Greetings, WYMOP fans!
Your mailman is at the door. It’s me, Rob, that poor bermuda-shorts-wearing bastardnot happen when you do so. There’s actually a ton of things you shouldn’t do, so this is just a partial list.
Don’t answer the door while restraining your dog.
Look, I know you love your dog. You love dogs, period. I love them too. But if you’re holding Sparky’s collar and he’s actually dragging you forward, your feet sliding across the
Don’t answer the door while stoned.
Yes, whatever I’m trying to get you to sign is probably important. Yes, the agents of the Watchtower are closing in, and my fight-or-flight reflex is revving my engine like I’m a
- I’ll cry.
- If I’m looking for a signature, I may have to just bail on you right in the middle of your story about the time your brother’s best friend’s cousin’s uncle’s half step-sister and you went to the store for milk, possibly killing your buzz.
- If I’m running from sober-suited folks wielding Awake! like a weapon, there is the slightest chance I may wind up charging toward them, sky-clad and bearing your head on a stick, asking if they’ve met my Dark Lord. Panic does funny things to people, and I might try fighting fire with brimstone.
Please don’t answer the door naked.
Okay, this one’s got a qualifier: unless you’re a 21-26 year old swimsuit model.
So as you approach the door, I don’t care if you’re male or female, ask yourself: Am I a 21-26 year old swimsuit model? If the answer is yes, then smile and throw that door wide. The human body is a beautiful thing, and at the very least I’ll get a blog post out of it.
However, if the answer is, No, I’m a 68-year-old retired fisherman, with a strange and disturbing skin rash beneath random patches of wiry and none-too-clean body hair, who may not smell bad, necessarily, but does smell a lot, and has decided that those spaces where I’m missing teeth are the perfect places to store food for later . . . then no. Please. Please no, for the love of God, just leave me out on the stoop to face my fate.
Yes, Mr. Russell, I’m sorry, but I’m talking to you.
That’s all I can come up with for now. I can’t get the images of Mr. Russell out of my head. The last time he opened the door he was naked . . . and stoned. And apparently had some sort of . . .of . . . man-part infection . . .
I have to go lie down.
I’ll talk to you later.