A mistake

On my way home from work I noticed some people gathered around the TRAX ticket machine. They appeared to be foreigners and while I couldn't tell what language they were speaking, I was sure it wasn't English.

In an effort to be welcoming and help eliminate the "arrogant American" stereotype, I asked if they needed any help. Their spokesman looked up, smiled with a thick accent, said, "No, thank you." I asked where they were from. "France." I was a bit taken aback.

You see, the last time I ran into someone from France I almost punched them in the face. Seriously, if we hadn't been in the UN with it's crazy-tight security, I would have rumbled with the guy and kicked his sorry French butt back across the pond with an American flag tied around his neck like a cape.

Long story.

Coming out of my UN flashback I exercised self-restraint, smiled weakly and took my seat on the hard bench to wait for the train.

A second later the same man came over and asked me if I was from here (Salt Lake). Determined to be polite, I responded that I worked downtown.

He went on to explain he worked for a company called "Monkey Turd" (or something like that. I could barely understand a word he was saying, but I'm pretty sure it started with an "M") which sold some kind of drink from a fruit they found in the Amazon (or maybe it was on Amazon?) and just started importing. It was "amazing" and "helped your whole body".

I stared in unbelief. This had to be a joke. Of all people in the city, I tried to help a 1. French 2. multi-level marketer. If this didn't prove God has a sense of humor, I didn't know what would.

Pierre, or whatever his half-woman name was, pulled out his card and began expounding the virtues of this wonder drink. In the meantime, my mind raced through the events of the day, trying to remember the grievous sin I'd committed to deserve this. I couldn't think of anything. I was even nice to Caryn and didn't get upset when she said the client cut all the good parts out of my copy and that I had to rewrite half of it for an ad due by noon tomorrow.

In an effort to promote diplomatic relations (someday we may need the French for something...like detoxing Chernobyl or testing Ebola vaccines) I accepted his card with a grunt and stuck it in the back of my book.

Thankfully, the Frenchie and his entourage got onto the train before mine so I didn't have to listen to his quasi-socialist ramblings.

I find it ironic that I may not agree with what he has to say, but I'll fight for his right to say it...and he won't even do that.