October sucked. One of the wettest on record, and cold to boot. But today the sky had that infinite, unblemished nature that probably makes Ralph Lauren call up all his little design monkeys and tell them to think of new names for blue. I’d been up late Friday, out with the progeny seeing Zombieland, and then The Big Lebowski back at home, so I slept in a bit. It was pushing ten before I was up, dressed and in the kitchen contemplating breakfast. The doorbell rang.
Something about the two guys, maybe the black suit, white shirt, black tie look, or maybe the Jack Webb-like nature of their humorlessness made me think of Tommy Lee Jones in Men in Black.
“Have you contemplated the agonies of hell this morning?” the man on the left said.
“No,” I said. “So far mostly just thought about breakfast.”
“Because that is where you are surely going if you don’t believe this.” He thrust his Watchtower magazine out at me. I looked at the other guy, who nodded solemnly.
“Wow,” I said. I took the rag, and gave it a quick flip through. “So you’re telling me if I believe all this stuff, then I get to go to heaven?”
“Yes Sir,” the man said. He was the spokesman, I guessed. The other guy was in charge of nodding, which he did again, with convincing gravity.
“You guys gonna be there when I get there?” I asked.
“Yes Sir,” he answered. More nodding.
I handed him the magazine back. “I’ll take my chances on hell, then, thanks.”
I shut the door and went back to thinking about breakfast. Far too nice a day to waste contemplating the agonies of hell.