The straw that broke the camel’s back was last Friday. I was in Large Sporting Goods store where I was assisted by a very helpful employee in confirming the black power supplies I needed didn’t exist in his store. I told him I was just going to look at the pistols under glass on my way out, but that I wasn’t in the market for anything any time soon and thanked him for his help. As I worked my way down the counter, I ran into his associate who was chatting up a couple. He asked what I was looking for, and I told him what caliber, but that I wasn’t in the market yet. His response?
“I got a hot pink one in the back!”
I spun on my heel and started to exit, but stopped after two steps and turned back.
“Really?” I said. “The first thing that comes out of your mouth is the color? Not the manufacturer, or the model, but the COLOR? SERIOUSLY?”
The female half of the couple standing there assured me that it was real “purdy”. She’d seen it!
I sighed and resumed my exit.
I don’t have a pink hammer, or a pink trim saw, pink kitchen knives, a pink mixer, a pink lawnmower or a pink car. Other than one pair of scissors, I can not think of a single tool I own that is pink. When I walk into a wine store, the salesweasels don’t assume I drink white zinfandel, or show me where the wine coolers. My used car guy doesn’t try to sell me a minivan. Why do guns stores think I want a pink gun?