Thursday, March 15, 2012
Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer
Turns out Duane is a realtor, and with a move to Ontario on the horizon, I decided to give him a call. He wasn't much help, though; all he was concerned with was ensuring our house sold as soon as possible, which meant listing it somewhere south of thirty dollars. Not only that, his breath reeked of sulfur. He tried to hide it by gargling from a bottle of Lysol, but that just made him smell like a public toilet. Even worse, he refused to wear trousers.
In the end I decided not to go with old Duane. He was nice enough, but I just wasn't comfortable dealing with someone who, every time he reached over to write something on his notepad, I could see his balls.