[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door today. I don’t particularly like them. Now, I don’t have anything against them either, but I was raised to believe that only complete schnoz-whistles wore bicycle helmets. I’ve tried all sorts of tactics for deterring the JW’s.
Once, I came to the door in my underpants. Didn’t work. Another time, I handed them a mess of pamphlets and asked if they’d consider buying life insurance. They already had a great plan through Kingdom Hall. To my surprise, their premiums were extremely competitive. I once opened the door and greeted two JW’s by speaking Spanish. That didn’t work, one of them had spent two years in the Chilean mountains with the Andes natives.
Today, however, I was caught off guard when the two young Witnesses at my door were not wearing helmets, but short skirts. A blonde and a brunette. I stood speechless on the porch, unable to gather the gumption to shoo the girls away.
I’ll fast forward a bit: we were in the living room, sipping ice tea, and I was signing a contract to become a card carrying Jehovah’s Witness, when Jamie walked through the back door carrying a bag of groceries.
“Is this your wife?” the girls asked.
Jamie stared at me, considering whose head she would sever first. Mine or theirs.
“You should tell your wife the exciting news, brother.”
“Right,” I said. “Jamie, Meet Gwen and Bambi, these girls just sold me six-years worth of Thin Mints.”