Another Saturday, another batch of trespassers trying to steal my time, money and/or soul. I can't remember the last time I was pleasantly surprised by the doorbell. This weekend is no different. A quick look out the peephole confirms it's obviously no one I know. I'm irritated, but that is at least partially offset by the pleasure of making them stand outside unfulfilled. For some reason Deb tries to pretend we're not home. She turns down the TV and hides. I'm angered seeing how we (royal we) are conditioned to stop what ever we are doing, to answer the phone/doorbell. So much so that we are uncomfortable ignoring their call. Why do they get such priority? This is probably the biggest reason I dislike mobile phones. Ringing my doorbell is an order of magnitude more aggravating. This is my fortress of solitude... and from a security standpoint, why would I give any random jack-off a chance to come in and case the place. No one in their right mind has a guest account on their coporate network. Why is this any different? As it turns out it this time it was a bunch of bible beaters (as evidenced by the pamphlet left behind.) It's a shame I can't go to Pier One and buy a nice sisal door mat with "FUCK OFF" boldly emblazoned on it. That would be something I could really use.