The Witnesses are pretty active in my neighborhood. You know, going around with all that witnessin’ stuff. I’m actually a pretty mellow guy with regards to their activities, being generally tolerant of things theological, and usually even leaf through the issues of Watchtower that they leave behind. I figure I better know what they’re thinking about, since they just built a big Kingdom Hall about a mile and a half away, all the better to organize in greater numbers and sally forth from their strongpoint to preach to us infidels, I suppose. Gotta know what they’re up to over there.

After having completed construction of Fort God, they have started to appear in greater numbers. They seem to be attracted to my street in particular, and often park right in front of my house when they deploy. Most Saturday mornings find a minivan Jehovalopy not a dozen paces from my front door, with at least four well-dressed (as in go-to-church-meetin’ clothes, of course) people clutching briefcases and leather book bags stuffed to the gills with the True Word, and saccharine Bible parables for kids, and copies of Awake! warning about the dangers of blood transfusions, and showing pictures of the idyll that is at hand, where all mankind will lounge about in fruit-filled meadows, tigers and lions frolicking in sun-dappled glades bearing happy, small, prey animals on their back, because everyone and everything will get along just as soon as we accept God’s word.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for paradise, but I’ve always thought that the image of huge apex predators snuggling up to little fuzzy bunnies is weird on two different levels. The first one is obvious; the juxtaposition of creatures destined to be food, being chummy with killing machines. It’s absurd. The second is that, if all God’s creatures are going to be so friendly with each other, doesn’t eating one seem like a rank betrayal of trust? Who knows? Maybe when His Kingdom comes to Earth, we’ll all be vegans or something, though I can tell you that I hope He won’t skimp on the miracles required to make tofu actually taste good.

Anyhow, like I said, I’m usually willing to chat with these folks, but a lot of times they show up at the ungodly hour of 9:30, Saturday mornings. I’ve usually only just gotten out of bed. I look like hell; even more so than normal, if that can be believed, and I’m not exactly thrilled about talking to anyone. The kids have usually been up for a couple hours at least, and the front door is open, so I can’t exactly hide behind a closed front door; even if I kept the door locked, they’d be clamoring for me to open it, and I can’t bring myself to be rude enough to not open the door if the person on the other side knows I’m home. I’m just another victim of ettiquette. Sometimes I just don’t feel like talking to anybody, and my wife can somehow make herself scarce or conveniently indisposed when they arrive. I don’t know how she does it.

Thank God, though, for Sun Tzu. I have carefully studied the weaknesses of my mild-mannered, even-tempered, and well-dressed adversaries: their clothing and predictable timetable. All that is necessary is that I attach a cheap lawn sprinkler to a hose on the front deck and irrigate the holy beejeezus out of my front lawn, a wide, spitting, sputtering arch of municipal water that jets directly over the concrete walk every Saturday morning, starting around 9:00. Works like a charm. I get to continue to be a wuss, by not directly confronting them, telling them to sod off forever, that I likely can’t or won’t be saved; they don’t stroll up my walkway, wasting everyone’s time, for fear of getting their best suits drenched. Oh, and my lawn gets watered. Everyone wins.