Saturday, May 14, 2005

Various intimate body parts, taped to the door.

My brief mention of Jehovah's Witnesses yesterday seems to have struck quite a chord. It reminded me (as everything does these days) of something that happened way back in my college days.

The university, no doubt tired of dealing with all the complaints about attacks, rapes, strangers, Avon ladies, Jehovis, insurance salesmen, Mormons, petty thieves, streakers, and rampaging animals, had decided to mandate the locking of the dormitory main doors during the day, so no one could enter without a key. In other words, only people who belonged in the building could easily enter. (The doors were already locked at night.)

We, the dorm inhabitants, were fine with this decree. It meant no more propping open the doors to get a breeze, but the trade-off would be worth it. When someone knocked on the doors, it would at least be someone who wanted to borrow a deck of cards or some tampax, and not a stranger with a bad, bad suit, no concept of personal space, and wacko pamphlets.

The Mormons were gracious and reasonable about this mandate.

The Jehovah's Witnesses had a FIT! Going from door to door was their mission, and the university was putting restrictions on their religion. It was discrimination. It was prejudice.

They raised such a stink that the university backed down, with limitations.

The Witnesses would be allowed to enter the university dorms one afternoon a week, and knock on any door that did not display a sign indicating that visitation was unwelcome.

You can just imagine the signs people were putting on their doors. It was incredible. We used to get up early on Sunday afternoon (hey, anything before 2 p.m. on a weekend was early!) and just wander around the dorm reading the signs. I wish I had pictures.

Pictures of the signs, and pictures of the pouting, sometimes weeping, and usually pissed Witnesses.

I'm NOT making fun of them. I am merely describing a historical occurence.

The 'funnest' thing of all was when someone forgot to post their sign and got a knock.

And why in the world would old people be sent to a university dorm? I mean, young Witnesses would at least have been able to read those signs and not completely freak out, wouldn't they?

Why, why, WHY would they militantly insist on being allowed to enter what was the equivalent of a hostile combat zone, where they were the intrusive enemy?

I've never understood that.

I'd like to tell you specifically what some of those door signs were like, but some of my students read this blog. However, if you take the title of this post, and a newspaper ad for chicken parts, and put them together using considerable creativity, you might get the general idea. Add rude graffiti, stir, and scotch-tape to the outside of your door.

I hope this post did not offend anyone. If there are any Witnesses who'd like to duke it out, well, put down your script and use your own words; if you CAN, that is.

Okay, that last shot was offensive. And boy, did it feel great.

And if any of them return to my home to waken me from my vacation-sleep-in, or intrude upon our dinner-hour, or annoy me in any way, I just might have to cut up a chicken ad, write some identifying words on it with a black Sharpie, and tape it to the front door. If I put it inside my pretty summer-flower wreath, it would be a feng shui statement, and people might even copy my clever decorating taste.

Martha Stewart's out of jail now, right? Alert her people at once. I may have an idea she could use.

I sense a product that the masses might wish to imitate. . . .

A salesman is a salesman, whether he knocks on your door uninvited, or phones you at dinnertime. The intrusion level is the same. Nice people don't do that.

However, if any of YOU want to drop by, please feel free. The door is always opened for friends. I love company. I love all of you. I'll probably even buy your kid's current school-sales product. Anything for a friend. Come over. Come in. Want something to eat or drink? Stay a long time. Make yourselves at home.

But if you want to show up on my porch before noon and recite from a script, you can save yourself the trouble. I won't be rude, but I want you to leave. In fact, what I really want is for you to not show up at all. Go home. Memorize some more stuff. Above all, don't do any thinking for yourself. Just memorize things.

Whoops, I guess I was rude after all. I'm sorry. So bite me.

(None of the above applies, naturally, to those Witnesses who are nice.)