Friday, August 12, 2005

One of my things …

I don’t like being told what to do or what I can or cannot do. That’s one of the reasons why home ownership has always appealed to me. I can do what I want with my house, it’s mine. My property.

I moved in last year the week before our presidential election. As I was loading some things into my new house with my sister and her family, a typical aging baby-boomer hippie came by. His North Face jacket adorned with pointless buttons, his long, wavy white hair flowing out of his well worn painters cap, the pockets in his baggy 1980’s vintage tan khakis bulging with stickers and buttons, and in his grubby little hands, a clipboard.

I saw him coming down the block with two kids who were obviously under the voting age. These fresh faced, brainwashed idiots really believed they were making a difference, they really believed they were serving a higher cause by going door-to-door reading words off a bulleted list without understanding them. Their faces were smugly alight with the superiority complex that surrounds the notion of liberalism.

So, the aging hippie steps onto my property and starts talking to my sister in a tone of voice intent on sounding earnest and engaging, but had obviously been repeated so many times that the words had long ago lost any meaning. My sister was about to politely decline to discuss anything with him, but I had to butt in.

"No no no," I said loudly from a distance as I quickly approached him, begging for an argument. "Get the hell out! We don’t want any of that."

He started to try and speak to me, but I continued.

"This is my house and I want you to get the hell off my property, now!"

He said "ok" in a very nice, almost apologetic tone and continued on down the street.