Friday, January 13, 2006
No Solicitors
Okay. You've come to my front door at 7:45pm, wanting me to sign some damn petition. I'm trying to cook dinner after 11 hours at work. The baby is screaming because your uninvited doorbell ringing has distracted him from the almighty breast. I don't care who you are, when I tell you I don't have time to talk to you, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT, I am not kidding; I am not lying. Hear that baby crying? It's your fault and his mom is very busy right now. Smell that delicious food burning? I am not forfeiting dinner to listen to you. When I slam the door in your face, I hope you've figured these things out, because if I have to explain it to you any more while you stammer that you'll talk more quickly, that explanation will involve my foot up your ass.
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1 comment:
That kid needs some gold chains and a mohawk. I pity the fool who messes with Curt Whoopass Norris! Or, apparently, his dad.
Solicitors are a fungus on the neighborhood landscape; if they can't take a simple "not interested" for an answer, a slamming door is by far the most appropriate remedy.
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