An onslaught of bible-thumpers hits the streets in my neighborhood once winter says its final goodbye. I think those people, and the relentless parade of ice cream trucks playing “Pop Goes the Weasel” are far more detrimental to my well-being than anything the mean streets of Chicago can throw my way.
On Saturday I left my apartment to suck up some free WiFi and caffeine when I saw packs of evangelists knocking on doors and stopping folks on the sidewalk, to spread the good word. I’ve always tried to be polite in the past if I’m approached, but Saturday I was feeling a bit combative.
Churchie: (in Spanish, handing me some leaflet): Hello, do you have a moment?
Me: I don’t speak Spanish. I’m in a hurry. I’m not interested.
Then I kicked her.
Churchie: You don’t have time for Jesus, you heathen! Ever hear of eternal damnation?
Alright, she really didn’t say that. But I know that’s what she meant when she thanked me nicely and let me pass. And yea, I didn’t really kick her.
I’ve always been of the mind that if you are truly confident and at peace about the choices you made in your life then you will not be remotely compelled to make others follow suit. Devoted your life to God? Rock on and leave me the hell alone. And besides that, I much prefer the Catholic flying-under-the-radar approach to expanding their membership by fighting the expansion of birth control in the 3rd World.
Can I get an Amen? And how about an ice cream sandwich while you’re at it.