Vacuum Cleaner (Redux)

It’s not often one gets a second chance, but today I got a second chance on the vacuum cleaner gig.

Today around 3 p.m. the doorbell rang. Taking a break from preparing some roast stuffed brook trout, I went to the door, and again, found another not quite so lithe dancing teddy bear standing there, this time holding out a box of Kleenex (real Kleenex!) and telling me that I had no obligation for accepting it.

“I’m from “Buzzy-scheme” (name changed to protect any consumers who may read this)
and we don’t expect you to buy Buzzy Scheme, but we get credit from the boss if we show it to you.

I was a little disappointed as the last time the boss showed up to get Flopsy (or was it Mopsy?) in the door, and peering past this guy’s shoulder, I didn’t see Flopsy (or was it Mopsy?) waiting to enter my home.

“We don’t want you to buy anything . . .” (a circumstance which may explain the current economic demise more than the Imbecile President George W. Bush dumping the economy in the drink) “ . . . but . . . ”

I looked to the north and spotted the station wagon.
“ . . . we’d like to show you the product.”

Thinking I could use a box of REAL Kleenex, I paused for about five seconds, but thinking about the trout, and the time I’d take looking at something I wouldn’t be expected to buy anyway, I said, “I’m not interested.”

My hand shook, but to put the exclamation point on the “not interested” statement, I held the Kleenex out to him.

He looked over his shoulder at the car, and took the box in his hand. Before he could argue, I was back in the house, closing the main door, letting him hold the storm open.

He didn’t slam it shut, but thankfully disappeared (presumably heading south).
My conscience clear, and juices running, I returned to the trout and began salting and peppering the cuisine prior to roasting it (375-degrees for 30-minutes).

Can’t say old dogs don’t learn new tricks.