DOOR-TO-DOOR

School is back in full swing, and so are the door-to-door brats. At least once a week some snot-nosed punk knocks on my door, trying to fence everything from magazine subscriptions and coupon books, to overpriced cookies and candies. This is shit I don’t need. More importantly, it’s shit I don’t need to be interrupted from dinner to deal with. I could ignore them and continue eating. But the joy of seeing their little faces of rejection warms my jaded heart. The best are the ones that try to con me into buying their religion. These assholes have absolutely no sense of timing. They hit morning, noon, and night, pushing their version of God in my face, reeking of equal parts brain-washed eagerness and righteousness. With my game face firmly affixed, I listen to how their particular brand of Bible thumping can change my life from shit to glorious shinola. I take the horrendously gaudy propaganda and scan the lies with grim contemplation. Then I crank the game face up a notch to a smile and proceed with the speed round of questions for the unsuspecting Jesus freak.
“What makes your book better than the others? What kind of heavenly guarantee do I get? Does everyone have to wear the Sipowicz uniform if they join? How long do I have to repent for premarital sex? What about hot neighbors; can I covet them? What about swearing? I swear a lot. What do you call your messiah? I think “Chuck” is a good name. Is he a he or a she? White, black or brown? What’s the chick ratio like at your house of worship? Afterlife or worm meat? What about pets; are they allowed? Is it a sin to lick your own balls? Does it bother you that religion is the leading cause of death throughout history? What kind of political influence can you promise? Can my gay uncle join? Will I be required to burn my CDs and DVDs? Will I have to change doctors? What about abortion? How about hot pants and those low-slung jeans? How much does it cost to get into your heaven? I’m kinda broke at the moment. In a no-holds-barred cage match who would win: your messiah or Macho Man Randy Savage? My money’s on Macho Man. What kind of wine do you serve with the crackers, or is it just juice? How would you feel about changing that to Guinness? It’s thicker than blood.”
I watch with morbid fascination as the eagerness quickly turns to desperation; the righteous face melts into revulsion and the furrowed brow beads with sweat. It’s hammer time! I politely inform the rube that I won’t be buying his shit or joining his cult and slam the door.
“No thanks, fucker!”