A Wacky Weekend with the In-Laws

This past weekend the wife and I gathered our junk, loaded the Explorer, and headed on down to the in-law’s house in order to participate in their annual garage sale. I freakin’ hated it. Don’t get me wrong, I love my in-laws and consider myself lucky for being related to such great people, however, I am constantly looking for an excuse to not be a part of this disgusting ritual known as the garage/yard sale.

I have always hated them. Yard sales I mean. The thought of forsaking what always turns out to be an entire weekend, gathering, tagging, sorting, displaying, haggling, and eventually throwing away junk that I have harbored for years makes me want to vomit blood whilst being impaled rectally with the fat end of a bowling pin. Too graphic? Sorry, but that description will give a very minute inkling of what I would rather do on a Saturday afternoon rather than bartering with the general public. I am of the philosophy that if I haven’t used something for six months or more, I probably won’t ever use it again. Seems like a winning attitude for a yard sale gatherer huh? Hang on, I would rather donate or destroy those things than let strangers pick through it. Regardless of the fact that the wife and I made about $400, I have to ask myself, was it worth it? Really? I contemplate and contemplate but I always come up with the same answer: HELL NO! I would have rather paid twenty bucks on a two hour trip to the dump than waste 16 hours making sure that no one stole my wife’s grandfather’s big brass hanging key-holder shaped like, you guessed it, a goddamn skeleton key!

Now, I may be extremely judgemental, however, I noticed that for the most part the people that shop these low-rent flea markets are genial, laid back, good solid citizens. You can’t run into too many snobs that are willing to pay a quarter for 25-year-old wool socks. That just isn’t in the cards. However, every one “shopper” in twenty is flat-out disgusting. The kind of person whose smell lingers, in the open air mind you, for about half an hour after having left. These are the ones that you hope aren’t looking to buy a chair for fear of having the next “shopper” gag as they sit down. They are also the ones that haggle over nickels and dimes. If something is marked for two dollars, then they want it for one. If something is marked for twenty dollars, they want it for one. They are the primary reason that I’d just rather take everything to the dump. At least that way I still get the smell without the aggravation of repeating the words, “the price is marked, dude”; or “No, I will not go any lower”; or “I’ll throw in this 10-year-old bar of soap if you please promise me that you’ll use it by combining it with water, in a ritual that I like to call ‘taking a shower’, now, get outta my face hippie”.

Typical "shopper" this past weekend!

Typical "shopper" this past weekend!

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