My doormat is a bouncer…
It’s not one of those flimsy, welcome mats. It's a thick, coarse, bristly thing made of what feels like recycled ship rope and disapproval. For the first year, it was just a doormat. Then, my cousin Clyde came to visit.
Clyde is a man who ends every sentence with "if you know what I mean." He stood on the mat, ringing the doorbell, and I heard a strange shuffling sound from outside. When I opened the door, one of Clydes shoes was missing. He was hopping on one foot, looking bewildered, while his loafer lay suspiciously halfway under the hedge, as if it had been flicked there. The mat was perfectly still.
The incidents escalated.
A Girl Scout selling cookies tried to approach, the mat suddenly buckled, tripping her and sending a box of Thin Mints skittering into the street.
A particularly earnest political canvasser was met with a low, guttural scraping sound, like stone on stone, until he simply backed away, muttering about "weird vibes."
The mat has standards. It likes delivery people, they are efficient and have a purpose. It tolerates the mail carrier. But it despises solicitors, unexpected relatives, and anyone who tries to sell me a religion or a magazine subscription.
Last week was the final straw. A man in a cheap suit with a briefcase full of cleaning products knocked on my door. Before I could even get to the peephole, I heard a tremendous THUMP. I opened the door to find him flat on his back on the sidewalk, his briefhandle bursting open and spraying bottles of "Miracle Shine" all over my petunias. The doormat was sitting at a slight angle, a single, smug looking bristle pointing directly at the fallen salesman.
I didn't help him up. I just picked up my package from the stoop, gave the mat a respectful nod, and went inside.
The doormat and I have an understanding.
OH LOOK, THERES THAT SQUIRREL 🐿 !!
Gotta go 😁😂
Clyde is a man who ends every sentence with "if you know what I mean." He stood on the mat, ringing the doorbell, and I heard a strange shuffling sound from outside. When I opened the door, one of Clydes shoes was missing. He was hopping on one foot, looking bewildered, while his loafer lay suspiciously halfway under the hedge, as if it had been flicked there. The mat was perfectly still.
The incidents escalated.
A Girl Scout selling cookies tried to approach, the mat suddenly buckled, tripping her and sending a box of Thin Mints skittering into the street.
A particularly earnest political canvasser was met with a low, guttural scraping sound, like stone on stone, until he simply backed away, muttering about "weird vibes."
The mat has standards. It likes delivery people, they are efficient and have a purpose. It tolerates the mail carrier. But it despises solicitors, unexpected relatives, and anyone who tries to sell me a religion or a magazine subscription.
Last week was the final straw. A man in a cheap suit with a briefcase full of cleaning products knocked on my door. Before I could even get to the peephole, I heard a tremendous THUMP. I opened the door to find him flat on his back on the sidewalk, his briefhandle bursting open and spraying bottles of "Miracle Shine" all over my petunias. The doormat was sitting at a slight angle, a single, smug looking bristle pointing directly at the fallen salesman.
I didn't help him up. I just picked up my package from the stoop, gave the mat a respectful nod, and went inside.
The doormat and I have an understanding.
OH LOOK, THERES THAT SQUIRREL 🐿 !!
Gotta go 😁😂
