Not all used car dealers are glorified prostitutes. But most.

I am not sure what it is about being a used car salesman that causes you to carry over your business demeanor into everyday life. At my job I encounter far more of them than any human being should have to deal with. Take this one sitting in front of me for example. He is in his mid-thirties. Has a grin so plastic that it could only charm Barbie. Every hair glued perfectly in place. Even his laugh sounds like a lie. His jovial attitude is the farthest thing from heart-warming. This is a man fueled by dirty money. Every sentence that exits his mouth should be punctuated by the "cha-ching!" of a cash register. He feels the need to sell not only his cars, but himself as well to the rest of the world. People are a hard sell. We are all lemons to one extent or the other. He knows this about himself and thus, the smile of desperation.I wonder if that damn smile relaxes when he sleeps. He has been led into a corral by a bastard of a shepherd called The American Dream.Most likely from a middle class family, he was the kid who, in elementary school, would commandeer the pencil sharpener and charge a service fee to those poor souls whose pencils were point-deficient. He then slid through college on the lubrication caused by his own slime trail bursting out of the other end of the higher education system with all the pomp and celebration of a stubborn bowel movement. He was then immediately snapped up into the "professional world" at a dealership owned by the father of one of his fraternity brothers where he enjoys what he calls "success through charm" but what his customers call "just buying the damn car so he will leave me the fuck alone."He attends the back-yard barbeques of neighbors that, coincidentally, are trying to find the right car for little Susie at the right price. He will bullshit with the neighbors about the BTUs of their new gas grill until the topic of the car arises. He won't catch onto the fact that that was the sole reason why he was invited. Or maybe he will. I don't think it really matters. It will end the same either way. They will strike a deal. The neighbor will seal it with a reluctant handshake. Our injection-molded protagonist will walk away smiling and the neighbor will sprint inside to say several dozen "Hail Mary"s and vigorously wash his hands with 6M hydrochloric acid.