The doorbell rang. I know, I know. But it’s been a while since I had a doorbell story, and I’ve been sadder for it. Probably a coincidence, but still, let’s take no chances. Happiness in 3...
I opened the door. Outside, a postman with a large package. By that, I mean he was holding an item of some sort, wrapped in brown paper. This isn’t a porn script, probably because it features no sex. The postman smiled sadly, clearly going through the motions and not enjoying his job.
“Morning sir,” he said. “Package for you.”
I smiled politely, confirmed I lived in my house and signed for the package. And normally, that would have been the end of the affair. By that, of course, I mean event, rather than romantic affair. For you see, I have some standards, and the man in front of me was rather hairy. In fact, it was because of this I asked the following:
“You look familiar. Did you go to Dingwall Academy?”
“No.” He replied.
“Are you Bigfoot then?”
He shook his head from side to side, then answered slowly, ashamed.
I smiled kindly and invited him in for tea. He was very polite, like that Tiger I had round for tea last week, but less homophobic, and he fell asleep very quickly when I drugged him. Confident the mythical beast was sound asleep, I shaved off his hair.
I don’t like a hairy man.