MY Door! Can you imagine that? Don't they know I'm a filthy apostulater! I might have leaked some apostulater juice on 'em and then what?
Well, they wanted me to take some little nickel & dime bi-fold brochure just a little bigger than a playing card. I was havin' nothin' to do with it. I pummeled them with words. You should have seen me on the short strokes, it was so neat, I used my feet. You should have seen me on the long strokes. I was so grand. I used my hand. Whip 'em, whip 'em, beat 'em on the floor. Waltzed them around the lamp post, who could ask for anything more?
I waltzed them hard. I stroked them about pedophilia. They claimed they didn't see no Dateline. I filled em in. They allowed as how the congregation had dealt with 'em. I allowed as how that was a criminal offense and thus no business of the congregation.
"And he's still going door to door," I says. They says, "But he was being taken around by elders." "Big deal," I ejaculated, "how do I know YOU ain't no pedophile? (crossing my legs demurely and drawing the door a little in front of me.)" And so on and back and forth and like that.
Then all of a sudden I wondered to myself why I was wasting my times with these brainwashed dubs. They responded just like the automotons they are. There was a rehearsed response for everything I said. It was like debating with a post, a brick, Wholewheat, whoever.
So I said, "Y'all (I AM a southerner, after all) Y'all will have to come back when I have time to talk."
"Yesssir," they said, "We'll do jus' dat. We'll come back when you have time to talk. And you can axe us anything you like." You could see the relief all over they faces at the prospect of getting away from the crazy man at the door.
What a waste of time. Why bother? It's just like drawing a gun on an unarmed man. That's the way I felt about it. And I'd never shoot an unarmed man.
Would you?
Francois