Dear Religious Missionaries Wandering Around my Neighborhood,
Thanks for showing up uninvited on my doorstep in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.
You don’t need to share the good news of Jesus with me. I am up to my ass in great news today, none of it really has to do with Jesus, but I’ll give him some credit if it will get your asses off of my porch.
I don’t know what flavor of religion you are, but I don’t want to learn about a church that makes you go out in hundred degree heat wearing bad suits (apparently designed by Poly and her other sister Ester) to knock on doors and gather hearts and souls. I myself am an aspiring Buddhist who prefers the solitude of my own existence and 100% cotton threads. The only one that I would like to drop in to discuss religion is Buddha himself, and that is highly unlikely. Even if the Dalai Lama showed up on my doorstep, I’d probably give him a little bit of shit about not calling first before he jetted over from Tibet.
My actual real-life friends know to call first before coming over and they know better than trying to convert my religious beliefs. When they do come over, they usually bring a bottle of wine. Maybe if you showed up on my doorstep wearing something comfortable with a bottle of Zinfandel and the intention of doing a singalong to the soundtrack of “The Book of Mormon” we could make an afternoon of it. But, I bet you’ve never seen the musical and if you did, you’d hate it!
Maybe you weren’t Mormons but were Jehovah’s Witnesses? In that case, we’d discuss famous members of your church who died way too young, like Michael Hutchence (auto-erotic asphyxiation) and Michael Jackson (drug overdose). Not great spokesmen for moderation and modesty at all.
I have to give you credit for continuing to repeatedly ring my doorbell after my trio of dogs barked so loudly and so crazily that I almost pooped my own pants, and I know them. Your faith must be strong. My dogs don’t want you to stop by unannounced either, unless you are delivering a pizza or their Chewy.Com order.
You interrupted my solo afternoon of catching up on Jeopardy reruns and eating cheese popcorn in my underwear, which to me is a religious experience. Having to belly crawl across the living room floor lest you know I was here made me realize how badly I need to vacuum, so thanks for that. I know you heard the TV, but I’m hoping that you thought my dogs were the Jeopardy fans, and were impressed by their brilliance.
When you say your prayers tonight, be sure to give thanks to the fact that I didn’t open the door and you didn’t have to look at me in my granny panties and bra, although if you’re in a church that makes you take a vow of abstinence it would’ve been quite easy to remain celibate for quite a long with the memory of my flabtastic bod in your mind. Let me just tell you, that fat body has sinned enough for the three of us! Had I opened the door, my oldest dog would’ve dry humped to you across the street, he forgets he’s neutered and took no vow of celibacy.
Good luck with your conversion of heathens, this neighborhood is chock full of us, I’m one of the few that is not armed so please knock carefully 🙂