Sep 3, 2011

Knock-Knock-Knocking on Heathen's Door

This post is dedicated to the Jehovah Witnesses who came to my door today and, honoring my request that they please not leave their literature, instead deposited a ketchup-and-mustard-smeared  napkin and a half-eaten bag of Fritos on my front porch.

Or perhaps it was The Almighty himself who left those items. Was this was an effort on His part to remind me that a more godly woman would have accepted that copy of The Watchtower and simply said thank you, rather than refusing it and asking that the salesmen missionaries kindly take me off their People-to-Disturb-in-the-Privacy-of-Their-Own-Home list? And maybe if I hadn’t been so sucky as a human, God would have left me a full bag of lightly salted Stacy’s Pita Chips and a half-pint of babaganoush, rather than someone else’s wiener refuse and a picked-over bag of the only variety of chips (Fritos smell like moist dog paws) I don't want to employ as the central player in a late-night bulimic episode.

Anyway, when I first moved into the house where I currently reside, it seemed the Jehovah Witnesses and the Mormons were at my door every week, despite my repeated requests that they stop ringing my bell to talk to me about religion. Eventually, I broke down and posted a NO SOLICITORS sign on my door. Alas, the only thing that prompted was this exchange:

MORMON #1: Good morning, ma’am. We’d like to take a moment to talk with you about a subject that concerns us all.

TSADA: Um, didn’t you see my sign?

MORMON #1: Yes. It says, "No Solicitors".

TSADA: Correct.  So then why did you ring my bell?

MORMON #2: Because we’re not soliciting.

TSADA: Uh, yes you are.

MORMON #2: No, we’re not.

TSADA: Yes, you are.

MORMON #1: No, we’re not. We’re sharing a message.

TSADA:  Wow. Nicely played. Anyway, even if that is all you’re doing, you’re still soliciting.

MORMON #1: No. Solicitors sell things. We’re not selling anything.

TSADA: You can solicit without selling.

MORMON #1: No, you cannot.

TSADA: Yes, you can.

MORMON #1: No.

TSADA: Yes, you absolutely can.  Right now, you’re soliciting my attention.  Soliciting my attention by ringing my doorbell while I was trying to sleep. 

MORMON #1: That’s a matter of semantics, ma’am. We’re not here to dissect semantics.

TSADA: Right. I forgot. You’re here to “share a message”.

MORMON #2: We’re missionaries. That’s what we do.

TSADA:  I suppose when I want to dissect semantics, I should probably come to your house and wake you up. Or should I say, "solicit your attention"?  *wink*

MORMON #2: Uh…

TSADA: Because I’m an asshole. That’s what we do.

*pregnant pause*

MORMON #1: Anyway, as I was saying, we’d like to talk to you about a subject that concerns us all--

TSADA: Perhaps I’ve not been clear. I’m not interested in your message. I’ve already hung a sign that requests that solicitors do not ring my bell.

MORMON #2: We’re not solic—

TSADA: YeahyeahyeahyeahIknow. Okay, so listen, if I don’t want you to ring my bell again, what do I need to put on that sign so that you know it pertains to you?

MORMON #1: In that case, I would probably write, “No Solicitors or Religious Peoples”.

TSADA: But I don’t have a problem with religious peoples. Some of my best friends are religious peoples! Besides, a sign like that would make me look like an intolerant asshole.

MORMON #1 and MORMON #2: *loud silence*

Alas, two weeks later the Mormons were back at my door—with different faces, of course, but wearing the same semi-opaque, short-sleeved, permanent-press Haggars. I suppose it’s my own fault for not adding the “or Religious Peoples” to my sign.

They continued to visit me for a few more weeks, until one morning after my beloved hubby G had worked an exhausting night shift. G, who grew up Ethiopian Christian Orthodox, is no stranger to religious peoples himself.  However, having lived in Oakland for the past twenty or so years, he’s also no stranger to the term “muthafuckah”, a word, amongst other choice expletives, which he employed generously that morning. And it seems that Mormons--at least those proselytizing in the greater Oakland area--grasp far better the implications of the word "muthafuckah" than that of the word “solicitor”, because they’ve not darkened my doorstep since.

The Jehovah Witnesses, on the other hand, still pay me a visit every now and again.  Perhaps they need a healthy dose of G's muthfuckah-ing as well.  Either that, or G and I need to try what my newest hero, Australian filmmaker John Safran, does here: 

*slams door*
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Mistress Halla said...

Dogs do smell like Fritos.

There have been Mormons in my neighborhood lately. I should ask if they'll show me their garments.

tsada kay said...

I must admit, Mistress, I too am quite curious about the magic underwear. Please let me know what you uncover in this regard...

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