Near where we live is a realtor named Tony English.
I don’t know the man, and he might be a nice guy. But—just being honest—he’s annoying as all fuck.
Most real estate agents solicit business via word of mouth. Or mail. Or advertising in a local magazine, newspaper or website. Not Tony.
Nope, Tony English advertises by leaving shit by your door. Lots and lots of shit. In the three years we’ve lived in California, we’ve received erase boards from Tony English. We’ve received postcards from Tony English. We’ve received more erase boards from Tony English. A few Independence Days back, Tony English planted a miniature American flag in the ground in front of every single house in the community.
Every.
Single.
House.
I didn’t want Tony English’s flag—in part because, well, who are you to stab a flag in my ground? But also because there’s nothing patriotic about advertising via a flag. I mean, it’s not like we had to guess where the flags came from. They were identified with Tony English’s information. Which means, here, patriotism doubled as capitalism. Plus—and this is something the wife just suggested—why should you use my yard to advertise your business? How is that Tony English’s decision?
Annoying as all that was, however, today took the cake. The wife (who within the past year actually asked Tony English to stop soliciting our house) came home to—oddly—a Tony English canister of salt. Yes, a canister of salt. Why? We have no remote idea. There’s no salt pun on the label. No salt rhyme, salt anecdote. Nope, it simply offers Tony English’s contact info, along with “Call me with any real estate related questions whatsoever. I am here to help….” and “I promise the best real estate service ever!”
This is, literally, the equivalent of me asking that you buy my book by sending you a jar of apple sauce.
Only apple sauce is tasty.
Salt sucks.
