My neighborhood seems to have become infested with missionaries.
A couple of weekends ago, I answered the doorbell to what turned out to be a couple of guys from the local Vietnamese Catholic church. They were obviously a bit flustered to discover that I wasn't Asian, and beat a relieved and dignified retreat when I informed them that I wasn't Catholic either.
15 minutes ago, there was a knock at the door. I wasn't going to answer it, but a look through the peephole revealed a man, a woman, and a baby in a stroller. "Aw, go on," said the good angel on my shoulder. "Who solicits with a baby in a stroller? It might be a family that's moved in up the street. Maybe they're folks from out of the neighborhood who are visiting the park and had a bit of car trouble or need a glass of water. Lay aside this modern urban suspicion of strangers, and embrace the fellowship of man!"
Well, it turns out that &%$#! Jehovah's Witnesses solicit with a baby in a stroller. And rather than have the guts to lay my cards on the table and say, "Listen guys, you've gotta understand that I'm basically going to hell and you would probably achieve better results proselytizing at the fire hydrant over there," I let them give me a copy of The Watchtower and depart. Which means they'll be back. Crap.
And while I'm still sitting here wondering what to do with my newly acquired pamphlet explaining why Global Warming is evidence of the approaching Biblical End of Days, the doorbell rings. A quick peephole check reveals two earnest-looking men in suits.
And you know what? The fellowship of man can stuff it. I'm not answering that door.