I could keep going and say that people who need peepholes are the luckiest people in the world except that people like me who until yesterday needed a peephole was an unlucky member of those people.
Wait – what?
You longtime readers of Nanny Goats in Panties may recall a solicitor who came to my door and suckered me out of $75.00 for a magazine subscription. A magazine I never received. Let me mention their names again because they are still on my list of wrath sufferers: Universal Subscription Service. Those scam artist bastard bozos. It’s because of them that I can’t afford to open the door any more.
Anyhow, we’ve lived in our current residence for five or six years and the one thing I’ve longed for like a bacon-wrapped ice cream sandwich is a stinkin’ hole in the door through which to recognize potential baddies. We get more unwanted doorbell ringers than wanted ones, and because I’m such a nice guy, I go into a self-induced crisis every time someone who darkens my welcome mat wants to sell me something whether it’s candy bars to keep them off the streets or saving my Hell-bound soul with a ten-minute diatribe and a tri-fold pamphlet.
But what if my door knocker is the UPS lady who needs a signature? I have to answer the door, lest she send my Barnabus Collins melodramatic-blood-sucking vampire action figurine (collect all 10!) back to the manufacturer and I have to order it all over again.
The doorbell will ring and I’ll tiptoe to the door and softly plaster my ear against it, hoping to overhear a recognizable cough or something that will reveal whether it’s friend or foe. A minute later, I will hear a big truck engine turning over and — OMG it’s the UPS lady! — and I will tear the door open and chase her down the street like a banshee in my tattered bathrobe, my slippers slapping on the asphalt, hair curlers flying everywhere.
It’s all just so vexing.
The last time some brochure-pushing religiophites came to my door, they asked if they could pray for me and I said yes, you can pray that God provides for me a peephole so I can avoid unwanted visitors. And by golly, it worked!
Some tool-bedecked dude came over this weekend (some tool-bedecked dude who stared at my ass, according to certain other household members) and in less time than it takes for another unwanted visitor to persuade me to subscribe to Suckers Monthly, we had a beautiful, lovely, glorious peephole.
So knock yourselves out, you lucky people, because now?
Wait for it…
You can ring my bellll-lll-llll. Ring my bell. My bell.