Tire Sales Quotes

I find out a lot about myself by sleeping. Dreams, they are who I am when I’m too tired to be me.

I drive as fast as four tire swings hanging from a tree branch in the middle of winter. I also make love with as much speed and rotation.

Eating a plain bagel with no cream cheese is like eating the inner tube of a bicycle tire, and I’d rather ride my roller skates to work.

Did you see that?” “See what?” And he couldn’t keep his voice from breaking as tires squealed. “Boot sale at Marlands. We are so going back there

I think Starbucks would go out of business if more people were to Superglue their eyelids open when they felt tired.

I’m tired of talking. I want you to extract my thoughts through my nostrils.

How does paying people more money make you more money? It works like this. The more you pay your workers, the more they spend. Remember, they're not just your workers- they're your consumers, too. The more they spend their extra cash on your products, the more your profits go up. Also, when employees have enough money that they don't have to live in constant fear of bankruptcy, they're able to focus more on their work- and be more productive. With fewer personal problems and less stress hanging over them, they'll lose less time at work, meaning more profits for you. Pay them enough to afford a late model car (i.e. one that works), and they'll rarely be late for work. And knowing that they'll be able to provide a better life for their children will not only give them a more positive attitude, it'll give them hope- and an incentive to do well for the company because the better the company does, the better they'll do. Of course, if you're like most corporations these days- announcing mass layoffs right after posting record profits- then you're already hemorrhaging the trust and confidence of your remaining workforce, and your employees are doing their jobs in a state of fear. Productivity will drop. That will hurt sales. You will suffer. Ask the people at Firestone: Ford has alleged that the tire company fired its longtime union employees, then brought in untrained scab workers who ended up making thousands of defective tires- and 203 dead customers later, Firestone is in the toilet.

Growing tired of dishing out expensive cat food, Paulette started leaving sales receipts next to the bowl. Surely that would lead to some appreciation.

Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing The world is full of women who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself if they had the chance. Quit dancing. Get some self-respect and a day job. Right. And minimum wage, and varicose veins, just standing in one place for eight hours behind a glass counter bundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich. Selling gloves, or something. Instead of what I do sell. You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulous and without material form. Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way you cut it, but I've a choice of how, and I'll take the money. I do give value. Like preachers, I sell vision, like perfume ads, desire or its facsimile. Like jokes or war, it's all in the timing. I sell men back their worst suspicions: that everything's for sale, and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see a chain-saw murder just before it happens, when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple are still connected. Such hatred leaps in them, my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploring but ready to snap at my ankles, I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants. I keep the beat, and dance for them because they can't. The music smells like foxes, crisp as heated metal searing the nostrils or humid as August, hazy and languorous as a looted city the day after, when all the rape's been done already, and the killing, and the survivors wander around looking for garbage to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion. Speaking of which, it's the smiling tires me out the most. This, and the pretense that I can't hear them. And I can't, because I'm after all a foreigner to them. The speech here is all warty gutturals, obvious as a slam of ham, but I come from the province of the gods where meaning are lilting and oblique. I don't let on to everyone, but lean close, and I'll whisper: My mothers was raped by a holy swan. You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. That's what we tell all the husbands. There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around. Not that anyone here but you would understand. The rest of them would like to watch me and feel nothing. Reduce me to components as in a clock factory or abattoir. Crush out the mystery. Wall me up alive in my own body. They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency. Look - my feet don't hit the marble! Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising, I hover six inches in the air in my blazing swan-egg of light. You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

[...] a tired mouse-grey tie never works with an ash-grey suit.

put it up for sale at an asking price of $25 million. I first looked at Mar-a-Lago while vacationing in Palm Beach in 1982. Almost immediately I put in a bid of $15 million, and it was promptly rejected. Over the next few years, the foundation signed contracts with several other buyers at higher prices than I’d offered, only to have them fall through before closing. Each time that happened, I put in another bid, but always at a lower sum than before. Finally, in late 1985, I put in a cash offer of $5 million, plus another $3 million for the furnishings in the house. Apparently, the foundation was tired of broken deals. They accepted my offer, and we closed one month later. The day the deal was announced, the Palm Beach Daily News ran a huge front-page story with the headline MAR-A-LAGO’S BARGAIN PRICE ROCKS COMMUNITY. Soon, several far more modest estates on property a fraction of Mar-a-Lago’s size sold for prices in excess of $18 million. I’ve been told that the furnishings in Mar-a-Lago alone are worth more than I paid for the house. It just goes to show that it pays to move quickly and decisively when the time is right. Upkeep

Underneath the helmet was something neon orange [...], a windbreaker that was almost brighter than the stadium paint. [...] "Dan commissioned them her first year here. She said she was tired of everyone trying to look past us. People want to pretend people like us don't exist, you know? Everyone hopes we're someone else's problem to solve." Nicky reached out and fingered the material. "They don't understand, so they don't know where to start. They feel overwhelmed and give up before they've taken the first step." Nicky gave himself a small shake and smiled, melancholy instantly replaced by cheer. "You know we donate a portion of ticket sales to charity? Our tickets cost a little more than anyone else's because of it. [...]

I'm the only person I know who has slept through a fire drill. Apparently, I pulled the alarm. Yeah, I sleepwalk. Sometimes I sleep run. I was asleep when I ran the Boston Marathon. I was so tired when I finished that I slept for another sixteen hours.

And if we don't keep moving, we won't make it to a computer in time to stop the submarine sale because we'll have to spend a second night in the jungle, surrounded by friggin' pit vipers. In the rain. And I am sick and tired of the rain. I want to get a roof over our heads and dry clothes for you because I can see right through your damn shirt and it's driving me crazy.

The blackjack oak is a hard tree. I chopped ours down. Sitting to the side of our wooded acre. Standing 20-feet tall. The ax was old. Older than I was at the time. A weathered handle hurt the hands. A rusty head barely cut. Chipped away at the tree. Over hours. Over days. And the tree fell. A creak. A crack. A soft thud on sandy ground. My blistered hands dropped the ax. Tired legs limped away. Summers were long then. And trees fell.

Half the world is made of tiny communities that have grown up around nothing more than a crossroads market, or a good clay pit, or a bend of river strong enough to turn a mill wheel. Sometimes these towns are prosperous. Some have rich soil and generous weather. Some thrive on the trade moving through them. The wealth of these places is obvious. The houses are large and well-mended. People are friendly and generous. The children are fat and happy. There are luxuries for sale: pepper and cinnamon and chocolate. There is coffee and good wine and music at the local inn. Then there are the other sort of towns. Towns where the soil is thin and tired. Towns where the mill burned down, or the clay was mined out years ago. In these places the houses are small and badly patched. The people are lean and suspicious, and wealth is measured in small, practical ways. Cords of firewood. A second pig. Five jars of blackberry preserve.

Publishing a book, Watching its ways Force me to look At a screen for days "Be still, be still", My heart screams for life But I must check its sales, It's reviews, its likes. Another Instagram poet Who's dying And doesn't know it, Untying an underlying Knot of desire To be liked and admired For people to love what transpires From my mind, but I'm tired Of the social machine Producing my insecurity Hoping someone will follow me And like all my poetry From this point forth, find me nowhere, Socially unseen, Just on the back porch, without a care And without a screen

I made the out of town trip once, walked a mile, and endured product placement rather than putting an item where it made sense. There were plastic smiles of overworked, underpaid employees who not only didn’t want to help you, they didn’t want to be there. Crowds, lots of crowds, because everything was always on sale. And after I’d wandered aimlessly for a couple of hours, running from one side of the store to the next caught in some perverse scavenger hunt, I stood in the line. Then there was the one open line in a row of fifty closed ones trying to check out a store full of tired suburbanites, their screaming kids, and clueless teenagers.

In the 1950s, the standard bike had been the cruiser design, a gargantuan fender-covered machine built exclusively for adults. There was only one speed (slow) and you stopped the bike by reversing the pedals and pressing down hard. In 1962, however, Schwinn designer Al Fritz had an idea. He’d heard about a new youth trend centered in California: retrofitting bicycles with drag-racing motorcycle accoutrements. “Choppers” — custom motorcycles with long handlebars — were all the rage. Fritz introduced chopper elements into his new design. The Schwinn Stingray was born. It had smaller, 20-inch tires — with flat racing treads — and high handlebars and a banana seat. Sales were initially disappointing — parents didn’t want their children riding such an odd looking bike — but as the Stingray began making its way into America’s neighborhoods, every kid had to have one. And every bike manufacturer began manufacturing bikes just like it — a style we referred to as the “spider” bike.

Yorick's Used and Rare Books had a small storefront on Channing but a deep interior shaded by tall bookcases crammed with history, poetry, theology, antiquated anthologies. There was no open wall space to hang the framed prints for sale, so Hogarth's scenes of lust, pride, and debauchery leaned rakishly against piles of novels, folk tales, and literary theory. In the back room these piles were so tall and dusty that they took on a geological air, rising like stalagmites. Jess often felt her workplace was a secret mine or quarry where she could pry crystals from crevices and sweep precious jewels straight off the floor. As she tended crowded shelves, she opened one volume and then another, turning pages on the history of gardens, perusing Edna St. Vincent Millay: "We were very tired, were very merry, / We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry..." dipping into Gibbon: "The decline of Rome was the natural and inevitable effect of immoderate greatness. Prosperity ripened the principle of decay..." and old translations of Grimm's Fairy Tales: "They walked the whole day over meadows, fields, and stony places. And when it rained, the little sister said, 'Heaven and our hearts are weeping together...

I’m tired of thinking about Agatha. Well, not about her, but about my loss of her. Today I went through some old boxes of mine and found some journal entries I wrote in the second grade. One was about the loss of a girl, the S name on my list, so I’ll copy and paste it for posterity: Today was a bad day. Stephany broke up with me for Tommy. I don’t like that slimy Tommy. Tommy is a turtle. I used to like turtles but now I like warm blooded creetures. Maybe Stephany is a reptile disguised as a human jerkface. I won’t cry because I am a soldier. Soldiers do not dispense tears. Soldiers kill their enemies. Tommy is my enemy. But the code of the moose says a warrior must eat what he kills. Does this mean I should have eaten my neighbors cat? I will not cry today or ever. I am fearless like my dad. My dad is a superhero. He is courageous and invisible. I haven’t seen him in four years. When I see him next he’ll probably tell me I am taller. Maybe I will tell him he is shorter. And fatter and balder. Maybe he will appear again and I can be normal. I would very much like to not wear wooden shoes anymore. Cats tongues are rough like sandpaper. Cats must never lick my shoes. Nobody licked my shoes the way Stephany did. I will miss her and her early-onset male pattern baldness.

freeze, so she opted for pants with a thick, nubbly sweater that added substance to her frame. As always, her necklace was in place, and she donned a lovely bright cashmere scarf to keep her neck warm. When she stepped back to appraise herself in the mirror, she felt she looked almost as good as she had before chemotherapy started. Collecting her purse, she took a couple more pills—the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but no reason to risk it—and called an Uber. Pulling up to the gallery a few minutes after closing time, she saw Mark through the window, discussing one of her photographs with a couple in their fifties. Mark offered the slightest of waves when Maggie stepped inside and hurried to her office. On her desk was a small stack of mail; she was quickly sorting through it when Mark suddenly tapped on her open door. “Hey, sorry. I thought they’d make a decision before you arrived, but they had a lot of questions.” “And?” “They bought two of your prints.” Amazing, she thought. Early in the life of the gallery, weeks could go by without the sale of even a single print of hers. And while the sales did increase with the growth of her career, the real renown came with her Cancer Videos. Fame did indeed change everything, even if the fame was for a reason she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Mark walked into the office before suddenly pulling up short. “Wow,” he said. “You look fantastic.” “I’m trying.” “How do you feel?” “I’ve been more tired than usual, so I’ve been sleeping a lot.” “Are you sure you’re still up for this?” She could see the worry in his expression. “It’s Luanne’s gift, so I have to go. And besides, it’ll help me get into the Christmas spirit.

Evan was attracted to technology early on, building his first computer in sixth grade and experimenting with Photoshop in the Crossroads computer lab. He would later describe the computer teacher, Dan, as his best friend. Evan dove into journalism as well, writing for the school newspaper, Crossfire. One journalism class required students to sell a certain amount of advertising for Crossfire as part of their grade. Evan walked around the neighborhood asking local businesses to buy ads; once he had exceeded his sales goals, he helped coach his peers on how to pitch businesses and ask adults for money. By high school, the group of 20 students Evan had started with in kindergarten had grown to around 120. Charming, charismatic, and smart, Evan threw parties at his dad’s house that were “notorious” in his words. Evan’s outsized personality could rub people the wrong way at times, but his energy, organizing skills, and enthusiasm made him an exceptional party thrower. He possessed a bravado that could be frustrating and off-putting but was great for convincing everyone that the night’s party was going to be the greatest of all time. Obsessed with the energy drink Red Bull and the lifestyle the brand cultivated, Evan talked his way into an internship at the company as a senior in high school. The job involved throwing parties and other events sponsored by Red Bull. Clarence Carter, the head of the company’s security team, would give Evan advice that would stand him well in the years to come: pay attention to who helps you clean up after the party. Later recalling the story, Evan said, “When everyone is tired and the night is over, who stays and helps out? Because those are your true friends. Those are the hard workers, the people that believe that working hard is the right thing to do.

Black economist William J. Wilson is tired of hearing whites blamed for everything. “[T]alented and educated blacks are experiencing unprecedented job opportunities…” he writes, “opportunities that are at least comparable to those of whites with equivalent qualifications.”78 As George Lewis, a hardworking black man who is vice president and treasurer of Philip Morris, says, “If you can manage money effectively, people don’t care what color you are.”79 Reginald Lewis is a black lawyer and investment banker. In 1987 his company, TLC Group, raised $985 million to acquire BCI Holdings, an international food conglomerate with $2.5 billion in sales. Mr. Lewis, whose net worth is estimated to be $100 million, is not very concerned about race. “I don’t really spend a lot of time thinking about that,” he says. “[T]he TLC Group is in a very competitive business and I really try not to divert too much of my energy to considering the kind of issues [race] … raised.

I was watching myself fall back onto the classic sales approach, with its tired old script: First become likable and build rapport, then explain “features and benefits,” next do a trial close, and then fight like an alley cat to overcome all the objections the buyer has come up with.

A tired sales presentation. Running through your sales presentation as if you were tired of hearing it

Lonely Hearts and Empty Roads [Verse] Footsteps echoin' on this dusty ground People circlin' like vultures round Can't shake the whisperin' in the wind Dark tales they always tryin' to spin [Verse 2] Shadows lurkin' behind every friend Fake smiles ain't gonna make amends Faces smilin' while they pull the rug Tired of dodgin' every dirty slug [Chorus] Always someone bringin’ you down Always someone jokin’ as you drown Need that soul who saw you true Never made you feel like you’s just a fool [Verse 3] Eyes betray the lies they pave Tired hearts they ain't for sale or save Wanna find someone who'd hold their tongue And sing life's song like you ain't done [Bridge] Man of wisdom said don’t cast the stone Hold the line don’t walk alone In this maze of broken lanes Seek the one who heals your pains [Verse 4] Rusty barbed wire 'round these dreams of mine Each cut deep but I’ll be fine 'Cause somewhere out there’s a heart so rare Never made me feel like life's unfair

Are there any sleeping jobs, because I have a lot of experience. Years and years, actually. And with on the job training, I can show up to work tired.

Are you failing in sales? Are you not able to meet your targets on a regular basis? Do you easily get tired of trying? Do you want to be better than your team members? Don't worry! Try our magic potion: Add some drops of Focus (follow successful team members), some drops of listening (listen properly to customers), some drops of learning (be open to suggestions) & some drops of confidence, now mix it with a never-give-up approach, & finally garnish it with a pinch of confidence. Remember this potion works only if taken with a dose of belief.

DANGER IN THE SKY In the year 2003, a tsunami of people washed away the government of Bolivia. The poor were sick and tired. Everything had been privatized, even the rainwater. A “for sale” sign had been hung on Bolivia, and they were going to sell it, Bolivians and all. The uprising shook El Alto, perched above the incredibly high city of La Paz, where the poorest of the poor work throughout their lives, day after day, chewing on their troubles. They are so high up they push the clouds when they walk, and every house has a door to heaven. Heaven was where those who died in the rebellion went. It was a lot closer than earth. Now they are shaking up paradise.

All My Friends That's how it starts We go back to your house We check the charts And start to figure it out And if it's crowded, all the better Because we know we're gonna be up late But if you're worried about the weather Then you picked the wrong place to stay That's how it starts And so it starts You switch the engine on We set controls for the heart of the sun One of the ways we show our age And if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up And I still don't wanna stagger home Then it's the memory of our betters That are keeping us on our feet You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan And the next five years trying to be with your friends again You're talking 45 turns just as fast as you can Teah, I know it gets tired, but it's better when we pretend It comes apart The way it does in bad films Except in parts When the moral kicks in Though when we're running out of the drugs And the conversation's winding away I wouldn't trade one stupid decision For another five years of life You drop the first ten years just as fast as you can And the next ten people who are trying to be polite When you're blowing eighty-five days in the middle of France Yeah, I know it gets tired only where are your friends tonight? And to tell the truth Oh, this could be the last time So here we go Like a sales force into the night And if I made a fool, if I made a fool, if I made a fool On the road, there's always this And if I'm sewn into submission I can still come home to this And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand You can sleep on the plane or review what you said When you're drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks You think over and over, "hey, I'm finally dead." Oh, if the trip and the plan come apart in your hand Tou look contorted on yourself your ridiculous prop You forgot what you meant when you read what you said And you always knew you were tired, but then Where are your friends tonight? Where are your friends tonight? Where are your friends tonight? If I could see all my friends tonight If I could see all my friends tonight If I could see all my friends tonight If I could see all my friends tonight

And since this is what still appears in all the magazines, who would dare destroy a billion-dollar industry in- volving advertisements, the sale of useless objects, the invention of en- tirely unnecessary new trends, and the creation of identical face creams all bearing different labels?

On a unicycle, my tire will tire before I do. I ride for charity. I’m trying to raise enough money to buy a bicycle.

The worst part about working in a hotel is when I’m tired, I know I can’t sample the very thing I sell: sleep. I also sell sex, but I must be discreet in the sheets.

A city doctor moved to the country to become a farmer. He figured, “Since I’m going to have a farm, I might as well have animals on it.” So he got in his truck to go looking for animals. Along the way, he spotted a sign saying, “Cocks 4 Sale.” He pulled over and asked the farmer what a cock was. “A cock is a rooster,” the farmer replied. So the doctor bought a cock and put it in the back of his truck. The doctor continued on his way until he saw a sign saying, “Pullets 4 Sale.” He pulled over and asked the farmer what a pullet was. “A pullet is a hen,” the farmer replied. “But sometimes a cock and a pullet will fight, so watch out.” The doctor thanked the farmer and went on his merry way. Down the road a bit, there was another sign saying, “Asses 4 Sale.” So the doctor pulled over again to ask about it. “An ass is a donkey,” the farmer told him. “But watch out, because this donkey is different. If he gets scared, he’ll sit down and won’t move until you scratch his belly.” The doctor thanked the farmer and turned around to head home. In the road was a broken bottle and the doctor ran his truck right over it. Pop!!! The sound made the cock and pullet start to fight, and the donkey sat on the spare tire. A lady just happened to be passing by and asked if the doctor needed help. The doctor, wanting to sound like a professional farmer, replied, “Yes, I need help. Will you please hold my cock and pullet while I scratch my ass?

Talking Dog One day, while driving in the country, a man noticed a sign that said “Talking Dog for Sale.”  The sign pointed to a farm house off the road just a bit.  The man’s interest was piqued so he pulled off the road and headed up to the farm house. When he got there and inquired about the talking dog, the farmer told him the talking dog was around the back of the farm house.  The farmer said the man was welcome to go in back and talk with the dog. The man was in a serious state of disbelief, because he knew dogs couldn’t talk.  Still he was very curious so he headed around to the backyard. In the backyard the man noticed a poodle that quickly came up to him.  The man thought to himself, “Hmmm poodles are supposed to be smart dogs.” “Can you really talk?” the man asked the poodle. “I sure can,” replied back the poodle. “Wow,” exclaimed the man.  Wanting to hear more he asked, “So what’s your story?” “I discovered I could talk when I was very young,” said the poodle.  “I knew I had a real gift so I thought I should do something about it.  I joined the CIA and became one of their very best spies.  I was sent on many secret missions.  I traveled all around the world and was involved in many interesting and intriguing cases. I even helped save the life of the President on two occasions. After eight years I got tired of all the jetting around and decided to retire.  I was given several awards for all my achievements and a gala dinner, attended by many important people, was held in my honor.  I was given a full government pension and brought to this farm to enjoy the rest of my life.” After hearing all this, the man was astounded.  He quickly went back to the farmer and said, “I want that dog!  I will buy it at any price.  How much do you want for that dog?” “Ten dollars,” was the farmer’s reply. “Ten dollars?” the man said in disbelief.  “That dog is amazing, why on earth would you sell it for so little?” “Because he’s a big liar; he didn’t do any of those things!

Latent Needs The larger and more significant portion of the market is comprised of prospects who do have needs for your product or service, but haven’t yet recognized those needs. In QBS, we say that these prospects have latent needs. Latent needs are needs that do exist but haven’t yet surfaced as problems or desires. Prospects with latent needs fail to recognize that they are no longer satisfied with the status quo. As an example, suppose you and I were standing beside your car when suddenly we noticed that one of your tires was worn down to the cords. Instantly, you would have a need for new tires. The question is, did you have a need for new tires yesterday? Sure you did. The tread on your tire didn’t wear itself down overnight. But until you actually recognized the existence of a problem, your need for new tires was latent. It existed, although you were not aware of it at the time. This is essentially what happened when Brent called me. I absolutely had a need for septic tank improvement products, but my need was a latent need. Salespeople encounter prospects with latent needs all the time—especially prospects who say things like: “I don’t need life insurance because I’m not planning to die any time soon.” Or, “We don’t have time to evaluate new technology, because we’re too busy putting out fires.” Here’s my personal favorite: “We can’t afford sales training right now, because sales have been slow.

People are getting very tired of the Yell, Tell, Sell. Consider honoring the audiences you would like to grow with patient and authentic engagement instead of the daily and hourly attacks of ego, hype, templated content and pushy sales tactics.

One couldn't quite call the people of Chester ignorant to the realities of the real world outside of their small quarters because they weren't unaware of life in the real world. They knew what was happening outside the town. They knew the current state of the union was a disaster. The understood the poverty sweeping our nation, the drug trafficking stories. They damn well knew about the wildfires, school shootings, marches at the nation's capital, and rallies for clean drinking water. They knew about our president, both past and present. Yes, the people in Chester, Georgia, knew all about the workings of the real world, they simply much preferred to speak about why Louise Honey wasn't at Bible study on Thursday night, and why Justine Homemaker was too tired to make homemade cupcakes for the church bake sale on Friday. They loved to gossip about shit that didn't matter, which was one of the many reasons I hated living there.

Don't open the door or talk to strangers," "Unless they're selling something.Then allow them to disclose what they are selling and see if its something which might be useful. First say a 'No' upfront, that's taking charge of the situation from beginning. Make them explain, do not react at all till they finish, but listen carefully. Now pretend that hypothetically you might like it but not sure if it can be beneficial to you in this life. Without delay, even the sound of interest in another life work as a charge-up for salespeople, they will continue product explanation with enhanced passion. Even so, don't open-up your cards, just restart the game, ask about the first thing they explained than the second. Steer them around in circles by submitting the similar question in altered manner. Its always good to exhaust your opponent, make them so tired mentally that they wont be able to hide any fact or benefit. Once you see them fatigued start bargaining about the cost, remember instantly they either want to run away or slap you hard, but...Its a big but...The targets on their head will not allow them that option so they will listen to every demand, call their boss and offer you the second most reasonable price... Do not say yes yet...Tell them you will buy it but still need some time to think...They are at present in a flightless state, so they will promptly offer you the most competitive price possible and secure the deal. Although you can still ask for a corporate goody like a calendar, diary, pen T-shirt or a cap for me, now they might or might not possess anything big, but even a free pencil is a bonus. Our standards aren't that high when it comes to a gift.

The woman of my dreams was tired. The woman of my dreams always lets me sleep in. The woman of my dreams always lets me sleep with other women in my dreams.

If I could change one thing about myself, I’d pick a new nose, because I’m tired of picking this one. Oh, and I’d stop treating people as if they’re flickable.

I’m tired, and I just want to take a nap. But I want some good sleep, so does anybody know where I can go take in a political speech?

With four tires on every car in the world, there’s too much rubber. All the Johns should take the condoms off their Johnsons.

Cheapskate The day I blurted the word out at my father I was still an in-the-dark toe-headed excuse for leaving early from the Sunday ritual - the after-church bourbon-fumed lunches of deviled eggs, Vienna sausages, and saltines at his mother’s airless La Jolla bungalow, what Purgatory must’ve smelled like in 1962. I doubt even this “intermediate state after death for expiatory purification,” according to Webster, endured as long as our visits that my own mother artfully dodged and I failed to appreciate, an annoyance that incited the battle-axe’s contempt and me to mime her derision, drawing into question the battery life of her cumbersome hearing aids. Often my father zipped a finger across his throat, though amusement danced in the lines of his brow, unlike when I burst in on them à la Soupy Sales or lurched into histrionic spasms of boredom, forcing their conversation into ellipses, usually over an envelope he set by her lipsticked tumbler. That called for banishment to the tiny courtyard where among a few droopy orange trees I could kill time and escape the weird reversal of my father no longer himself to her, but a mother to his own mother, a slow suffocation that on occasion drove him outside. During our last visit, the week of a heat wave, I’d been rolling oranges like depth-charges into her moribund pond of scabby goldfish. I had no idea anger could travel in the family when the door kicked open, and out he came cracking like ice in a glass of the bourbon hidden in her unused kitchenette oven. One of the oranges swiped his wingtips with its fetid juice, and he picked it up, a Zeus lost in a thousand-yard gaze of divine wrath, then hurled it at the pink retaining wall. Long after he returned inside I stood still, entranced by the splatter as if its tentacles of anger reached out to me, though my behavior, the orange, or even cash in an envelope - what he feared I’d one day too place beside his own drink - had less to do with his outburst than imagined. Nothing was ever so simple about him. On the drive home, the windows rolled up, we swept by 31 Flavors without slowing down while kids on tailgates slurped ice cream, and riding shotgun, I just snapped, calling him that terrible thing you can never take back - a cheapskate. Suddenly we coasted in the wake of it worse than any blasphemy or sacrilege, the tires thumping louder than ever on seamed concrete until his white knuckles flew off the wheel at me, and belted-in I ducked to cushion the blow. His legacy halted mid-air. By chance in the rearview mirror he’d caught his own father’s fist coming on fast, too late for both of us to get out of the way.

Professors downplay the cutthroat culture of academia, but managers never tire of comparing business to war. MBA students carry around copies of Clausewitz and Sun Tzu. War metaphors invade our everyday business language: we use headhunters to build up a sales force that will enable us to take a captive market and make a killing. But really it’s competition, not business, that is like war: allegedly necessary, supposedly valiant, but ultimately destructive.