(Inspiration found here)
I can tell you and your husband are old (emphasis on old) yard sale connoisseurs — what with the leathery skin obviously tanned from many a Saturday morning trying to swindle hardworking people who are just trying to make a few extra bucks from perfectly good items they don’t want or need anymore.
I also emphasize bucks, because twenty-five cents is a quarter of a buck, and if you need a little help doing the math in your old age, that means it takes four of those to make one dollar.
Yet, a quarter is all you offered for my friend’s Fry Daddy this past Saturday morning. At first I looked to see if you drove up in a Delorean with a flux capacitor, thinking you might have believed you had traveled to a year when people would take a quarter for a Fry Daddy. However, you were driving a white luxury car — how original, by the way, people will NEVER realize you’re a retired couple with that vehicle style and color.
Five dollars was a perfectly respectable amount because the cost of the ingredients needed to use said small appliance should not grossly outprice the actual machine. My friend even went down to four, but no, not only did you offer a measly quarter, you also spit out the following statement: “It’s a yard sale, not a store.”
WHAT?!? A YARD SALE! Oh, I’m so sorry if you thought it was a yard sale. You see, I opened up my own store at my house and it’s called Yard Sale. I can see the misunderstanding.
All the other people who bought stuff must really be suckers because I sold a mixer for $10 and an all-in-one printer for $15. Quick! You better go tell them to bring their stuff back to my house for a refund. I’m sure they should not have paid more than a dollar for any of that.
Of course, I would have mentioned the other buyers, but you caught three of us aghast that someone could be that big of an asshole on a Saturday — so congrats! We sat in silence as your orange, scrawny legs rounded our tables and your head bobbed up and down like a freakin’ city dove trying to score crumbs and your head shook from side to side as if you were balking at the prices at Neiman Marcus. Lady, if five bucks is too much to pay for a small appliance, you must NEVER go to Wal-Mart because you will be ripped off.
You also don’t realize your luck that morning because once your bitchy ass was back in your luxury car driving off, Mr. Sappy Chick came through the garage and wondered why the rest of us were trying to pick our jaws back up off the concrete. You don’t KNOW the shitstorm you would have stepped into if my husband had heard what you said because that man? He is a sniper of verbal confrontation, and he would have ripped you a new one. I’ve seen him do it and it’s not pretty — for the other person, that is. To me, it’s freakin’ hil-AIR- ious.
People like you are the reason I would just rather go donate my stuff to Goodwill and not even bother. You demoralize the capitalist spirit, lady. I wish I’d thought to take a picture so I could plaster it on every future yard sale sign I find — with a caption that says, “Beware of the Bargain-Hunting Bitch.”