blog.big-woop.com

Some asshole door-knocker showed up at my front step today, in the middle of the Twins Game. Kyle Lohse was sucking, as he does so often, and had just walked Bill Mueller on four pitches to load the bases.

"Uh... Hi... I'm [some dude]," he stammered. This guy was no professional. His DNC t-shirt was not tucked in, and had purple dribbles down the front, top to bottom. Collar to belt line. Probably a wino, just like the rest of those goddamned libbers. I wondered if he even knew about it.
"Um... are you the owner of this house?"
I had just woken from a nap, lasting the better part of six hours, and drowsily replied, "No."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"No." It was a forceful response, befitting italics, and I was short with him for what he probably thought was absolutely no reason, but really, how easily does one mis-hear a monosyllabic, two-letter word? Get the fucking lead out, Demmy!
"So you don't own this house?"
I wasn't giving him the benefit of a response this time. I just glared at him with a look that he somehow managed to interpret as a yes, so he continued.

"Er... uh... okay. Um... let's see..." I was thumb-and-forefinger close to just shutting the door and returning to my sofa, and TV, which were warm, and held the promise of baseball to be watched, respectively. It must have been because we were already down 5-0 with no outs in the fifth that I didn't, so I half humored him and half sat there resenting him as much because he was a total clod as because he had a job and I didn't. And though he was likely just a volunteer—Democrats get off on all that self-righteous jargon that I, for one reason or another, have never been able to admire, or, for that matter, even understand.—it was much easier for me to just go on hating him under the (likely false) pretense that he was making money for pissing me off and interrupting baseball, albeit shitty, Kyle Lohse-hanging-the-ball-over-the-plate-like-a-Christmas-ornament-Goddammit-just-hurry-up-and-lose-so-I-can-go-back-to-sleep baseball.

"Are you of voting age?"
"What?" I hadn't been paying attention. I was too busy wondering to myself if Dribbles was ever going to leave and stop bothering me.
"Can you vote?"
"Yes." Sarcasm.
"Yes I can." Not quite enough sarcasm.
"I can vote." There we go.
"Oh. Good. Are we gonna see you at the polls this year?"
Sleepily. "Uh huh."
"Okay. Good. That's good to hear."
Angrily. "Yeah."

The entire thing lasted less than a minute. But it still pissed me right off. Goddamned libbers.