There was a very brief period in my life when I sold vacuum cleaners door to door. I would do anything to get a foot far enough inside to make the best pitch I could while the poor sod I was trying to sell to was forced into rudeness just to get rid of me. At times, I think robbing liquor stores would have been a more cordial choice of profession.

I don’t exactly remember what brand I was even selling and truth be told I have probably blocked it out. I’ve heard the human mind can literally erase certain unpleasant events as long as they are traumatic enough.

That said, today, right now, I would confidently go door to door selling a Dyson vacuum cleaner and I don’t even own one .My infatuation began with the inventor himself, James Dyson. He seems so proper, so extra smart, so British, that when he intones “I just want things to work properly” I believe him, and feel extremely lucky that there are guys like him in the world willing to improve the lives of shiftless louts like myself. I can’t be bothered to change the existing overstuffed vacuum bag, let alone figure out how to make the bloody contraption suck harder.

When Dyson states that he made 5000 prototypes before finding success my head spins like a top. 5000? Who does anything 5000 times? I try parallel parking twice maximum before personal embarrassment demands that I switch to a more idiot-proof spot. How is it even possible that at prototype #3,457 he could still be as driven as he was way back at #2 or #3? Seriously, I would have started to cry and break things long before number 5000. It’s no wonder I’m appreciative of Mr. Dyson’s efforts.

And the man really is the key to the whole thing. If he was selling vacuums door to door I have no doubt that you would not only let him in but would make him a cucumber sandwich and a spot of tea as well. He is so charming, so very calm and capable-sounding that I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has found a better way to vacuum even though I have no proof whatsoever of his claim. He is just that trustworthy to me. And he knows it, creating James Dyson-centric TV ads thus ensuring a much easier entry into our homes than the more traditional, and clumsy, door to door method. He is then free to gently pitch his genius to us between reruns of “Friends” or whatever frightening new fall television experiment they are subjecting us viewers to this year. Sidebar: Does Brad Garrett really need money that badly?

James Dyson is a billionaire. That’s no small accomplishment for a vacuum cleaner salesman. When I was trying to sell them our boss promised that by replicating his sales prowess I could reach the lofty heights of success that he enjoyed. Luckily, I realized that a 1979 Pony hatchback and 3 sets of clip-on suspenders just weren’t going to cut it for me goal-wise.

Any commercial spotlighting the product’s inventor is resting the entire credibility of the invention on their shoulders. How well they bear the load tells you how many they will ultimately sell. I think that everyone watching that commercial either believes him 100% or at a minimum hopes that his vacuum cleaner is everything he says it is. I know I do, with all my heart. I want one of his rigs so bad that I am actually plotting the long overdue assassination of my Dirt Devil MVP.

You see, I used to be satisfied, thinking that my rug cleaning assistant was serving me well. James Dyson claimed different and now I am suspicious. I watch my Dirt Devil carefully, noticing what he misses picking up, and the dusty smells he leaves behind. Even his name bothers me now. I have come to fear that my one-time workhorse is actually no more than a lazy, clockwatching bum living quietly in my closet, mocking my indifference to his failings. I would say the seed of discontent has been planted.

Touché Mr. Dyson, touché.

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