered the same thing. When she hit me over the head with a book after I told her of my plans, I thought she was just teasing, but it was hard enough I’m not so sure, and she wasn’t smiling, even if it was playful.
Her question as to my sanity was valid, and deserved an answer, as do all questions pertaining to my mental faculties.
“Well,” I explained to her, “I wouldn’t really sell it.”
“What do you mean you wouldn’t really sell it? Why would you sign up if you didn’t plan to sell it?”
“Do you remember that cousin of mine?” I answered. “You know, the one that comes and stays all day or even longer? You remember all the ways we’ve tried to get him to shorten his visit, like suggesting to him that our dog was rabid, or that our home was quarantined, or that we were moving to Mexico?”
My wife shook her head. “Those were just plans you suggested. We never really implemented them because they were all a bit extreme.”
“With my cousin,” I informed her, “extreme is necessary. But we won’t have to do any of those things because I have a new, and even better idea. It doesn’t have to be bizarre or anything. Just think, if I signed up to sell Multiplicitus, once he had been here a half-hour I could say, Are you making all of the money you want? Do you have all of the time you need in life?'”
Then I explained how I would pull out the charts and books. I would show him tables and graphs until his eyes crossed. I told her I didn’t think he would stay very long after that.
I even suggested that we could try it on some of her relatives shortly after they arrived. She didn’t think that was funny at all. Actually, my wife’s relatives don’t speak to me anyway, so that is a moot point. However, the effectiveness was not lost on her. We could tell someone that I wanted to show them a presentation about Multipliticus, and we would see that person sprinting for the door, mumbling something about being late for a previous engagement that had totally slipped their mind. I could harass them even more so they would remember the lesson and wouldn’t stay too long the next time. I would do this by training our Great Pyrenees dog to block their escape. He, standing on all fours, is eye level with most people.
Just think of the fun I could have with door-to-door salesman and telemarketers. Instead of trying to pretend I’m not home, which is difficult when all the children keep peeking through the curtains, or answering the phone, I could invite them to visit and then say, “Do you have all the time you need in life to do what you want?”
With all of this in mind, it was time to look deeper into this salesman thing. I pulled out the brochures and read through the form I would use to sign up. The cost was only twenty-five dollars for my “Starter Kit.” It came with brochures, price lists, magazines, and, lo and behold, there was some soap among other sample products.
“Look at this.” I told my wife, “they do still sell soap.”
“It’s good stuff too,” she told me. “We used to use it all the time when I was younger.”
Not only were there soaps, but there were shampoos, brushes, cleaners, and a whole host of products. As I read about them, the glowing descriptions made them seem like they could clean a person’s house by themselves, change someone’s personality, and restore stability and peace to the world.
But I wasn’t signing up to sell products. I was only signing up to sell Multiplicitus as an insurance against people, like my cousin, staying too long. I considered one last time the sign up cost of 25 dollars. That really isn’t a bad price to pay for the increased sanity. I consider the money as an investment in the quality of life, kind of like a paid do-not-call, do-not-stay-too-long list. And a person would have the soap as a bonus.
Well, I haven’t signed up yet, or been to any conventions or anything. I need to test the waters on this some more. So I would just like to leave you with one final question. “Are you making all of the money you want in life?”
Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at da***@da*********.com; or visit his website
