Last Wednesday I was cleaning up the GIANT mess of cereal, milk, and pudding in my son’s (plush carpeted) room when the doorbell rang. But it wasn’t just like ‘bing-bong,‘ oh no. It was much worse than that.
I seriously thought the fucking world was ending. I thought the Zombie Apocalypse was happening and someone was coming to my house for safety. (In hindsight, I have no idea why anyone would come here.) It was like ‘BING-BONG/BING-BING-BING-BING-BING-BING/BING-BONG-BING-BONG/BING-BING/BING-BONG‘.
You would have thought the world was ending, too.
We don’t use the front door so it’s pretty difficult to get to and I was in the back of the house. It’s not a large house by any means, but it’s large enough that by the time I get to the front door, whoever’s there is usually walking away. So I had to throw down the gross, milky wipes and possibly damaged pudding-y iPad and sprint to the living room.
Then I then had to maneuver around toy-landmines and I stepped on something that hurt like hell.
Once I got past the death-toys I had to open the door to the front office, which is this big hunk of solid wood that’s about 50-years-old with a 60-year-old lock that sticks. So I had to push my whole body against the door while simultaneously yanking on the lock.
After I got through that door, I had to maneuver my way around boxes of crap (because we use our front office more for storage than anything else) to the front door, which was locked in every possible way. As I was unlocking it, the person (whom I still assumed was running from zombies) started POUNDING on the door with their fists. Or maybe their head. Who the hell knows.
By then I was convinced the Zombie Apocalypse was in full-effect. Why would anyone ever be that persistent to get into my house? No, something was up. I was about to either save someone’s life or lose my own.
And then I opened the door, hurriedly, expecting to see a bloodied mass standing in front of me.
Instead I saw some fucking bald guy walking back to his fucking El Camino with his teased-blonde-haired wife in it because obviously I hadn’t gotten there fucking fast enough for him.
I just kind of gaped at him. I had forgotten there was still a slimy wipe in my hand until that point. But, even though this man wasn’t dying, I was sure it was still important.
It wasn’t. He gave me a big smile and then probably sensed how pissed I was getting because he shied away a little when he asked if my fucking car was for sale. When I told him no, he said, “Oh, I thought because it had no plates . . .”
Yeah, douche, it has no plates because it’s uninsured and unregistered but it’s IN MY FUCKING DRIVEWAY AND THERE’S NO FOR SALE SIGN ON IT. Or even near it. Or even on the whole fucking street. People keep cars they aren’t driving, you know. FUCK.
I said some sort of variation of that, he apologized for bothering me, and we both slammed our doors.
Right now I’m making a sign that reads “DON’T ASK UNLESS YOU HAVE 10GRAND IN CASH IN HAND”. The car’s worth six at best.
Let this serve as a lesson to you all — Friends don’t let friends attack strangers’ doorbells and doors unless the Zombie Apocalypse is actually happening.
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What’s the worst doorbell-ringing story that’s ever happened to you? Let me know!