Trying to Get the Pickers to Come to my House

Good morning this fine and restful Sabbath, unless you’re Jewish, in which case you had your Sabbath yesterday and are free to get a lot of work done today. Did you enjoy the article my grandniece Tricia wrote for this “lifestyle column” yesterday? Yes, yes, I am sure you did. And I did as well. I told Tricia, I said, “Name that baby whatever you want. Don’t feel pressured to name it after me.” I thought that all the names she’s thought up so far were fantastically imaginative, especially that boy’s name, Jayden. With any luck, that baby will grow up to be an artist just like his cousin Max.

Have you ever seen that television program about the American Pickers? I forget what it’s called, but two Pickers go around buying old stuff and then selling it at their second-hand store. You don’t even have to take your stuff to them: They come right to your house in their van! You don’t get service like that most places nowadays. And I almost forgot the best part: The Pickers prefer having senior citizens as customers. Whereas most businessmen are always trying to do business with the young hippies, the Pickers on the television always do business with only the most intriguing seniors, handing over cold hard cash for our worthless old trash. No credit cards, only cash—the way we like it.

In an attempt to get the Pickers to come to my house, I’m going to have to go through all my stuff, picking out the items that they might want to buy. Then I can put them all out in my living room. I don’t want complete strangers traipsing through my basement and my shed making a mess of everything! I’ve got a beautiful toaster that’s barely been used, and quite a few empty yogurt tubs I’ve been saving. You can put anything in them: nails, screws, pins, foodstuffs. Someone would probably give those Pickers quite a nice amount to get their hands on such a useful collection of containers, especially because I kept the lids.

Until next time!


The Codger

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