The Postman Always Rings Bad

I suppose there are more terrifying things out there if one looks long and hard enough, but when the postman rings my doorbell, my heart skips a beat.

When I think of THE MAN at my door, I conjure up an image of the jack booted ATF thugs who attacked and murdered members of the Weaver Family at their home in Ruby Ridge, Idaho, in 1992. But since I have no weapons (because someone STOLE mine), no meth lab, and no green house for growing illegal plants (other than the 10,000 little Vicodin plants in my underground lab), I have no need to fear THAT MAN. Or do I?

I'm still a-scared of the postman if he rings my doorbell. He is kind of THE MAN, only a little more like "Newman" from Seinfeld, and generally sweaty. He probably isn't alerting me with a courtesy "mail call, Mr. Hodge -- something cool for you today!"

No, it's more likely, "I've something for you to sign, Mr. Hodge."

There are three things in particular the postman makes us must sign for, and they are all bad news. One, someone has sued me, and the plaintiff must serve me. Certified Mail is the favored (and cheapest) method.

Another is something truly evil, a notice from the IRS.

A third is a Notice of Foreclosure from the meanest, most ruthless, devilish, and racist of all THE MEN (besides the IRS): the evil mortgage company. In the old days, a notice of foreclosure was hand delivered by a genuine Nazgul on a black horse. It is cheaper now to send a sweaty postman (who leaves sweaty face prints on the storm door every single day. Jus' sayin'. ) I've had clients in foreclosure before. It was my experience once the bank attorneys get it, there's no backing down, no deals to make, and certainly no "we can work this out" attitude.

If that happens, the best thing for me to do is set the house on fire. Climb up on the roof and scream, "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!" like Cody Jarrett, (Jimmy Cagney, in "White Heat) as I am engulfed and tormented in the flames.


I don't like signing things. I never have, and I never will. I don't like to read what I am signing beforehand, but I have to because of all the crap people can do to us when we sign something without reading it first. I especially don't like signing "slips" or things that tear off, or a document that makes more than one copy (so press hard) or legal stuff, or papers that signify I understand what I just signed. Nothing good ever came from legal papers and whatnot, and white people can't hang on to copies of papers they've signed anyway.

The main reason I hate signing is I usually have to use someone else's boogery pen. I NEVER have a private pen on me when I need it.

I live on a major boulevard. Idiots I don't even know are always ringing my doorbell, and it annoys me each and every time. Did you know there is no law or obligation whatsoever that one must answer the door just because someone rings the bell or knocks? It's perfectly acceptable to let them see me see them, and then watch them watch me play the Ignore Game. That's how I roll. If I am not expecting you, there are only about two people for whom I would open the door. One is Jesus. The other, of course, is David Kelly, and that's only because he'd break a window.

Well, okay. Sometimes I will open the door and buy from fat kids who are selling crap for school activities.

Over the many years I've lived here at Morningwood, I'd say some 10,000 irritating, unwelcome, and uninvited people have come to the door. One memorable visitor claimed to be a "neighbor" who'd locked himself and his wallet out of his house. He needed $20 to pay a locksmith to unlock the door. Would I help him out.

I'd just gotten home from church, so I felt particularly Jesus-y. I fell for it and "loaned" him twenty bucks.

Turns out this same gentleman had been locked out of his house in neighborhoods all over Oklahoma City, and many others also loaned him money for a locksmith. I read about it in the papers. Still mildly annoyed that I'd been taken in by such a lame story, I called the district attorney and advised him that I, too, was a victim. I was practically a holocaust survivor. I wanted to complain, and I wanted slavery reparations, a money-check or compensation from Germany or any other non-bankrupt country.

Eventually, I received a money order for $20 from the guy. It was part of his plea agreement. THEN I felt bad. I wanted to find him, embrace him, and return the money. I wanted to forgive him and tell him to go forth and live a good life, and rip-off no more.

But I didn't. I cashed that thang at the licka stow where I trade.

That guy helped create this monster. This cynic who trusts no one now. This Howard Hughes without the money and long fingernails. I won't give a handout unless the asker admits it is for booze. Those guys are cool. "Why lie? I need a beer."

There are hosts of people I don't want to see or talk to, but my door seems to beckon them all. I used to tell the lodgers, "do NOT open the door unless you know it is for you. Whatever they want, I don't want it, or any part of it, and I don't want to hear it. You are inviting trouble and bother and annoyance. What if it is J. Dubs with "The Watchtower?"

Or it might be another "visitor," like the guy who came to my door two days in a row with the same story, "my car ran out of gas, and I need to get to Pauls Valley today." Right. Throw in "to buy diapers and see my sick child and babymama." Two days in a row! That guy needed an Excel program or something to help him keep up with the homes he'd hit up for money.

I've become old and jaded. Creepy and untrusting. Cranky and murderous. A disliker of about 97% of creation -- and 99% of the people who are still alive. I am sure it is mutual. I saw myself in a character in the movie, "Role Models" played by Paul Rudd. When the kid's annoying parents invited him over for dinner, (Rudd) said, "No thanks, I don't really like having dinner with people."

Well, it is the truth. Why not just tell them you don't like having dinner with people. Then, to make it all better, throw in one of my favorite lines of all time, the ever soothing

No OFFENSE.

Because if you have dinner with people, you can bet someone will double dip.

As my sponsor would say, "come to my cabin, and get a stabbin'."

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.