My girl scout immunity

Hello. My name is Ken Grady. And I cannot say no to your pathetic children selling crap door-to-door.

Almost immediately upon moving into our neighborhood 5 years ago, I was marked as an easy target for every kid selling frozen chocolate-chip wrapping paper to help their band go to Washington and stay off of the drugs. It's an inherent weakness. A tweener at my door with a mail-order form in hand and I'm doomed. Just sign me up for thirty bucks of whatever it is you're selling, kid. A dozen oregano-scented candles shaped like balls of yarn packed in a commemaritive kitten tin? Sure. Throw in the 25 gallon drum of stale caramel popcorn while you're at it. Skip the sales pitch, I'm already sold.

Strangely enough, however, I seem to be immune to Girl Scouts. No, I don't want your thin mints. Samoas make me retch. And if you don't get off my porch in the next twenty seconds, I'm going to see how quickly you can earn your "Dodging Cujo" badge.

I'm not sure why I'm selectively immune to this particular sales pitch. Maybe it's the numbing regularity of it happening ever year at the same time. Maybe it's those hideous green polyester jumpers. Maybe it's that I'm usually fending off my coworkers trying to shill their kids' goods at work for a month at a time. Just keep your Tagalongs away from me.