My wife is a sales agent for Auto Club insurance. She’s using a little after-dinner quiet time to review the monthly Top Producers document. She’s always around the top, but because she took a two-week vacation recently, she dropped down the list this month to around number 30 — still not bad out of hundreds of agents.
Our son, however, is not impressed.
“Thirty?!” he shouts. “Let’s kick it up a not-CH!” He pronounces ‘notch’ as two syllables, accent on the second. “Get on the phones! Call the number one guy on the list and say [in a menacing voice] ‘I’m comin’ for ya.’ Then just hang up! Then call the number two guy. ‘I’m comin’ for ya.’ It’s all about intimidating your foes! Then call some customers.”
He starts perusing the list over Mom’s shoulder.
“Jorge Santiago?!” he shouts. “Sounds like a Mexican bandit! He’s in the wrong business!”
He mimes talking on the phone using the universal thumb-and-little-finger phone gesture.
He breaks into a mariachi tune . . .
Buy my pol-i-cies today!
State Farm, Allstate, they are gay!
After exhausting the comedic possibilities of Señor Santiago, he scans the list for another name.
“Jeffrey Ali?! I’m the greatest!” he shouts, throwing jabs and combinations around, then pretending to get punched in the face several times.
I’m curious to see how long he can go on with this, but Mom cuts the act short and shoos him off to take a shower . . .