It seems like my entire life, or at least since shortly after my high school graduation, I have been attacked by life insurance sales-people.
The first time I remember was when I was in college at the University of Northern Colorado, when I was confronted by this guy named Harry. One day Harry was your typical partying college student, no different than the rest of us, and the next day he was an insurance salesman dressed in a suit and wing tip shoes. It was as if some business cult abducted him
Harry was extremely concerned about my financial security. At that time my financial security consisted of making sure I had enough money to buy a pizza with extra cheese, but Harry thought I should have at least $500,000 worth of life insurance so that when I died my dependents would be rich.
To be honest, I didn’t care about my dependents because I didn’t have any.
But Harry seemed obsessed with my dependents: He would camp out in my apartment all day and fret about them, until finally I gave in and bought some life insurance. (As soon as I could I cashed in my policy and used it to go to Florida for spring break.)
Every life insurance salesperson believes that no matter who you are or what you are worth, you need more insurance. So unless you live in an old refrigerator carton and have several elaborate disguises, they will find you, call you by your first name a thousand times and hint that you are likely to die in the near future. Suppose your name is Dave:
"Dave," they’ll say, "I just stopped in to chat about your financial security.
"Dave, our records show that you’re going to die someday, leaving your dependents without a dime and they will end up eating scraps of garbage out in the cold. I just felt we should chat about that, Dave."
You’ll say: "Well that’s all well and good, but I already have a million dollar life insurance policy as it is and the only dependents I have are these two hamsters that eat nothing but scraps of leftovers anyway."
Insurance salesman: "Frankly, Dave, in these inflationary times, a million dollars of life insurance will not buy the scraps of food it used to. And I’m not even talking about a new exercise wheel for those cute little balls of fur you’ve got here."
"So, Dave, if something should happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. I’ll just unroll my sleeping bag here and unpack my three-week supply of freeze-dried food while you think about it, Dave. And another thing, Dave."
Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave Dave.
Finally, of course, you’ll have to buy the insurance. And as the insurance salesman spreads the word to his fellow salesmen, you will be inundated with droves of wing-tipped insurance peddlers.
If they persist, put a sign on your door that says: Caution, Rabid Leprosy Victim with Smallpox. If that fails, sell your hamsters and try vicious dogs, I mean pets for your dependents. If nothing works and they won’t go away, you will have to taser them until snot bubbles come out their nose, which unfortunately is illegal in some states and doesn’t always stop them, either.