On Answering the Door

The doorbell rang. “Ugh,” I thought. I didn’t want to answer the door.

Can I just step aside for a second and ask, “Who does want to answer the door?”

Can I step aside from asking for a second and answer?

Here’s the answer:

No one wants to answer the door.

I guess one exception to that might be if you’re expecting a package. Then you’d be like, “Maybe it’s the package I ordered. Maybe it’s the trick salami that looks like salami but tastes like prosciutto that I ordered to freak out the squares at the big dance.”

Maybe it’s because you never actually ordered such a product, and maybe that’s because you never even found such a product on the internet to order, but that’s never what it is at the door.

Instead, it’s always a process server with a subpoena requiring me to appear in court for threatening to freak out the squares at the big dance with cured meat-type pranks. This time was no different.

“Ugh,” I thought. “Why did I even answer the door?” I said to myself in a sexy whisper as I closed the door, holding the subpoena. I looked at the door for a while, anger swelling my heart like bacteria in a curing sausage. Then I exhaled. I couldn’t stay mad at the door. It was just doing its job.

Then I looked into the eyes of my family. They were watching TV, so first I had to walk in front of the TV, and they yelled at me to move. So I sort of went from person to person, looking into their eyes and avoiding most of their punches.

That’s when I knew that everything was going to be okay.

Sometimes trials come along in our lives. Sometimes those trials are actual court trials in law courts. Trouble is always knocking at the door of our lives. But it’s hope that makes us open that door. And it’s hope in our families and America that helps us close that door on foreigners so that the United States can remain a pure nation, and not full or foreigners and the weird ghosts that follow them here from the old country.

To be honest, if we could open the door to the US real fast and just let the foreign people in, but then shut it real fast to keep out the weird ghosts, I think I’d be fine with a looser immigration policy.

But, hell—I really do think we need to keep those ghosts out. We’re going to have to break a few foreign eggs in order to make the omelette of democracy, on the sidewalk of the democracy, heated by the unrelenting sun of democracy. I’m a simple man, made up of American flags and bigotry, but this one thing I know: ghosts can pass right through doors, so there’s nothing we can do to really keep them out.

On Answering the Door

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