I've never liked garage sales. Throw a pile of my old stuff outside, sit down in a lounge chair within sight of said stuff, hope random folks stop long enough to pay me a hilariously low amount of money for my stuff to become their stuff then take their money and buy more stuff for myself that will end up in another garage sale. Pointless.

So, it was with no small amount of grousing, sulking, and slamming our stuff around one last time that I agreed to participate in our neighborhood garage sale a few weeks ago.

On that most horrific of days, our modest suburban village of Creekside Commons devolves into a mosh pit of cut-rate capitalism.