The garbage crusher

I love my partner.

There's no doubt about it: this alone can explain why I accepted his invitation to attend an evening like yesterday's.

The background: last week (we've been seeing each other a lot... even if it may seem strange!) he suggested I attend "an evening where you need a suit and tie."

"And what's that about?" I ask.

"Don't worry... No, I mean, I shouldn't tell you..." Ah, there's a mystery!

"..."

"If you come with me, I'll earn money because I bring people... and my wife and I will move up the hierarchy..."

BINGO! Multilevel alert is working!!! (See here for my opinion on the matter.)

I can't believe it: about ten years ago, a mutual friend of ours and his wife were duped by the famous American perfume and detergent company... Could it be that, after all this time, he's falling for it? Actually, yes, considering his wife was a dear friend of that one...

So, it turns out he and she bought a garbage disposal at one of these fake sales, and that the whole thing was structured like a pyramid scheme. Since I see sincere signs of remorse in him ("I know I shouldn't tell you..."), I agree to participate. After all, there's also a dinner...

We arrive at the hotel around 8:30 PM. There are three of us; another friend has been lured in for the special night. All three of us wear our jackets as ordered.

On the veranda, a guy who seems to know my partner approaches us, greets us, and introduces himself. He has the face of a tacky guy who recently escaped from a tacky nightclub, even though he's not exactly young. I'd run away from someone like that, under normal circumstances. Especially because of that shock of frosted hair and that wide-striped suit that looks so gangster.

He asks our names again, openly demonstrating the first rule of a good barker: call the customer by name, never make a mistake. He smiles, acting charming and confident. Of course, this is just the beginning.

Then we enter the hotel: they "concentrate" us (the term is quite apt) in front of a closed door, beyond which thumping dance music can be heard. On the door hangs a sign "Lochness Italia - please note that entry is permitted with a certain decorum..." (both the company name and the wording have been changed to protect the more sensitive...)

And in front of the door, nightclub bouncers stand.

"Hmmm," I think: "So we're dancing! Better than nothing!"

But no.

After a while, the gates of hell open. The music is very loud, but they make us sit down. We practically can't talk anymore. I remember reading accounts of "presentations" like this somewhere, where fanatics screamed and clapped, deafened by the annoyingly loud music: it's part of the game, the sales pitch.

The climax (which unfortunately will be repeated four times) is reached when, after a few minutes of music, the pace slows and transforms into a kind of new-age melody. A slideshow of "Lochness Italia" appears on the screen, complete with its logo, and a sighing voice repeats the name several times. Then the beat starts up again, and people start clapping. Then the dance starts again, and everyone jumps to their feet, like in a resort during a cocktail hour. It happens four times: the opening four bars of "Up and Down" by that gay Billy More, which sees the entire audience (quite a large one, at least 100-150 people) jumping and clapping.

I watch my partner jump to the beat while I sit. I then shyly stand up and put my hands in my pockets. He looks at me as if everything is normal, and I whisper, "I'll send you something I've written tonight..."

The storm subsides. A fool appears on stage and, inaugurating a ritual that will be common to all four sketches, introduces himself, praises the company he works for (the aforementioned Lochness)... he says he's "only" x years old (x will vary between 32 and 45, but it's obvious that this "inner strength and sense of youth" are part of the script), and begins speaking.

The fool begins describing the age-old problem of waste and recycling. He goes on for a few minutes, garnering applause here and there (in reality, they seem like well-rehearsed and calculated pauses).

Finally, we get to the point: Lochness sells a... waste disposal unit! An object that fits under the sink and allows you to flush any type of solid organic waste down the drain, then shreds and pulverizes it, so it can be safely flushed down the sewer.

With this important revelation, the first part concludes.

I feel like I can't handle more than two.

They take us out and take us for a break with juice and/or water. Our "supervisor" (calling him "contact" is clearly incorrect now) comes to ask us what we think, obviously calling us by our first names. Maybe he can see in my eyes what I think of him, because he's addressing the other potential new client more.

We go back inside. To be precise, they herd us back inside like cattle.

I discover that we have to endure both the loud music and the squalid skit of big-fag and jumping/clapping. Just ahead of us, there's a vapid girl, clearly showing off and overconfident (in the third scene, we'll catch her staring blankly, her face blatantly admitting she's been on some kind of substance) and a shitty old man jumping around like a demon. I start to predict some of their futures, but I'll get back to that later.

The second aside is about a "fantastic idea": without clearly showing the pyramid scheme, we're told that, after buying the amazing garbage disposal and becoming a Lochness customer, we can "join the big family" by bringing other friends, who in turn can become customers, etc.

The only positive thing about the evening is that, even if the people "dragged" there by friends or former friends don't buy, the "hook" still gets them €40 each.

For the rest, the guy on stage (who also introduced himself, said he was happy, successful, young, handsome, and a friend and brother of the previous presenter) climbs high and dry to extol the wonders of pyramid marketing, going so far as to boast about "up to €3,000-€5,000 a month, or even a week" for those who are ambitious and bring lots of friends.

He doesn't realize what bullshit he's talking, or maybe he does.

The funny thing is that every time the numbers "40," "80," "640," etc., appear on the overhead projector, the audience (= claque) breaks out in applause. It seems impossible that so much can be obtained by promising just a handful of euros: think about what you can obtain by promising eternal life, and you'll get an idea of ​​how religions work!

Second break: the fruit juice is a bit low. I'm hungry, and my partner promises me that we'll eat it eventually. Let's hope so. The frozen redneck comes to ask us how many people we know who already own a garbage disposal: since he specifies "except your friend," I feel free to reply, "nobody [is that cute]."

We go back inside, and I endure the bouncing scene again (the other guy seems to be suffering less than me, but in fact there are two guys behind us who are much more gloomy than us...)

The third (and unfortunately not last) part of the evening sees yet another idiot finally tell us the price of the magical object we'll never be able to do without: the garbage disposal. It's €1,100, which the guy drops on us from above after a series of jokes that only make his cronies laugh (that is, three-quarters of the audience, apparently). And then there are other considerations about the impending law on waste sorting, how little €60 a month is (note that it doesn't say for how many months), how many years of glorious service the item has already provided in America, how effective word-of-mouth advertising is, how good those people at Lochness are at giving you money just because you refer friends (potential customers), how the item will pay for itself in less than a year, or even less than a month if you're good (i.e., you have lots of friends to sodomize), etc., etc.

In short, it's time to sign the contract!

Ready to headbutt anyone who comes to "advise" me to sign up for the purchase of this piece of crap... I mean, the garbage disposal... I discover that at least I'll be spared this pain. In fact, the black, stoned woman hands me a piece of paper, no signature required... it's just a "request for an interview with the manager." That's fine: I'm ready to swallow it, with my partner's consent.

The music starts up again, and soon from every corner of the room you can hear phrases like "Ermengarda Roncesvalles... Turin... new Lochness client!" And everyone is screaming and clapping.

It's crazy. A small-scale Big Brother: people are buying the bullshit just to hear its name echo among whores in evening gowns, drooling old men, and young, low-life salesmen in the basement of a suburban hotel.

Of course, the loud music, the "group spirit" based on four mismatched bass drum beats (let's not forget Billy More's "Fat" song), and so on, are all ingredients of what my partner calls "an American sales format." True, but he's not itching for it like I am. I'd like to go back in time to prevent the discovery of America like Benigni and Troisi, or at least 50 years ago as the first "barker" said, citing the times when there weren't yet washing machines in every home... and comparing his shredder to washing machines or color TVs. And, once I get to 1957, I could kill their parents before they conceive him!

Last break, and last skit. It's almost eleven o'clock, I can't take it anymore. The fourth guy, brought in to sum up the evening (and to convince those who haven't yet taken the bait), is bald, older, and more bullshit. He even cracks a few funny jokes, but the fact that he starts insulting Mediaworld, Mulino Bianco, and other famous brands with the sole purpose of highlighting his "product" and his "revolutionary advertising method" quickly ruins it. This final phase seems never-ending... and I'm hungry.

The guy shouts into the microphone every now and then, even more than the others, and it pierces my ears, giving me a vague headache. He also starts subtly calling "idiots, crazy people, and waste-of-opportunities" anyone who isn't convinced that what he's selling (note: only for this evening under these conditions) is a must-have item. Finally, he touches on a sore point, perhaps the most sore of all: "See? We had fun here tonight! Where do they give you 40 euros to have fun? I saw someone who wasn't clapping (editor's note: me)... why didn't you? Clapping is the first thing we do as kids! I know what's out there... I used to clean a nightclub... I have two kids, it was awful not being able to give my kids a higher standard of living... now, thanks to Lochness, I can do that!"

Ethics. Self-respect. Throwing your self-esteem down the toilet to sell a garbage disposal: it would be hilarious, if it weren't so tearful!

I'm not clapping for you, my dear. At worst, I'd clap in your face, that's all.

Finally, we're going to eat. The buffet isn't bad, but it's a buffet: that is, eat quickly and out of the way.

We discuss it a little further (just a little, as we did during the breaks before—oh, I forgot: loud music also serves to isolate individual potential buyers, so they can't exchange opinions until the crime has been committed) and my two interlocutors say, "Well, after all, to sell, to make some money, we can clap our hands."

That's how Forza Italia was born, I think.

And also, "Yeah, maybe in the evening, spend a few hours with people, in your free time..." Right: why read a book, or visit some real old friends?

Note that, as my partner had "warned" us, when the first henchman (outside the hotel) asked, "Do you know what this is about?", we said no. And indeed, the guy seemed satisfied that we had said no. It's strange, because in my opinion, those who come knowing what they're getting into should be given an extra bonus.

Oh, right, but those who come knowing what's being sold... can't be fooled by the surprise effect. So, perhaps, the product isn't that good/useful...

Soon we'll get to the cars.

I think of all the salesmen, the raven-haired woman, the old pig... another one who, in front of us, as soon as someone in the audience made a comment or a murmur, or in any case didn't remain in religious silence listening to the "philosophers" who followed one another on stage... he'd turn around and, threateningly, go "SSSHHHH!"...

All these people, I tell myself, have already thrown their ethics down the garbage disposal.

And I can't avoid my own mission.

I hope that woman ends up with an arm from her child in the garbage disposal, when she has one. Or even the embryo itself, when she's pregnant... perhaps due to a suction from the bidet into the sink where the garbage disposal will be installed. And to the old pig... to end his life with a heart attack, while driving on a tree-lined avenue, with several generations of his family in the car. And, in general, to all the participants of this evening, that is, those who are or will be scammers, to end up on the streets and finally learn what it means to "work" (excluding my partner, of course).

Striscia la notizia... where are you???