Tuesday, August 09, 2005
...
Some old lady just came into the office needing an estimate.
"I need an estimate." She says.
"I'll be right with you." I say as I grab my pen and clipboard.
"Oh... you do it yourself?" She asks and gives me a look like I'm a two year old trying on my first pair of pullups or something.
"Yep! All by myself!" I say. And then instead of giving her a regular estimate, I just drew a crude picture of a car with an arrow pointing at the bumer and the word "Ouchie" written above it. Then I wrote a bunch of dollar signs at the bottom of the page. I handed it to her and said, "Can we put this on your 'fridgedator, grammie?" Then I shat myself and started to cry.
I'm 32 years old, damnit! Why must I be cursed with these boyish good looks?
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"I need an estimate." She says.
"I'll be right with you." I say as I grab my pen and clipboard.
"Oh... you do it yourself?" She asks and gives me a look like I'm a two year old trying on my first pair of pullups or something.
"Yep! All by myself!" I say. And then instead of giving her a regular estimate, I just drew a crude picture of a car with an arrow pointing at the bumer and the word "Ouchie" written above it. Then I wrote a bunch of dollar signs at the bottom of the page. I handed it to her and said, "Can we put this on your 'fridgedator, grammie?" Then I shat myself and started to cry.
I'm 32 years old, damnit! Why must I be cursed with these boyish good looks?
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