The name of your dog is Commission.

Your hero is your uncle, an infomercial spokesman.

You have the company logo tattooed on your forearm.

You neighbors avoid you on the sidewalk.

You pester your minister for referrals.

You send product coupons with your Christmas cards.

You don't feel right swimming without your cell phone.

Hanging out at the convenience store waiting for lottery winners is considered prospecting.

Jehovah witnesses close their drapes when they spot you.

Your spouse will only introduce friends to you by their first name.

You drop a business card in the church collection plate.

You mix up the travel briefcase with your bigger briefcase of customer brochures.

Your car lease has higher payments than your home.

You buy deodorant and indigestion tablets by the caseload.

The Neighborhood Watch Committee has you on its list.

Your local gas station gives you free breathe mints with every gas tank fill-up.

You car always has two extra spare tires.

You purchase pens in bulk, every week.

You go to the cemetery to get your prospects elegant flower gifts.

Your kid's allowance is based on commissions earned.

The church has banned you from receiving their membership address directory.

The Chamber of Commerce will blacklist you if you introduce yourself.

Pigeons have made your car their favorite neighborhood target.

You car has radar for spotting bikes, baby carriages, and kids' toys.

25 years ago, you got two fingers for peace. Now you only get one.