Nettie brought this on, I have to admit.
She posted a hilarious and wonderful blog on how she deals with sales-calls on the phone, and I must say, this is where it comes in handy to have a prolific fantasy.
It has stopped now, but for the longest time we used to get visits from people of the “Jehova’s Witnesses” church, and from Mormon youngsters who were doing their duty overseas.
I don’t like soliciting of any kind, but religious soliciting is beyond my tolerance.
You don’t have a lot of time to come up with something original once the door bell rings and someone holds up a pamphlet up under your nose and intones, “The Lord be praised!”
Yes. Ma’am. I praise the Lord. But I don’t need your help to do it.
There is a standard way. I don’t look too German, and when I’m alone at home, I’m a t-shirt and sweat pants slobber.
So here is the easy version: clutch the hem of your shirt, knit it anxiously, and say (loudly; Turkish women have generally loud voices. At least here.) “HUSBAND NOT AT HOME! NO SPEAK GERMANY!! ALLAH IS GREAT!”
That sends them away. Every time.
The second approach is “The Stout Believer”.
“I have my own faith, and you will not deter me. Amen. Go away.” THAT will make them hesitate, but delivered in a stout manner, make them move on.
Now if I have a moment to prepare myself and I’m in the right mood, they get the “Alien” treatment.
It is a little time consuming, but worth the effort, and it goes like this.
I open the door. Two young men, both in badly fitting black suits, white shirts and ugly ties, their hair plastered to their foreheads, their chins shaved to an inch of their lives, and shining zeal in their eyes, a book in their hands, come up the stairs.
Not evil people. Just young Americans who do their duty for their religion and their congregation, but sadly come to my evil lair.
They are so polite and nice, and they try to tell me that there is only ONE way to find God and consequently salvation, and that is the bad part, because THAT I do not believe,
Never have, never will. Sorry.
I wring my hands and take a deep, painful sigh.
“It’s so good that you are here!”
This confuses them. They are not used to pleas for help.
“I’ve been tortured by this question,” I say, “And no one can give me an answer.”
Expectant glances, a hopeful expression, and for a moment I feel like a pig.
“Do you think,” delivered in a measured, breathless voice, “That Jesus also cares for the other planets?”
Bewilderment, and for a few instants, silence.
So I go on: “Jesus. Is he only responsible for Earth? Or does God want him to look after all the other planets, too? Or is there a Son of God for every inhabited planet? Because, you know, that would keep God pretty busy, would it not, in the son-making department? I mean, just think of that “Alien” movie? Does Jesus look like an Alien there? One of those monsters with the ugly metal teeth and the acid breath?”
And some more in that vein, Use your imagination, you can play it out endlessly.
They find excuses pretty fast. Every time. And they leave. I never get an answer to this one, sadly.
So this is my “how to deal with peddlers” story.
None of it is true, of course.