chaw

Dear Mr. Door-to-Door Salesman,

I saw your teeth first. Yellow as butter and brown along the edges, they betrayed your otherwise very young face. You looked probably about 24, but your teeth put you in the late-30s range.

Then I got a little closer and saw the little flecks of black stuff all over your teeth and lips, and realized you were chewing tobacco. It wasn't in your lip, because it wasn't all puffed out. It must've been in your cheek.

I can't really judge ya. Canvassing is a boring job, and you probably weren't expecting many people to answer the door at 3:30 on a Monday. You probably thought you'd have a nice relaxing walk, just putting fliers on doors and chewing your cheekful of tobacco and nobody would be the wiser. Foiled your plans by opening my door, didn't I?

Although I was distracted by the knowledge that you were probably swallowing your dip spit, I was intrigued by your sales pitch and I am admittedly in need of your company's services. My house practically cries out for lawn renovation - I don't think there are many blades of grass left among all the weeds. I know a few of my neighbors have used your company and gotten good results, making me even more interested in your product.

Then we walked into my backyard, and you surveyed and gave me a price I could hardly believe. I said it out loud, in fact; "that's a pretty good price!" I guess you got comfortable with me then, because you no longer felt the need to swallow your dip spit. Out flowed a fountain of black phlegm, right onto my lawn. At least you turned your head.

Before I could ask you if your mama had taught you any manners, your phone (one of those walkie-talkie gadgets) started making an extraordinarily annoying sound. You excused yourself politely and invited me to look over your brochure while you answered a work call. 4-5 more times while you were being congratulated on the sales you'd made that day, you spit all over my lawn. I wonder if I'll be growing tobacco plants along with all this clover, dandelion, and onion.

After you were finished talking on the phone and erupting dip spit, I told you I'd have a few words with my husband and get back to you as soon as possible. You gave me a few more prices on getting the weeds out of my gardens, and somehow managed to avoid spitting all over the place. Gotta say, the flecks of black all over the lower half of your face during our closing conversation managed to distract me completely.

I stopped on my way back to my front door to smell my sweet olive bush, the only thing I actually like in my yard. As I turned around to smell the branches closest to me, I noticed you spitting on my driveway and right in front of my mailbox. While I will probably do business with your company, I might have a word with them on their canvassers' spitting habits.

What a seriously repulsive method of tobacco consumption. You might not smell like an ashtray, but you look like a camel. And an ashtray.