by Thomas Mundt
The Internet Age is one of options, of devastating alternatives that can cripple a man or his small business quicker and more efficiently than any oxidized piece of rebar could ever dream. Seems like you can’t walk down the street or commandeer an ’81 Hatteras Wide-Body Power Yacht without having your eardrums assaulted by the din of the newest, brashest kids on the quinceañera block, all promising the moon and its vast oil reserves to gain not only your business but your trust.
Pardon me while I make the air-jerk-off motion, but only because it’s just the two of us and I feel like we already have a rapport and you’re not going to interpret the gesture as my tacit condonation of the patriarchal construction of language.
If you want to survive, nay, thrive in this business, you need a plan that puts people first, and ahead of trendy buzzwords like sustainability and OSHA compliance. That’s why, at Quince Sustanivos, we’ve been servicing Southwest Michigan and select Central American mining communities with a singular focus:
Customer-Fucking-Service.
No, we don’t have a staring problem, but thanks for asking! It’s just that, when you’ve been in business for as many months as we have (two), you learn a thing or three about delivering to your customers the high-quality balloons, tablerunners, and, our favorite, the ‘Mis Quince’ Venetian Half-Mask and Gloves Combo Paks, they deserve. You discover that moving units has less to do with slick circulars and appropriate Cuidado: Piso Mojado signage in the washrooms than it does Mrs. Alvarez’ gardenias, or La Familia Calderon’s recent exploration of Carlsbad Caverns.
It’s the little things, like never, ever mentioning Luís around Rosa Hermosillo because she still hasn’t forgotten about the tire fire and often forgets to re-up on her Celexa, that make all the difference.
Sure, you could go to The Other Guys (insert the sound of me puking all over your face) and save a buck, but do you really want long lines, pushy commissioned salespeople, and feeling like It’s never the right time, Gary! It’s fucking never the right time because everything’s about fucking you!*
I mean, do you?
No way, José!
So, remember:
The need of a constantly-expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere.** And, when it comes to one-stop shopping for all of your quinceañera needs, make it Quince Sustanivos today. You and Your Little Lady will be glad you did!***
*The competitors of Quince Sustanivos and their affiliates may not be responsible for your generalized feelings of remorse and resentment. The same may be directly attributable to Gary, who is not a Registered Agent of Quince Sustanivos or its subsidiaries.
**Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto.
***Your Little Lady has entered an awkward phase of indefinite length. During this stage, nothing you do or say will be right and her hatred for you will be palpable at the dinner table, including but not limited to gatherings for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, supper (a Midwest variant of dinner), and dessert.
– Thomas Mundt is the author of one short story collection, You Have Until Noon to Unlock The Secrets Of The Universe (Lady Lazarus Press, 2011) and the father of one human boy, Henry (2011). Teambuilding opportunities and risk management advice can be found at http://www.jonathantaylorthomasnathanmundtdds.com.
Oblong 