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Posted by on Aug 24, 2018 in Blog, Essays, Las Vegas, Personal | 0 comments

Somebody’s Knockin’ at the Door, Somebody’s Ringin’ My Bell

 

 

When I moved into this house 15 years ago, the first thing I did was install a large sign made out of brass.  The brassy sign read:  NO SOLICITING.

I would have preferred NO FUCKING SOLICITORS, but someone might take that as an invitation.

I don’t like solicitors.  I find solicitors annoying.  Fuck it, I hate solicitors.  Solicitors are scum!

Let me tell you what soliciting is — soliciting amounts to a home invasion.  It’s an imposition on my time.  It’s an invasion of my privacy.  Call me a jerk, but I don’t like my door knocked on while I’m eating my dinner, watching a ball game, or worse — sitting on the couch in my underwear.  No, I don’t need any more shit magazines.  No, I don’t want your stale overpriced girl scout cookies.  And, I don’t want to be bothered by kids dressed up in Halloween costumes all bought at Walmart screaming, “trick or treat” in my face.

Here’s my trick and your treat:  Go the fuck away!

One of these days, I swear — I will answer the door naked.  I mean it.  Naked as a stoned jaybird.  That’ll teach the invader.  Come to think of it, that would make one helluva’ blog post, wouldn’t it?

My brass sign did work.  At least for a while.  But now, the really pushy solicitors are ignoring my sign.  What balls.  They’re still knocking.  And that drives me flying pigshit bonkers.

So then, why not go all ranting Lewis Black and punching Mike Tyson on their sorry asses?  That’s a fair question.  But here’s my dilemma:  If I tear into a solicitor, there’s some chance my shit’s gonna’ get messed with, later on.  Seriously, I’ve heard stories of people driving sales serpents off their front porch only to later see their cars get vandalized.  Plus, as someone who’s occasionally empathetic to the dirt-dumb working-class, I realize the poor cocksucker who can’t read my “NO SOLICITING’ sign is probably desperate.  He’s out there trying to make a living.

The ones who give me the biggest fits are religious crackpots.  Here in Las Vegas, we have more than our share of Mormons who do missionary work.  Make no mistake, I do enjoy “missionary” work.  A lot.  But I seriously doubt my interpretation of “missionary” work has the same divine purpose.

I think the Mormons who knock on doors are known as Jehovah’s Witnesses.  All I know is, they ride bikes.  They dress in dark pants and wear white shirts.  They have crewcuts.  They all look great.  On some level, I have admiration for such devotion.  Some of the Mormons I’ve met are astoundingly wonderful people.  But allow me to make this kindly request of my Mormon brothers:

DON’T KNOCK ON MY FUCKING DOOR !!!

Some time ago, a religious woman came a-knockin’.  The woman was selling Jesus.  Too bad she wasn’t hustling National Geographic subscriptions or else I might have bit the hook.  But instead, she was handing out tracts littered with Bible scripture.  How do you deal with something like that?  Here’s a nice lady trying to spread the gospel.  I politely told her that I wasn’t interested.  I also told her I’m an Atheist.  She was polite and asked if she could leave me some “reading material.”  I agreed.  Besides, the cat’s litter box was out of pan liners.  Praise the Lord.

About six months ago, we bought one of those home-security monitoring devices.  It’s called “Ring.”  Ring is installed in place of a doorbell.  Ring also has a motion sensor.  Whenever someone approaches the front of the house, we instantly hear a loud chime and video begins recording.  Ring is a great investment and provides some peace of mind.  Ring is kinda’ like an answering machine — which most of us use as a screening device anyway.  Let me put it this way — if I don’t pick up the phone when it rings, I sure as fuck ‘aint answering the front door.

Marieta subscribed to Ring’s online neighborhood alerts.  All the alerts go straight to her smartphone.  So, when something suspicious happens, the video automatically gets posted and shared with 30,000 people on the west side of Las Vegas.  What was that about protecting my privacy?  Oh, nevermind.

We’re now just ten weeks away from the 2018 midterm elections.  Some are describing this election as the most critical of our lifetime.  But what elections really mean is lots of annoying robocalls and strangers knocking on my front door.  I wonder about this and can’t help but ask:  Do these campaign tactics really work?  Is there anyone alive who’s not aware there’s an election in November?  Has someone who knocked on your front door every changed your mind about anything, except for hating Mormons even more?

Hey, I just don’t get it.  My mailbox is stuffed daily like a pinata with junk campaign mailers.  Every time I turn on the television, there’s a campaign commercial.  Half of the things I see on social media are about politics.  When I drive down the street, there are more campaign billboards than traffic signs.  And now, some punk volunteer is knocking on my door asking me to vote for fucking Dean Heller for U.S. Senate?

After more thought, I may have to change my NO SOLICITING sign.

Maybe my new sign should read instead:  NO CAMPAIGNING.

Oops, make that NO FUCKING CAMPAIGNING.  

And if someone does knock, I’ll answer the door naked.

 

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