Woe be unto the furry furniture salesman who gets aggressive with me. Car salesmen, I've threatened to kick in the balls. I can dispatch a survey taker with one withering glare, and religious missionaries tend to walk around me, as if some unseen guardian is guiding them to safety. When it comes to intimidating solicitors, I am not without credentials. But there is one sales force easily greater than myself, one insidious fucker I cannot beat.
"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies...?" some meek thing in shiny ponytail asks, her mother behind her, simultaneously sizing me up and prodding her shy child to speak to strangers.
As I reach into my pocket, I hate myself. If this were Mom there asking, I might not even make eye contact as I blew past. Yet this seven year old vixen so easily snares and defangs me and makes me hemorrhage money. It's like she's a hot 23 year old.
"No, but I'll donate," I say, tossing a $10 bill into her jar.
"Awwwwwwww!" the girls all coo in chorus, as if I'd pulled out a puppy wearing a tiny tuxedo instead.
Evil.