What Do You People Want from Me?

I'm certainly no stranger to door-to-door religion salesmen. We used to be plagued by Jehovah's Witnesses all the time up in Bumblefuck, IN. Most of the time, when these young men dressed in their spiffy white shirts, black pants, and ties would knock upon the front door, my mother would ignore them. Even if my brother and I would be standing in the front window where the God-peddlers could see that the house was, indeed, occupied, she'd just ignore them. They'd knock and knock and, eventually, would traipse away without getting to spread the joy of the gospels to us.

But, alas, my mother would have already been on the neighborhood watch line--also known as the telephone--informing the neighbors that there were Jehovah's Witnesses in the town and that they should lock their doors and ignore them. Also, that Christi Tiegland was pregnant again. Can you believe it? What a whore.

Now that I've moved to the South, we don't get Jehovah's Witnesses so much, but we get a far worse kind of plague: Baptists. The first time they came, they tricked me. Two rather attractive young ladies dressed in short skirts and sleeveless shirts were standing on the step out front ringing my doorbell. Thinking that their car had broken down in front of my house and if I helped them to repair it or call for help, they'd repay me in true porno movie style they were selling cookies, I threw the door open. To my horror, they had neither automotive problems nor delicious snacks to sell.

Ladies: Good afternoon, sir. We're with Liberty Baptist Church, and we'd like to invite you to come worship the Lord with us.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: We want to extend the invitation to worship the Lord to all God's children.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: The table of the Lord is set for anyone willing to be born again in His glory and righteousness.
Me: *blatantly staring at their breasts*
Ladies: Sir?
Me: *still staring at their chests* Thank you, Jesus!

Eventually, they left. Since the initial confrontation, I had become wary of their religious guile. Another time, I was sitting at home and I had ordered a pizza for me and the kids to enjoy. The doorbell rang. Expecting a big round slice of Italian heaven, instead, I once again got invited to join Jesus at his banquet table--apparently, all that walking everywhere made him hungry. Again, it was two attractive teenage girls peddling the Lord's wares and not delivering me with a pizza nor offering to massage my sins away.

Finally, a third time they arrived. I wasn't expecting anyone this time, so I didn't immediately throw the door open. The kids were running back and forth, screaming that someone was at the front door. Undeterred, my uninvited guests continued knocking and ringing the bell. Finally, the football game had gone to halftime I had had enough, and so I decided to end this little charade here and now.

That, of course, meant dropping my pants. I kicked off my shoes, ripped off my socks and dropped trou. My daughter asked what I was doing. I just nodded to her and said, "Answerin' the door, honey."

I ripped the door open, fully expecting it to be yet another pair of teenage girls looking for a jump to peddle Jesus to me. Instead, it was a couple of dowdy middle aged women, and you could see by the shock on their faces that they were not expecting me to be standing before them in my underwear and a t-shirt. However, they pushed on with their spiel message:

Women: Good afternoon, sir, we're with Liberty Baptist Church and we wanted to ask you some questions.
Me: Aren't you two supposed to be teenagers?
Women: We have many members of the congregation who do door-to-door missionary services.
Me: Well, I guess I'll just have to 'covet my neighbor's wife' instead of his daughters this time.
Women: Are you familiar with Jesus?
Me: Familiar with? Hell yeah. He's a great guy. Cuts the lawns on Tuesday. He does a good job. I recommend him.
Women: We're talking about our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Me: Oh, yeah. THE Jesus. Yeah, I have a healthy snack of his blood and flesh every...well...once a year, at least. Sometimes twice.
Women: Well...if you were to die today, do you know where you'd go?
Me: Are you selling funeral plots or funeral planning? Cause I'm not interested. I want a Viking funeral.
Women: No, we're talking about your immortal soul.
Me: *reaches down to my balls to scratch...and just keep scratching* Oh, yeah, that. Well, I figure I'd go to Purgatory for a few thousand years or however long it takes. They're a little fuzzy on the details. But I'll eventually make it to the Pearly Gates...unlike those bastards who decided to go nailing stuff to the church's door. I pity those poor souls and their eternal torment. *lifts fingers up to nose and sniffs* Yergh. That smells terrible.
Women: Thank you for your time, sir.

I should probably mention here that I don't really believe that Purgatory stuff, but I had a football game to watch and kids to ignore, so I needed to employ drastic measures. So, if you're a Protestant, don't worry...I know that you won't go to Hell; you'll just keep languishing in Purgatory for a while longer than I will.

Anyway, that was nearly three years ago now, and they haven't been back since. Not at least while I've been home. I don't know, maybe they've visited my wife, but I do like to cling to the notion that I've scared them off and that there's a big red X over my house on their Heathen Map.