Who likes them? With their eerie smiles and mouth that spout lies. Some are true but most are just propaganda as they talk their way into your wallets. My dad was a salesman. Was.
I’m a social butterfly. Not forceful in conversation. Light and charming. Patient and clear. It works on the sales floor. It keeps them on their toes. The pitch. The eyebrows raise. You take a genuine interest in what they say. But deep down inside you know all you want is their money. All you want to do is make a bloody sale. People are simply the bills in your pocket. But keep up the act. They’ll always believe you care.
Precious trinkets. Colored jewels. I would sell you the finest things. Perfumes made of the finest scents. Oils to sooth and smoothen your golden skin. You precious being you. I’d sell it all just to have you smile. Your dazzling smile. To see you decorated with my love and my trinkets. A blinded salesman I am. And my love is my pitch.
Concentrating on the task at hand. Goals to reach. But are they your own. Or your businesses? What you wish to sell is dreams and ambitions. Not items for the vain. A salesman of the material, a shopper of wishes.
quit knocking on my door. Stop selling me your crap. I don’t want it! Just Leave! What your still here what part of leave don’t you get. I already have knives I don’t need anymore!
The salesman stared at him thinking that he would eventually find some money in his pocket to pay for the whole thing. He waited and waited and waited. After a very long two minutes of listening to the clocks ticking he finally got mad and picked up the phone. In the very same moment he slamed on the table a small note with the thick black letters written on it: TIME IS UP! *
I wondered what he was selling until he pulled down his pants and whipped it out. Then I knew it was just like before. I tucked a hair behind my ear and tipped my head just to the side so he couldn’t see the white of my eyes anymore. It was going to be like that.
i hate these god damn pricks what gives them the right to invade my personal space and try to sell me shit i dont need, if i want something i will come to you. dont bother fancying me with dodadas and nick nacks that are usually useless and expensive or cheap as dirt~!
Again, the salesman. He had already been to town twice in a week. Did he think he had any more to do here? Any more to sell? He had already swindled the townspeople on many occasions, but they were too stupid to realize. The whole matter makes me sick to my stomach.
cake in my lap, hats , grey hats and death surrounding, all over. plaid all over me, wht? sell me some times, close my eyes, now and fovever, away from the salesman, away from the salesmen.
I come, without warning.
I make; you fall in love, with all that I have.
I take; all that you have.
I stay; as long as you want me to.
I obey; only my own rules.
I hurt; because of those rules.
I hope; my visit resonated happiness.
I know; it probably did not.
One of those rules include leaving.
I wish some of you would want me to linger, longer. Just-a-few-seconds longer.
(Or, maybe a few minutes longer.)
(Or, maybe a few hours longer.)
(Or, forever.)
The hungry salesman ate a taco shell full of rusty nails, sprinkled with the finest hot sauce in packets from the closest Mexican restaurant. As the tetanus set in, he propped his briefcase against his frozen knee, the convulsions ready to kick in like a side effect to the prescription. Last week it had been broken glass, but shredding his innards had become more laborious. He wished to pitch for the best death. It never came.
It was not the death of salesman, but quite the opposite. He was born in a small suburban town outside of Los Angeles. There he had spent his childhood, his teenage years, and now his adulthood. You could say that he was indecisive, but that would be an understatement.
Climbing the stairs to my bedroom and suddenly the door rings. Fuck. No. Not him again. I answer it anyway. Descend. The door. Hard. Oak. Dark. It creaks open and there he is. The salesman. He sells vacuum cleaners in a department store. Nothing great about it. Nothing great about him.
someone who is quick with words. I think i could make a good saleswoman. I could probably sell someone the shoes on their own feet but I feel like some sales areas are not as honest. Some salesmen are swindlers and that can make many people uncomfortable and stand-offish to them.
I come, without warning.
I make; you fall in love, with all that I have.
I take; all that you have.
I stay; as long as you want me to.
I obey; my own rules.
I hurt; you because of those rules.
I hope; my visit resonated happiness.
I know; it probably didn’t.
I wish some, of you would want me to stay a few seconds longer.
One of my own rules include leaving.
(Or, a few minutes longer.)
I take; I give. And I wish that sometimes those two dualities can balance for some, of you.
(Or, a few hours longer.)
As with all other characters of this earth, you have to learn to let the right one in.
You’re trying to sell something to me but I can’t stop staring at the piece of grey stuck in your teeth like a tiny little animal, growling between your pointed incisors. Your lips are flabby and the same pink as oldish salmon you get from QFC and I vaguely wonder if I’ll have children someday even though I’ve never wanted them.
He crossed the hills of the windy desert to the point where the dunes sunk into a pit. Inside the pit, tanned bearded men hauled buckets of white powder up from the black depths of the earth. As they did so they moaned hopelessly and lamented. He was there with a caravan, into which this line of brown thin men dumped the salt. And then they slunk back into the darkness of the mine and disappeared. The sun blazed furiously in the cloudless sky. A dry full wind trailed sand from the tips of the dunes and tossed it into the valleys. He waited under the cover of his personal caravan, sweating inside the folds of his robes. To the cities with his cargo, back across the heartless plains, to wealth and power flowing like an unstoppable river.
The man walked slowly, anticipating the next door, the next knock. He glanced down at his briefcase, releasing a tired sigh. Every day he walked. Every day he knocked. Just to get a meal on the table. He wore that suit and interrupted peoples’ lives.
The salesman came to the door to sell me insurance but i knew that this was just a scam. He would fleece of my money and then force me to buy insurance to safeguard myself against people like him. However, all salesman are not bad especially the ones that sell cars
A salesman is a person who works like a cheap labour till he achieves his target.Usually, they work on targets. Once they achieve a target they are rewarded with some gifts.If they don’t, they always have a bad time with their boss.The kind of job they they i tough and not really a respectful job.
The salesman was cute. He smiled at me shyly and I tried to be shy back. But I didn’t want to be shy. I wanted to be a she-vixen and pull him the floor for wild, untamed passion surrounded by shoes. The best of both worlds.
he wasn’t the best of salesmen ! that was a given. but you are damned if you didn’t think the sun shone out of his ass.
he sold you fairytale and hope instead of that cheap ass hover.
Who’s the salesman I hated who made me think they were all scum? I dont know what to say about them, only that I’d hate to be one and I hate to be sold on anything by one. Just got out of a relationship with a hell of one, but the fact in the end was he didn’t have anything to simply lay on the table; he had to sell himself, and that should have been the first and only red flag.
He was a salesman. A damn good one too. He could sale you the shoes you had on your feet. A very nifty little up charge too. He didn’t push or bullshit. He just knew exactly what to say and how to say it.
If there were a salesman
who were to call me during dinnertime
with the crackle of an overseas phone line
echoing in his call
and promise to sell me a new beginning
like a ‘start again’ in a video game
where I can live my life again
but this time with hindsight and wisdom
then I would say yes to this man
and listen to his sales pitch
and I wouldn’t even question the price
nor hang up in his ear.
Because I have become desperate
and desperate people
sometimes do
silly things.
The salesman walked down the street, tugging on his tie which kept flapping out of place with the wind. He was tired, hot, and his briefcase was ridiculously heavy, and all he wanted was to go home and fall asleep. To top it all off, he was feeling terrible, as though he was about to come down with the flu. But his meeting was important, and he knew that. It had the possibility of making or breaking his entire career. With that thought in mind, he turned down the next block and went into the glass building.
The salesman needed a sales pitch! He found the one he wanted in the old catchers mitt under his front porch. It was musty and sounded kind of funny on the tip of the tongue
he tried to sell me this obnoxious component to the stereo that made the entire car reverberate, stressing my eardrums to the max nearly blew them out as the windows rattles and rattled
I could never be a salesman. Well, for one thing, I’m a woman, but that’s not the point. A salesman has the most boring, uneventful job. Who wants to sell people shit? Not me, that’s for sure. I would rather run around in pretty dresses, talking to people about semi-serious shit, than sell boring shit to boring people at a boring job. Yep, I said it. Make me pretty.
He travelled, but he didn’t particularly like selling, so he didn’t like being called a travelling salesman. It was the travelling he liked, and so he continued in the job anyway.
Who likes them? With their eerie smiles and mouth that spout lies. Some are true but most are just propaganda as they talk their way into your wallets. My dad was a salesman. Was.
I’m a social butterfly. Not forceful in conversation. Light and charming. Patient and clear. It works on the sales floor. It keeps them on their toes. The pitch. The eyebrows raise. You take a genuine interest in what they say. But deep down inside you know all you want is their money. All you want to do is make a bloody sale. People are simply the bills in your pocket. But keep up the act. They’ll always believe you care.
Precious trinkets. Colored jewels. I would sell you the finest things. Perfumes made of the finest scents. Oils to sooth and smoothen your golden skin. You precious being you. I’d sell it all just to have you smile. Your dazzling smile. To see you decorated with my love and my trinkets. A blinded salesman I am. And my love is my pitch.
Concentrating on the task at hand. Goals to reach. But are they your own. Or your businesses? What you wish to sell is dreams and ambitions. Not items for the vain. A salesman of the material, a shopper of wishes.
quit knocking on my door. Stop selling me your crap. I don’t want it! Just Leave! What your still here what part of leave don’t you get. I already have knives I don’t need anymore!
The salesman stared at him thinking that he would eventually find some money in his pocket to pay for the whole thing. He waited and waited and waited. After a very long two minutes of listening to the clocks ticking he finally got mad and picked up the phone. In the very same moment he slamed on the table a small note with the thick black letters written on it: TIME IS UP! *
I wondered what he was selling until he pulled down his pants and whipped it out. Then I knew it was just like before. I tucked a hair behind my ear and tipped my head just to the side so he couldn’t see the white of my eyes anymore. It was going to be like that.
i hate these god damn pricks what gives them the right to invade my personal space and try to sell me shit i dont need, if i want something i will come to you. dont bother fancying me with dodadas and nick nacks that are usually useless and expensive or cheap as dirt~!
Again, the salesman. He had already been to town twice in a week. Did he think he had any more to do here? Any more to sell? He had already swindled the townspeople on many occasions, but they were too stupid to realize. The whole matter makes me sick to my stomach.
cake in my lap, hats , grey hats and death surrounding, all over. plaid all over me, wht? sell me some times, close my eyes, now and fovever, away from the salesman, away from the salesmen.
You see, I am a door-to-door sales(wo)man.
I come, without warning.
I make; you fall in love, with all that I have.
I take; all that you have.
I stay; as long as you want me to.
I obey; only my own rules.
I hurt; because of those rules.
I hope; my visit resonated happiness.
I know; it probably did not.
One of those rules include leaving.
I wish some of you would want me to linger, longer. Just-a-few-seconds longer.
(Or, maybe a few minutes longer.)
(Or, maybe a few hours longer.)
(Or, forever.)
Ding-dong.
person who would do anything use any ways to sell a product. pretend to be interesyed and charming. fa
The hungry salesman ate a taco shell full of rusty nails, sprinkled with the finest hot sauce in packets from the closest Mexican restaurant. As the tetanus set in, he propped his briefcase against his frozen knee, the convulsions ready to kick in like a side effect to the prescription. Last week it had been broken glass, but shredding his innards had become more laborious. He wished to pitch for the best death. It never came.
It was not the death of salesman, but quite the opposite. He was born in a small suburban town outside of Los Angeles. There he had spent his childhood, his teenage years, and now his adulthood. You could say that he was indecisive, but that would be an understatement.
Climbing the stairs to my bedroom and suddenly the door rings. Fuck. No. Not him again. I answer it anyway. Descend. The door. Hard. Oak. Dark. It creaks open and there he is. The salesman. He sells vacuum cleaners in a department store. Nothing great about it. Nothing great about him.
someone who is quick with words. I think i could make a good saleswoman. I could probably sell someone the shoes on their own feet but I feel like some sales areas are not as honest. Some salesmen are swindlers and that can make many people uncomfortable and stand-offish to them.
You see, I am a door-to-door sales(wo)man.
I come, without warning.
I make; you fall in love, with all that I have.
I take; all that you have.
I stay; as long as you want me to.
I obey; my own rules.
I hurt; you because of those rules.
I hope; my visit resonated happiness.
I know; it probably didn’t.
I wish some, of you would want me to stay a few seconds longer.
One of my own rules include leaving.
(Or, a few minutes longer.)
I take; I give. And I wish that sometimes those two dualities can balance for some, of you.
(Or, a few hours longer.)
As with all other characters of this earth, you have to learn to let the right one in.
(Or, forever.)
Ding-dong.
knowledgeable duecher, uniform, shady, outsmart him, dont show emotion, ask lots of questions, can I trust him…?
When I sold Girl Scout cookies, I quickly came down from my prime age.
8 years old = cute.
9 = annoying.
Somewhere after nine I resolved never to sell things to people ever again.
You’re trying to sell something to me but I can’t stop staring at the piece of grey stuck in your teeth like a tiny little animal, growling between your pointed incisors. Your lips are flabby and the same pink as oldish salmon you get from QFC and I vaguely wonder if I’ll have children someday even though I’ve never wanted them.
i never thought i would meet someone who would sell me anything i asked. That was all it took. I just had to ask and it was mine for a small fee.
He crossed the hills of the windy desert to the point where the dunes sunk into a pit. Inside the pit, tanned bearded men hauled buckets of white powder up from the black depths of the earth. As they did so they moaned hopelessly and lamented. He was there with a caravan, into which this line of brown thin men dumped the salt. And then they slunk back into the darkness of the mine and disappeared. The sun blazed furiously in the cloudless sky. A dry full wind trailed sand from the tips of the dunes and tossed it into the valleys. He waited under the cover of his personal caravan, sweating inside the folds of his robes. To the cities with his cargo, back across the heartless plains, to wealth and power flowing like an unstoppable river.
The man walked slowly, anticipating the next door, the next knock. He glanced down at his briefcase, releasing a tired sigh. Every day he walked. Every day he knocked. Just to get a meal on the table. He wore that suit and interrupted peoples’ lives.
The salesman came to the door to sell me insurance but i knew that this was just a scam. He would fleece of my money and then force me to buy insurance to safeguard myself against people like him. However, all salesman are not bad especially the ones that sell cars
A salesman is a person who works like a cheap labour till he achieves his target.Usually, they work on targets. Once they achieve a target they are rewarded with some gifts.If they don’t, they always have a bad time with their boss.The kind of job they they i tough and not really a respectful job.
The salesman was cute. He smiled at me shyly and I tried to be shy back. But I didn’t want to be shy. I wanted to be a she-vixen and pull him the floor for wild, untamed passion surrounded by shoes. The best of both worlds.
enriched by pricetags
he laughs as you glance at them
and sadly leave it
annoying. Yet it’s a profession I have come to master. Sale men are helpful and mostly kind. They usually just pretend to
he wasn’t the best of salesmen ! that was a given. but you are damned if you didn’t think the sun shone out of his ass.
he sold you fairytale and hope instead of that cheap ass hover.
dirty cheap he takees your money he tries to get all your money. he doesnt care if you get money. cheap/ he manipulates you. he steals
Who’s the salesman I hated who made me think they were all scum? I dont know what to say about them, only that I’d hate to be one and I hate to be sold on anything by one. Just got out of a relationship with a hell of one, but the fact in the end was he didn’t have anything to simply lay on the table; he had to sell himself, and that should have been the first and only red flag.
He was a salesman. A damn good one too. He could sale you the shoes you had on your feet. A very nifty little up charge too. He didn’t push or bullshit. He just knew exactly what to say and how to say it.
Salesman.
If there were a salesman
who were to call me during dinnertime
with the crackle of an overseas phone line
echoing in his call
and promise to sell me a new beginning
like a ‘start again’ in a video game
where I can live my life again
but this time with hindsight and wisdom
then I would say yes to this man
and listen to his sales pitch
and I wouldn’t even question the price
nor hang up in his ear.
Because I have become desperate
and desperate people
sometimes do
silly things.
The salesman walked down the street, tugging on his tie which kept flapping out of place with the wind. He was tired, hot, and his briefcase was ridiculously heavy, and all he wanted was to go home and fall asleep. To top it all off, he was feeling terrible, as though he was about to come down with the flu. But his meeting was important, and he knew that. It had the possibility of making or breaking his entire career. With that thought in mind, he turned down the next block and went into the glass building.
The salesman needed a sales pitch! He found the one he wanted in the old catchers mitt under his front porch. It was musty and sounded kind of funny on the tip of the tongue
Salesman. The guy drives me nuts. When I want to buy I will tell you so please stop following me around. That’s all. Now go away. More time? Crap.
he tried to sell me this obnoxious component to the stereo that made the entire car reverberate, stressing my eardrums to the max nearly blew them out as the windows rattles and rattled
I could never be a salesman. Well, for one thing, I’m a woman, but that’s not the point. A salesman has the most boring, uneventful job. Who wants to sell people shit? Not me, that’s for sure. I would rather run around in pretty dresses, talking to people about semi-serious shit, than sell boring shit to boring people at a boring job. Yep, I said it. Make me pretty.
He travelled, but he didn’t particularly like selling, so he didn’t like being called a travelling salesman. It was the travelling he liked, and so he continued in the job anyway.
Death of a Salesman. Willy Loman. Biff and Hap and Linda. The modern tragedy, and I wonder how many Willy’s are living now. Or dying now.