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It was one of Those Mornings. You know, the mornings after the nights before. Sleeping bodies were scattered all over my floor, and cars were scattered all over my front yard, which is perhaps what attracted the little bastards to my door.
When I awoke I was flat out on my futon on the floor, covered by a thin summer comforter and very little else. On one arm was a sleeping girl whose name danced JUST beyond recollection, and on the the other arm was a sleeping, and very grouchy looking cat whose expression no doubt stemmed from the activities that took place on HER bed the previous night, of which she no doubt disapproved and of which to this day I have very little memory save that I believe there was some acrobatic talent involving a Catholic Schoolgirl Uniform and a gymnastic bridge stretch.
The sound that woke me was the distinctive yowl of my doorbell... which reminded me that I had for some time been meaning to put the poor thing out of its misery, and just at that moment I remembered with singular clarity exactly why. Moving my arm from its cozy place between the breasts of my cuddly companion proved a disappointingly easy task. The like however cannot be said for removing my other arm from the possession of the cat who, like all her species, tolerates my existence solely for the warmth and softness I bring, and is therefore loathe to allow me to remove it.
Staggering to my door while rubbing the scratches on my arm, vaguely remembering to cover my assets prior to venturing out into the living room, I made my way sleepily downstairs toward the front door, whose bell had ceased its ringing and who was therefore rattling with rhythmic blows the like of which Mr. Tyson himself should be jealous. Upon opening the door, I was greeted with the sight of two trenchcoat-clad briefcase-bearing strangers. I assume they were drunk, as they were both fuzzy and out of focus, and at such an early hour of the day, no less. Disgraceful. It was only noon, after all. Before I could chastise them for their poor timing, however, I was set upon by a flurry of tag-team bible waving and flyer fluttering. Had I heard the word of The Lord? Was I Saved? Perhaps I should read this Holy Flyer in His name so that I could Understand and find the Truth.
Now, everyone is at least a touch grouchy upon the first moment they awake, that is, depending upon HOW they awake, and I suspect I would have enjoyed a far more pleasant awakening had these two not been involved. And indeed I told them as much, alluding to the still sleeping girl into whose good graces, and perhaps other places, I might never again find my way. At least not without waking her. This brought on a fresh flurry of bible waving, not to mention such discriptions of the abysmal pockets of Torment into which my soul should no doubt be thrust that I quite giggled with delight. Should it be said that the Jehovah's Witnesses have no sense of humour, I fear I should quite agree, and indeed when I pointed out that should I, by some great fortune or bribery find my way into heaven, I should be quite at a loss for company as I should not know anyone, they seemed somewhat ill at ease rather than amused at such levity. Indeed, surely if The Devil is so fond of indulgence and decadence, he should then fill his home with an abundance of such, rather than the fiendish torture devices described by these afterlife insurance salesmen who had collected at my door. Yet with each comment of this nature that escaped my lips, the number of flyers and pamphlets and booklets that my visitors sought to press into my hands fairly doubled until I had surely collected a small forest's worth of paper products. Indeed, had these documents been presented in the form of raw lumber, I feel certain that I could have succeeded in adding the addition to my house that I have so long desired. I had hitherto been unaware that religious literature was cumulative in its soul-saving capabilities, yet my tormentors seemed to believe that such was indeed the case, for tormentors they had become when the sounds of movement had begun to filter down to me from the floor of my living room. Soon the prospect of slipping silently back to my room would be simply as much fantasy as the content of the quarter ton of pamphlets I had thus far accumulated.
It was time to see my visitors on their way, but the hint would not be taken. Such is the alertness and attention to detail of the theological mind that my efforts at manner and dignity had been swept aside under the torrent of Holy Scripture that one had decided to use as a diversionary tactic while the other sought to press an entire bible into my abused, and indeed overloaded hands. Briefly I entertained the idea of inviting them inside, where the debris of a night of debauchery and sheer unadulterated free will should surely drive them mad, but to do so would be the height of questionable hospitality to my guests, not having given them time to fully awaken that they might enjoy the experience. Therefore, seeking the only realistic alternative, and indeed the sole action that might penetrate their reason-tight defenses, I tossed my handfuls of flyers and one rather hefty bible into their faces, and smiling sweetly, closed my door on their outrage. I have not since been visited by their ilk.
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