Religion.

There was a small, balding man on my doorstep. For once, this isn't a doorbell story, because the man was just standing there when I opened the door. To be fair to him though, his arm was extended, his finger pointed and ready to caress the buzzer afixed to my wall. I had merely stumbled upon him, hoping as I was to slip out in the early morning dew and dispose of a body.

 Not, I should point out at this juncture, a human body. Just a Rhesus monkey. I strangle Rhesus monkeys sometimes, but I'm planning on giving up after Easter. Anyway, dressing gown barely covering my dignity, dead monkey wrapping in newspaper in hand, I met this strange little man on my doorstep. I recognised him; his name was Brian or Barry or something like that, and he worked in a corner shop a few streets away where I sometimes bought glue. He had a nervous looking face, and little round glasses.

 "Oh, hello" He mumbled, the initial shock of our meeting having passed.

 "Good morning!" I replied unnecessarily loudly. "Can I render unto you assistance?"

 "Well, I was just wondering if you might want to have a look at these fliers?"

 Nervously, he presented me with some fliers. On them, I noticed a large cross, and assuming them to be religious, smiled politely and took them. With any luck I could avoid a theological debate, I hoped feverishly.

 But I was wrong, and BarryBrian continued to stand, hoping from foot to foot with a look of expectant optimism on his face. I smiled politely again and looked at the fliers. The first thing I noticed was the crucifix. Secondly, I noted it was upsides-down. Underneath was the message, "Hello! My name is Barry, and I'm the Anti-Christ".

 "So Barry, you're the anti-Christ then?"

 "Oh yes!" Barry replied, "That's me!"

 I waited patiently, expecting him to capitalise on this opening and tell me more.

 "So. I'll bet that keeps you busy, doesn't it?" I asked, my face a mask of pained enthusiasm.

 "Oh, you'd think." Barry replied, "But actually, I've not got a lot to do really."

 "Right." I replied.

 A bird began to sing in the distance, and a chill breeze passed us by.

 "I'll just be off then." Barry said.

 "Great stuff." I yelled, my mouth contorted into a grin of unbearable enthusiasm. "Right so, have a good day."

 Barry smiled politely and turned to leave. I watched him as he walked down my path, crossed the road and approached the house of old Mrs. Aaronovich, who probably wouldn't put up with any Anti-Christ nonsense.

 I began to scan the leaflet unenthusiastically. Really, there was very little to it. ("Hello" I heard in the distance."I'm the Anti-Christ.") Largely, it contained poorly-Xeroxed exerts from negative reviews of the local Church's performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. (Across the road, the voice of Mrs. Aaronovich cried out in protest that she didn't believe in Jesus, let alone anything else.) Underneath the almost unreadable reviews there was a crudely-drawn picture of what I assumed to be Jesus, underneath which was the message, "You suck!". I retired into the house, dumping both the Rhesus monkey corpse and the leaflet in the corner.

 I very much doubt Barry, a 45 year old man with thick little glasses and a cardigan, was the Anti-Christ, but to be sure I'll sneak into his house later and shave him of what little hair he has left, just in case. Then we'll see who has numbers on their head.

Dogs in funny clothing. I've given up on good titles. I wish I was dead.

The doorbell rang. I can't even be bothered writing the onomatopoeic words to describe a doorbell doorbelling any more.

 On the step, a pair of small dogs stood looking up expectantly. They were kind of cute, but I detected an edge of cynicalism, as if they harboured a detached, dangerous view of the world. One of the dogs, taller (They were on hind legs) red knickerbockers, blue pork-pie hat, offered a tin towards me.

 "Would you like to make a donation, sir?"

 "Sure." I replied, fishing for my wallet. "What are you collecting for, the dogs' home?"

 "No." Replied the first dog. "I've started an awareness campaign to raise awareness about the lack of suitable clothing for dogs. You see, people aren't aware that there isn't much clothing for dogs - sure, there're some novelty hats and little costumes and things. But on the whole, there is little clothing that allows a dog to remain both stylish and warm."

 I nodded.

 "I didn't think dogs really liked clothing. I mean, you've got those little tartan coats for the rain, what more do you want?"

 "Look," He replied in a patient-yet-weary tone, "See Tim here? He hasn't got more than 3 shoes in the world. It's all very well, you saying he should get a job, earn some money, buy his own sewing machine and make his own clothes, but how can he expect to find employment with only 3 shoes?"

 I looked at Tim. Stupid name for a dog, I thought to myself, but I kept quiet. A moment ago I'd apparently given a tirade against dogs not working for a living, so I didn't know what I might say next.

 "Besides." Said the first dog. "Look at this picture. This is your grandmother, isn't it?"

 I looked at the picture. It was true - a stylish sepia print of my grandmother hunting game in Montecristo was being thrust in front of my face.

 "Your grandmother. She likes to keep a clean lawn, doesn't she?" The dog asked, with the rising inflection of a seasoned talking dog blackmailer.

 I hastily pulled out 67p from my pocket and gave it to the dogs.

 "Good man." The dog who wasn't Tim said. "Now, unless you've got anything to bark at, we'll be on our way."

 I told them I didn't, then went back inside. Even though I'd met their blackmail demands, I didn't trust the two dogs. Loading up my shotgun and fetching the cat's revolver from behind the stairs, I set off to Grandma's. The cat met me there, having picked up some bear traps at the fish market. We waited until dawn, but there was no sign of the dogs. Satisfied, we prepared to go home. Spotting us as she went out for her morning jog, Grandma invited us in for Currie and vodka. It was a good day, and only one passer-bye got caught in the bear traps.

Ding dong!

Went the doorbell

Amazingly, it appeared both my front door and the complex mechanism required to work my doorbell had survived the fire unharmed. Stumbling blearily from a bed of broken concrete and burned wood, I walked to the door and peered through the peep-hole. It was a useful new feature I'd had installed in a vague attempt to stop having to talk to door-to-door fools. Of course, it was more useful when you had walls and shit, instead of just a freestanding door...

 Outside was a man dressed in white Khaki, a look completed with safari hat perched on the wearer's head. I shrugged to myself and opened the door.

 "Ah! Good day old sport!" The man began, his voice emanating from somewhere within a giant white moustache. "Nigel Wriggly-Washington, at your service!"

A ferocious beast. Source

 "Excellent." I mumbled unenthusiastically. "And I see your some sort of Victorian explorer or hunter?"

 "Yes old bean, you've hit the nail on the head there! I am a hunter! Not just any hunter, of course, but one specialising in a very dangerous prey!"

 "You hunt fictional Gods?" I asked hopefully (Raiden's getting on my nerves).

 "No, of course not. I serve my King and Country hunting poodles on the Coast of Africa!"

 I nodded.

 "And, of course, I make something on the side selling the finest poodleskins to esteemed gentlemen like yourself sir. Why not buy one sir, makes a great material for making your finery out of! Impress the young lady in your life by buying her a poodle corsage!"

 I nodded sadly. I had no idea what a poodle corsage was, but it didn't sound like something that would impress a young lady.

 "You know poodles are a small, domesticated dog, don't you?"

 "No sir, not the wild African poodle. A dangerous beast sir, 8 foot long with razor-sharp teeth!"

 "Right, ok then." I replied. Then, smugly: "Ok. I believe you. Show me those 'pelts' you've amassed then..."

 Reaching into his satchel, Nigel produced something large and wiry. On closer inspection, I realised it was a scouring pad.

 "Look," I started, "This is a cleaning implement, not an animal skin."

 "You're sure you're not going to fall for any of this?"

 "No." I replied unwittingly.

 "Well, fine then."

 With that, Nigel (it's not his real name, I gather) scoured my face. In the ensuring confusion, he stole both my wallet and my doorbell.

 Overall, it's been a good day.

A fierce gale was blowing outside.

                               Fuckers. Image via WikipediaHowever, seated by my warm fire, it concerned me little. Only the occasional "thud" as a clown was hurled into my wall distrurbed me from my newspaper.

 The doorbell rang. It is, as you may remember dear reader, prone to doing that. I rose from my armchair, tied up my smoking jacket and headed for the front door. Upon opening it, I was greeted by a clown. Like most clowns I meet, he was sad, dejected and dripping with rain.

 "Come in, my good fellow! Come in!" I said. It was to prove a mistake, such sayings.

 The clown entered my house, dripping on the carpet as he did, his big shoes squelching forlornly. I invited him to the living room, where he quickly helped himself to some brandy and took my seat in front of the fire.

 "Are you warm enough?" I asked, with only the slightest hint of anger.

 "No." he replied. Reaching into his oversized trousers, he pulled out a can of petrol. Emptying this over himself (and my armchair) he proceeded to pull a lighter from his pocket.

 "Clowns against bad weather!" he yelled, before immolating himself and my favorite chair.

 I waited a few minutes until the fire had extinguished itself, and sweeped up the remains with a broom. I was getting sick and tired of this happening to me, and first thing tomorrow, I was going to buy a sternly-worded sign that told clowns I did not wish them to call upon me. In the meantime however, I made some tea.

In soviet Russia, doorbell ring you. But here, I ring doorbell. This is a terrible title, and now look how it drags on. Learn from my failures, children! NEVER FORGET!

I reviewed reviews of Unforgiven recently. Maybe that's why its in my head...Image via Wikipedia

I rang the doorbell.

Nobody answered, and I considered going home. But then, my training kicked in. Reaching out tentatively, I caressed the button again, sending sensual chimes throughout the house.  This time, I was answered.

A man, dressed head to toe in sheepskin, opened the door and looked at me.

“Can I help you?” I asked, continuing the tentativeness that had dominated earlier affairs.

“No.” He replied. “anyway, you rang my doorbell. I should be helping you.”

“Ok.” I replied, less tentative now, “In that case, can you give me a hand killing someone? There’s a thousand dollars in it...”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then cocking his head to one side, he asked:

“Who are they?”

“Two cowboys.” I answered. “They cut a prostitute up pretty bad.”

"Wait... Is this just the plot to Unforgiven?” he asked.

I turned tail and fled. My tentativeness had gotten the better of me.
 I wonder why he was wearing so much sheep...

Ah, doorbell. My dear old friend, how I've missed you.

Image via Wikipedia

I walked down the hallway. It was the logical thing to do, if I wanted to open my front door. And I did, because the doorbell had just wrung. Secretly, I hoped it was early Carol singers. Bad ones, whom I could mock.
 Outside, to my disappointment, were two men. They were smart and carrying fliers, and I began to reach for the emergency shotgun I keep in the umbrella stand. You know, in case of religious callers? But then they began to speak, and my hand stopped.
 "Hello Sir, we're here today representing the RSPCE. Did you know, sir, that there are over 3,000 Elves working in illegal sweatshops in this country?"
 I paused. I didn't know that, and I damn well told them so.
 "Well sir, how about this? Did you know that many of these Elves are paid only pennies a day? Or that these working conditions don't follow the guidelines for the health and safety of mythical creatures, leading to high rates of illness and permanent disability?"
No, I replied. I did not know such a thing. And again, I made sure they knew.
 "Well, thank you for your time Sir. Here" and they handed me some pamphlets, "Take a look at these. If you can donate just £4.7 million a month, we can ensure every Elf gets to spend this Christmas with his family, rather than making toys 24 hours a day."

 I took the pamphlets, and retreated in side. I read them, agreeing they made a lot of sense, and then set about freeing the Elves I kept in my basement. From now on, I'm only using child labour!

I was naked, rubbing myself all over.

I was in the shower, you see. This isn't going to be an erotic post, I've only opened with the shower thing so you know why it was Max, still in my house for reasons unknown, as usual, who answered the door and not me. After the first few seconds of continuing my relaxing wash, the thought of Max talking to, well, anyone who could call on me solidified in my head. Rushing from the shower in an cloud of steam and soap, I grabbed a towel and headed for the door.

 Norman checked his Ohmmeter. Yup, he had everything. Swinging happily from the van, clipboard in front of him for a final check of name and address, he headed up the drive to the house. This was his last stop for the day - just get the meter readings, then he was off to France for a long weekend. Whistling happily, he strolled up to the house and rung the doorbell. After a few moments, the door opened a crack to reveal a figure within, peering at Norman with distrust. Norman, undeterred, began.
 "Afternoon Sir, here to read the meter."
The figure within narrowed his eyes.
 "The Agency sent you?"
 "Well, if that's what you want to call them." Norman replied.
 "General X sent you? To bring me back in?"
 "No." Norman replied again. This wasn't normal. "Mr. Patel, for your meter readings."
After a pause, he gestured his tools, and added hopefully, "The electricity?"
 Seeing his toolbelt, Max recoiled in horror.
 "Torture devices!" He yelled, "I told them I quit! QUIT! You'll never make me go back!"

Soap still lathering me, I skidded into the hallway, rushing for the front door. On the doorstep, Max appeared to be garroting an electrician with his belt, while the confused man flailed at him with a screwdriver. As I tried to figure out what to do, a van pulled up on my front lawn, unnoticed by the struggling Max. Two suited, shaded figures emerged and crossed the lawn quickly. Leaning close to Max's ear, one whispered something about being sent by General X. Stabbing Max in the back with a taser, the Man in Black dragged him into the van. The other suit stuffed a wad of notes into the pocket of the electrician.
 "You didn't see anything." He instructed.
With that, he returned to the van, and drove off swiftly. The electrician did likewise. I returned to the shower. It was safe there...

Bear naked.

I took another look at the two figures on my doorstep. They were obviously bears - probably the same bears that usually terrorise me, they all look the same - but, over their hulking form and hairy bodies, they had donned disguises. Well, not good disguises: I couldn't tell, but I think they were meant to be Chuck Norris. Or maybe Hermione Norris. They were pretty ambiguous disguises.
 I stood looking at them. They didn't look back, instead shuffling their feet and looking at the sky or the ground. After a while, I asked what they wanted. The larger of the two looked at, taking a swipe at me with his claw. When I woke up, I was in the back of a truck, driving across bumpy terrain. Or flat terrain, covered in the elderly. Whichever it was, it didn't make for a comfortable journey.
 I don't know where they're taking me. I just hope it's not Italy. I can't go back there, the Mafia are after me.

A series of unfortunate revenges

I took a look at the door in front of me. I didn't look very strong, I could probably kick my way through it. But that was unnecessary, as my mother had explained at Christmas. Instead, I decided to do the polite thing, and knocked on the door. To keep my anger on an even keel I knocked loudly though.
 After a few minutes, I heard some shuffling from inside. Duly, a goth opened the door and looked at me in a depressed way. Resisting the temptation to shout "Vampire!" and steak him through the heart - as I am wanton to do in cliched fashion - I instead began my spiel:
 "Mornin' love." I began. He didn't look impressed, but I didn't know if he could. "You called for a plumber?"
 "No." He replied plainly.
I sighed. This wasn't going to plan. Pointing at the floor, I lured the goth to lower his head in inquest. Reaching into my toolkit, I picked out a wrench, and hit him over the head. Dragging him into his flat, I stole his clothes and makeup. Dressing the goth in my stolen plumber costume, I then dragged him outside to my stolen van and dumped him in the driver's seat. I am trying to escape my life: Back in my flat, a severely concussed plumber is wearing my clothes and hearing about Max's trip to the supermarket, where he had been racially abused by two Koreans.
 Dressed as the goth, I headed out to obtain another persona. Perhaps I'll be a supermodel, who knows?

"Don't open the door!"

"Just... Leave it!"
 For me, not wanting to open the door was a familiar sentiment. Today, however, it was Max voicing the command. He'd arrived at mine, looking rather flushed, about 5 minutes ago. He'd rushed in, drawn the curtains and tried to hide behind the fridge. Yanking him out, I'd placed him in a chair and asked him what was going on. Before he could answer, the ominous door had knocked, taking us neatly back to the start of our story.
 "Why? What've you done?"
 "Oh, don't ask. Just... Well, do you have an escape tunnel?"
I did, but I wasn't going to tell Max. I might need it one day, to escape him.
 "No," I replied. "You destroyed them all last year, when you pretended to be a Dwarfish miner in my backyard."
 By now, my cat-like curiosity had kicked in, and I was attempting to peer out, through the kitchen curtains. At first, I couldn't see anyone outside. But, looking down, I noticed my callers: Smurfs!
 A large, yet tiny, mob of Smurfs had gathered by the front door. Bearing pitchforks and burning torches, they were obviously pissed about something.
 "Seriously Max, what have you done now?"
Max, head in his hands, refused to answer. I watched the Smurfs: After a few minutes, they began to mill around, their anger replaced by boredom. A few more minutes passed, and the mob turned to leave as one. On the way out, they stopped long enough to tip over a gnome.
 Max, still at the table, refused to answer why the Smurf mob were after his blood, except to mutter occasionaly, "But they looked so tasty..."
 I expect they'll be back tomorrow. But I'm not worried, I've set the sprinkler system up in the garden. That ought to see them off...

Monkeys keep flying into the window...

It's not a good sign, let me tell you that. Misfortune awaits me, as once again, I seem to be the enemy of a witch. As I was thinking about whom I had pissed off recently, and if they were a witch or not, the doorbell rung. It always rings. For someone so awful, I seem to get a lot of guests, and I'm sure I'll enjoy that when I'm elderly and in a home. But for now, it's annoying. So very annoying.
 Opening the door, I found four unusual figures: A scarecrow, a tin man, a lion and a teenage girl. Of course, I'm used to each of these as visitors, but I've never seen them all together before.
 "Sup?" I asked unenthusiastically.
  "Please help us!" They chimed as one, "We each have problems that, as fictional moral lessons, can easily be resolved by our joined endeavours"
 "Really? So what... you're metafictional then?"
 "What? I'm a Scarecrow..." Began the member of the group who was stuffed with straw. "And I have no brain. Please help."
 "Scarecrows shouldn't talk." I replied, "And you don't need a brain to scare crows."
With that, I set fire to him, like some sort of fire-spewing thing. Seemingly unphased with this, the tin man began to talk:
 "Sir, as a tin man, I have no heart"
 "Well, that's no problem." I replied. I knew that keeping all those pig's hearts in the fridge was a good idea. Of course, my friends and families had worried about me, but they'd be worrying on the other sides of their face now.
 "And you, Mr. Lion?"
 "I am a coward..." He shook nervously.
 "Well, that's not a problem either!" I chimed happily. "Just come in, enroll in my comprehensive psychological hardening programme. Once you're finished, your killing sprees will make Vietnam look like an ice-cream castle."
 My mind preoccupied with the idea of tiny, jelly-baby soldiers on mint choc-chip battlements, I almost forgot about the girl who, after a polite cough, introduced herself as Dorothy.
 "And your problem?"
 "Well, you see, I want to go home."
 "Ah, but you had the power to go home any time you wanted. Just follow my instructions."
 Thus, she duly began by closing her eyes, tapping her heels together three times and chanting "There's no place like home." While she was doing this, I threw a sack over her head, and locked her in the basement. There'd be a handsome ransom in this for me... Yes, that was another day's honest work over. It's nice to know, at the end of the day, that you made some difference in the word.
 Even if it wasn't for the best.

Humour doesn't translate well to stereotypical cavemen situations.

There was a loud thud at my cave entrance. With growing caveman fear, I went to draw back the tigerskin door, and see who it was.
 At the door stood two cavemen, dressed in well-sewn tigerskin. Each carried a large, flat stone.
 "Hello. We here to tell you about Sun God." Said the first.
 "Yes." Said the second, "he make sun work."
 "We see you busy," resumed the first. "So we leave you slab to look at. Slab blank, writing not invented yet"
I took the slab, and politely closed the tigerskin door. This, I reflected, was stupid. Early society didn't function like this at all, and I'm sure that early religion was nothing like how I portrayed it. I'm very sorry to any lovers of ancient history out there.
 On the bright side, at least I didn't have dinosaurs interacting with humans. That only happens on TV, or at Loch Ness...

None power...

The power was down, my outer defenses penetrated and my guard bears distracted by bees and honey and other such strange things. Without power, of course, the electric fence didn't work. Worse still, without power, the electric doorbell didn't work. By this, I do not mean the electricity made the doorbell ding, I instead mean the electricity ensured a high current of power flowing over the doorbell, electrocuting would-be ringers. Now, though, it would not. As such, I could now hear the ominous chimes of said bell, chimes that I had grown to fear and long-term readers had began to hate as a clunky literary tool.
 So, it was with terror, and a little interest, I went to see what kind of salesman would brave what I had thought to be my impenetrable defenses.
 On my doorstep, two nuns. One was short, fat and jolly looking, and the other taller and carrying a suitcase. While they were not altogether repulsive, they were clearly real nuns, not those sexy ones you see taking their clothes off at parties, or on the Internet.
 The nuns talked for several minutes. Apparently, they were selling candy door-to-door to make money, so their convent could afford a trip to Lourdes. The candy, held in the tall nun's case, looked rather good, so I bought some and bid them good day. I returned to my sofa, nibbling on the candy and musing on how the nuns had bypassed my extensive security. After a few minutes, I began to wonder if I actually had any extensive security. It's entirely possible I imagined it on one of my acid trips. I'm not even sure if the nuns were real.
 The candy tastes and looks a lot like lego...

Religious callers?

I've developed a new hobby, namely annoying those surreal peoples who appear on my doorstep. It was simple really, based on a strategy I observed some Jehovah's Witnesses engaging in. It wasn't the normal door-to-door thing, I just followed them into Greggs. One had a roll, with chicken I think. The other waited nervously by the door, stepping from foot-to-foot and murmuring like a cartoon character. Anyway, it was then I decided to spend my life sitting in whatever fictional home I'm in at the moment, fully suited and wearing a name badge. Whenever someone knocks on my door now, I tell them about Jesus for several minutes, before leaving them in my flat and going away.
 It's a fun hobby, but rather costly. Similarly, the postman seems to be more popular with my flatmates than I ever was.
 I want revenge...

Snow White and the 7 racist dwarves

Ding-dong went the doorbell ominously. (Yea, doorbell stories are back, and that was a shit sentence, sorry)
I looked up from my soup, but did nothing. Maybe whoever it was would go away if I ignored them. Of course, that never works, and it was foolish to entertain the though. So, reluctantly, I got out of the soup and wiped myself down with a towel.
 "Yes?" I demanded upon opening the door. I first imagined I would be a strange sight - wearing only a towel, and with tomato and coriander dripping from my hair - but what I saw before me was shocking more even so! (I'm fucking with you now, not even I write that badly) In front of me were 7 dwarves, who at first appeared to be your typical long-bearded Tolkienesque types. However, on closer inspection, I noticed they were wearing replica Nazi uniforms.
 "Ah, good morning!" One announced. I assumed he was their leader -  A small toothbrush moustache was sat under his nose. To achieve this, he had shaved away the rest of his beard-moustache-thing, so he resembled a Hitler-coconut. As he spoke, there was some discussion behind him as to whether the group liked red people or not.
 "Can I help you?" I asked. Frankly, I didn't want to help, but there were a lot of them, and they had axes.
 "We'd like to take this opportunity tell you about some of our fantastic clothing items, my good man. Here, take a catalogue."
I took the catalogue. Flicking through it, I saw some rather nice items for dwarves - mainly chain-mail, with some plate armour thrown in for good measure.
 "Now, you may have noticed that these items are not all, ahem... In your size. But the helmets should fit, you know?"
I nodded knowingly. I continued to nod knowingly for several minutes, but the dwarves didn't leave. Eventually, I felt the need to ask:
 "What's with the Nazism?"
 "Ah, yes. Well, I'm sorry about this, it's company policy. It's not something I personally agree with, but many of the older members of the Dwarven community still hold on to the old racial purity views - You know, nasty, anti-goblin stuff: "Dwarf Fortresses for Dwarves", "Decapitate Orcs on Thursdays", that sort of thing. Anyway, we'll leave the pamphlet with you - If you make an order, make sure to mention me. Clive's the name!".
With that, they turned and left. I'm glad I got a catalogue, I can burn it and use the fire to re-heat my soup. How contrived my life seems nowadays...

I heard the shuffling of a well-oiled butler...

coming down the corridor. I have recently upgraded my house - apparently, I had been entered into a loyalty scheme some time ago - so you won't be hearing any more doorbells. No sir. Unless you're near a door, of course. Or have tinnitus.
Alfred entered slowly. His name wasn't actually Alfred (I think it was Timmy) and he wasn't a butler. In fact, he was a 27 year old home help assistant who lived in the probably correct assumption I was dangerously insane. He tolerated my whims generously, and this explained why he was suited in morning dress, and had added chalk dust to his ordinarily dark hair. As I pondered how else I could improve his appearance, he arrived at my side, and bent to my ear.
"There is a... caller at the front door Sir. A... gentleman, I believe."
Normally I don't care for callers, but TimmyAlfred's description suggested it may be a effeminate man, or perhaps a bearded lady.
"Thank you Alfred. I shall meet him."

When I reached the front door, I found it had closed over, obscuring my visitor. With some trepidation, I leaned forward and opened the door. The site before me was rather disconcerting.
"Hello! It's me!" Yelled the thing excitedly.
"Yes. I can see that." I replied, "But what are you doing here? You should be next to the German border"
"Yes!" Replied France, "But I'm here to tell you about Jacques' cheeses! They're so great, they could lure a Frenchman out of a brothel and convince him not to be lazy and surrender in a fight"
I looked closer, and it soon became apparent that the man in front of me was not actually the country of France. He was a bald man in a foam costume. He also had a bag full of flyers, and I briefly entertained the idea of France on a paper round. He continued:
"Jacques' cheeses are so good, you'll become as legendary a lover as a real Frenchman after eating some! Also, something about onions and berets!"
"You sprout many cliches, and this flyer is badly set out." I replied, "Please leave my property. If you don't do so, I will be forced to make you part of my Superhero group. And I seriously doubt your crime fighting abilities."

Stay tuned next week, for the exciting adventures of FRANCE and THE TERROR!

Guess what's back!

Knock knock, went the door. Ha, thought you'd gotten rid of this didn't you!
"who's there?"
"Adolf"
"Adolf who?"
"Hitler. I hope there aren't any Jews in there!"
It had been bad enough when the KKK visited last week, and lets not even get started on the offensive things the mailman said about homosexuals. I seem to live in a very bigoted and fictitious neighbourhood.

Ding Dong!
The old familiar bell rang out, filling the corridors and rooms of my home. Bloody thing, the tramp must have sneaked it back in. Anyway, I headed to see what new horrors awaited me.

I failed to see the hidden cameramen when i opened the door, and just saw the 8 foot figure in a rather ill-fitting suit.
3 hours later, i watched the entire incident on Television.
Camera pans in on raucous studio audience, centering on the flamboyantly suited host on stage.
"Welcome back ladies and gentlemen!" He roars warmly. "Now, before the break, you saw that Steve [picture of Steve appears on screen] has to get into the home of an unwitting member of the public! Now, this task is difficult enough for your average monster made of decomposing body parts, but Steve is dressed as a Jehovah's Witness!"

Of course, it's easy to see how i was fooled. Steve was rather smartly dressed, standing at the door with his copy of Watchtower under one arm. Of course, if i looked closely, i would have seen the stitching around his neck and cranium. Still, one doesn't like to stare.
In the end, i let him in. He told me about God, then balloons fell out of the ceiling and he got a check for £5,000.
I was glad of the company really.

Fecking door

Knock knock.
This isn't a joke, it's onomatoepea. You see, someone is at my door again.
I took out the bell and gave it to a tramp. He wasn't too happy about it, but life isn't fair.

I answered the door, as usual. The man stood there was about 5'2", bearded, long haired and dressed in a white robe. A pair of brown Converse protruded gently from under it.
"Hello, it's my birthday in 4 months" He said. "Because i'm Jesus."
"No you're not." I replied. It wasn't even a real beard, i could see the velcro.
"Yes, i am!" He retored, slightly angrly. Then, calming down and smiling serenly, he offered me a peice of card.
"Just give me a call if you need any help tidying the place." He said, before turning on his heel and speeding off.
The card was blank. Pity really, the place is a bit of a mess.