Things I realized this weekend . . .

Due to the recent arrival of various religious propaganda on my door/front porch, I felt it necessary to restate some of my ideas concerning people knocking on my door. There may be nothing in life as disturbing as the random knocker, generally because it forces you to put your life on hold to deal with some jackass that you would much rather avoid. Just so everyone knows, these are my rules for someone knocking on my door:

1. I have invited you over to my house. Though this is a somewhat rare occurrence, it does happen from time to time, particularly when mass quantities of alcohol consumption will shortly ensue.
2. We are really good friends. Only a really good friend can show up unannounced, though we would always prefer a quick call, just so that we can drag all of the dead bodies we have stored in the living room into a less conspicuous place.
3. You are holding a fucking pizza.

If none of these rules apply to you, then you should fuck off immediately.

My brother-in-law lived with us for a year or so, and I remember countless times that he would start laughing as he listened to me talk to the random magazine seller (always high-school age kids that talk too fucking much), the over-comfortable and friendly service/salesman (Well, buddy, this is what we could do for you . . . [cringe]), or the under-priveleged black child who is trying to get money to go to church camp (or that's always the story, anyway--never mind the fact that their mother is jittering nervously behind them as if she is thinking about her last and next fix).
Whenever I feel aggravated enough to open the door, the conversation generally follows like this:
"Hello, sir. My name is Jessica and I'm with ____. I'm trying to raise money for ____. --And so they start their lengthy spiel as I'm standing there in the doorway, one hand firmly on the inside knob.
"So what are you selling?" I interject as they start showing me pictures of the starving children they're trying to save. Like I give a shit.
"Well, sir, let me show you what else we're hoping to do with this money . . ."
At this point, I usually grin at them and ask them again what the fuck they are selling. Despite the fact that they have been specifically instructed to say their whole routine before talking about money, the vision of my door closing in the too-near future generally puts their weak-ass presentation in fast-forward.
"Well, sir, we know that everyone reads magazines . . ." they respond, a little downhearted at this point.
"Actually, I don't," I say. "They're useless clutter. I would never buy a magazine ever again. Why would I want a magazine? They're fucking antiquated and the news they deliver is usually a week old."
"Well, sir, but at this price, you could get five different magazines for the price of one . . ."
"Would these be delivered daily?" I ask.
"No, sir, they're weekly or monthly."
Now is the time I give them a very firm NO and proceed to shut the door. Most of them leave, though some of them continue to beg. That's when I start acting like a real jackass. As I'm standing there, and they're telling me how much I could help them, or how much they could help me . . . I reply by telling them that I'm actually dying or that my mother is suffering from dementia and she's in the next room. My wife, of course, is in prison and my children have a horrible case of head lice. Or whatever it takes.
Leave me the fuck alone. Go away.