Sunday, 15 January 2012

God Woke Me Up On A Saturday Morning

God woke me up at 10:30am this morning, a mild, yet still fairly nippy Saturday morning in early January. I was in the middle of an ultra exciting dream, my body was relaxed and my brain was having fun with itself, that was until the doorbell went off. I woke up startled. It couldn't have been Sarah because she wouldn't be back from the gym yet. There was no noise from the porch, so no post. It could've been my Mother-In-Law, if that was the case I could give it a couple of minutes before I ventured downstairs. Fuck, what if it was bad news? Something could've happened, fuck it, I had to get up now those grim thoughts had taken over my mind. I threw on a dressing gown and jogged down the stairs, barefoot, my dick was bobbing out of my boxers (as it does when you jog downstairs scantily clad... thank Christ it wasn't my Mother-In-Law), hair a total joke, brain was racing like crazy and my fists were clenched.
I opened the front door and had a quick peek out onto the street. To my surprise there were two old men walking very slowly along the pavement, probably in their mid-sixties, wearing furry black Russian hats, big grey coats and each with a leather satchel strapped over their shoulders. I stepped out barefoot onto my front patio, not really feeling the cold due to this strong element of intrigue which had gripped my central nervous system, and then I noticed another two figures making their way through the entry of the front gate of a house about four doors down. These two were dressed in the same sort of attire, minus the Russian hats, but one was a short middle-aged white woman and the other was a considerably tall and thin young black man. The two old blokes then proceeded to ring the doorbell of the house which is two doors down from mine. They got no answer. The people inside were obviously trying to ignore them or they simply were not home, either way this suspicious little gang were not giving up, they were taking their time... they were taking over the street. I leaned over the fence and gently shouted "Excuse me, can I ask what you're selling?" They heard me loud and clear but chose not to respond. "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SELL?" I enquired a little more sternly this time. One of the Russian hat wearing old guys gave me a condescending look and started to plod towards my house. At the same time I moved right up to the edge of my short patio fence to calmly greet him.
"We're not selling ANYTHING," he said, mildly aggressively, "we're Jehovah's Witnesses, you might have heard of us?"
Literally the second those words left his mouth I let loose in a way that I'm one hundred percent sure nobody else ever has -
"You are fucking scum, if you don't move away from this ZONE right now I'm going to chase you down the street and if I catch up with you I'm going to break your fucking legs."
His response was muted to say the least. He looked mildly offended, turned around and did a little shuffle back towards his team-mates. I was still dressed like it was Christmas morning, looking vaguely like an escaped mental patient, crossed with Gareth Southgate and Jesus himself. I couldn't resist going up to all four of them as they huddled together near the open porch of some idiot who was giving them the time of day.
"Why are you such scum?" I enquired. "Complete, utter cunts. No good fucking scum-bag-mother-fuckers. You fucking woke me up for this shit. Stop fucking bothering people you filthy, brainwashed, shit-eating knob-ends. Don't ever, ever fucking call at my house again, because if you do I will fucking knife the lot of you."
They seemed disturbed, and rightly so, but somehow the massively tall young black bloke managed to ask me "What number do you live at?"
"The number is 666 and I AM JESUS CHRIST. Do you understand? You fucking dirty scheming no good whores... FUCK OFF!"
And that was the end of it, pretty much. I got back inside and slammed the door shut, only to hear the letter box open and something drop inside the porch. They couldn't have had the balls to leaflet me after that rampage, could they? No, of course not, it was just the post, but I did glance out through the glass to see the Russian hat wearing old freak jotting my house number down.
So now, sitting here hunched over my desk, dressing gown still on, armpits loaded with sweat and a nice fat chunk of text on the screen, I feel like I should thank Jehovah for jolting me back from the dream world in order to use his messengers as verbal punch bags. They were angels sent directly to me. If God exists, then God is an artist with a truly psychopathic vision. But I don't believe in that kind of God, I believe in Miles P, and he's far from finished with this thing. Can I get a witness?