To Insure, or not to insure - THAT is the question

I'm sitting at home the other day, when an old "friend" calls up for a chat. Something's wrong, I can tell, because we were the sort of old friends that nod at each other when they meet at the VD clinic, but rarely exchange words. Now he's on first name terms, asking about the penicllin treatment.

I of course, smell a rat - something's wrong here. Then he starts talking about the mysterious ways of the world, and the tenuous links that bind us to our peace of mind.

I'm now struggling like crazy to remember if he was a particularly religious person, as the conversation seems to be heading in esoteric directions.

Then he spills his guts. "Have you ever thought about Insurance?" he waffles, so I hang up. He rings back unfortunately and I make the excuse that I was just choking the dog to death and it pawed the phone onto the hook again.

SO anyway, he starts talking about me when I'm 65 with no bowel control, and who's going to look after me, not the government, that's for sure, ramble, ramble, ramble. I start watching an Australian Soap on TV to releive the boredom, making a mental note to say uh-huh every time a tediously repititive turn of the plot occurs.

So I must have uh-huh'd only about 1000 times (cos I did strat watching 1/2 way thru) and he's SURE he's on a winner or my head's been in the bottom of a couple too many Rugby Mauls. So then he starts talking about this neat product he sells, only he won't mention the name, and he tells me that half the civilised world is using it and I should be too, because my friends are turning away from me because I'm not.

Oh!, And all the other stuff I use is harming nature.

So I ask him the name of the product, only he still won't tell me, because he says that I'm the sort of person who (in his opinion) doesn't want to pass a good idea by, and why is he trying to sell me the product when I could buy it myself and reap the profits instead of him. I'm completely agog now, here's this guy who I thought was just upright gum-suck, and in fact he has my best interests at heart! I'm sad, so I ask him the product name. Only he still won't tell me on account of I'm not actually a customer and not a dealer, but if I was like a dealer and a customer, he's sure he could find a way. So what the hell have I got to lose, I'll be getting the profits right? So I give him my VISA number, and then he gets me to plug in the fax and sends me a form.

At the top of this form is "Application to become a distributor of "Mmd,kdkje" and it's all blurred cos it's on the end of the page, BUT I NEED THESE PROFITS, so I sign, right? I fax it back to him, along with my VISA number (so he can fax my order thru to his boss and I'll get my order in maybe 2 weeks.

I still don't know what I bought, but at least my VISA limit's at 800 bucks, so I'm not too bad. Then I remember that the VISA place said just call anytime and they'll whack up my limit to Cuba's National Debt, no forms, no nothing.

So now I'm shitting twinkies. It's a friday night (so what am I doing home right? Get stuffed!) and I haven't got the VISA receipt because it was turned into paper mache by the water coming thru the hole in the door of my car, so I don't know what the VISA emergency number is. But I bet he knows it, the scum sucking puss-ball! I ring him back and tell him if he ups my limit, I'll have him taken to confessions and killed, only he tapes his phone calls for the "Verbal Agreement" clause of the dealership tuck. So the cops show, and I'm going to have to appear in court for threatening to kill. I sob out my story to them, and they understand. They lend me a service revolver and a big pillow and tell me how to shoot my ex-friend and make it look like suicide - the kind of suicide that reminds dealers above my ex-friend of the danger of tampering with my visa limit - 4 in the chest from across the room and 2 in the head at point blank range.

Seems reasonable, not excessive.

Then wipe the gun off and put it next to what remains of the body.

No Sweat. So I call him up and say I've got another distributor for him who's got 5 grand in cash and is really keen. He arranges a meet, but still won't tell me the name of the product. I get to the meet early and hide the revolver in a bankers bag. Ex-friend shows looking really excited and aniticipating a quick deal. I pull out the gun and ask him the name of the product. He starts crying and admits that he doesn't know. He never knew; he just gets distibutors. Has been for five years since the guy that recuited him videotaped him about to shoot his recruiter. All he's got to get is 5 more clients and he's in the clear. Which leaves me 5 years of clients. What the hell, I cut out the middle man with a shot to the head. I call the cops and confess. I get sent down the river for 5 years (after parole), but what the hell, they're going to need distributors in prison, aren't they? Besides, I don't know what I'm selling (apart from distributors)