Back in Kansas, I used to go to garage sales and estate sales all the time. My favorite spatula came from an estate sale. The thing must be 75 years old and it's still going strong. It's got this wooden handle and the metal isn't cracked at all. It's got just the right amount of give, and it's thin, yet strong, enough to slip under the most delicate of foods. It looks like a brand new, antique-styled spatula. Some old lady used it her whole life, I expect, and now I've had it for at least ten years. I want to be buried with the thing, no lie, cuz that's just the sort of person I am. If I can't use it, then no one else can either.
I'm having a garage sale this weekend. Saturday 7:30-1.
I hate them. I hate getting all the shit together, I hate the tiny price tags, I hate trying to decide what shit's worth. But more to the point, I hate the people. And before you go thinking it's the poor Mexicans I hate (we don't have poor blacks around here, just poor Mexicans) I'll reassure you it's not, even though one tried to steal from me at my last one. But shit, you need it that bad? Or maybe you just want to stick it to somebody? Take the goddamn thing. I'll be your proverbial "Man". I didn't want it anyway. That's why it's on my driveway marked with 50 cents.
I hate all my customers with equal animosity, regardless of ethnicity, socio-economic status, or even sexiness. I hate how they line up at your garage door, or even ring your fucking doorbell if you're five minutes late. I hate how they peruse, picking things up, discussing its merits and defects. I hate how their cars line the streets and a lot of them don't put their kids in carseats. I hate how they bargain. "Will you take a quarter for that instead of fifty cents?"
You're on my driveway from 7:30-1 on Saturday, don't expect a smile or a cheerful "Good Morning." What's so good about it? I'm having a fucking garage sale.