There Goes the 'Hood

I dislike being accosted on the street by people who want me to sign petitions, give money or blood, whatever. They rarely acknowledge such banalities as "Sorry, I don't have time." And no matter how cleverly I avoid making eye contact, they pounce with talons and far too many words extended. It makes no difference if I'm hip deep in conversation with someone who Matters, or am juggling a purse, camera, smoothie and a stack of books, they still swoop down like vultures and demand my attention.

What is more, they ARGUE with me if they don't get it. (Great salesmanship, definitely. Piss 'em off and they'll buy for sure. Nay, me pretty. That doth not me chain yanketh.)

What really irks me is that when I sprint by a second time on my way back, they jump me AGAIN. Just like the panhandlers. Do they not Look at the people they harangue? If I look exactly like everyone else passing their parking meter, then what is so special about MY signature that they need to persecute me in order to obtain it? If they are going to depersonalize me on top of everything else, I don't think I owe them even a second out of my life.

I've grown tired of politely expressing disinterest and I don't carry a gun, so I now tell these insensitive creeps that Someone Down The Street just got me. (Since they always work in pairs a block apart, they can't prove I'm lying; their interest immediately wilts and they begin looking wildly beyond me for the next sucker.)

I wonder if when they were kids and all their friends wanted to be firemen, doctors, lawyers, or Indian chiefs, they smugly told those misguided waifs that such ambitions were puerile. That when THEY grew up, they would be Annoying Assholes. They would badger the hell out of passersby for minimum wage and the spurious pleasure of antagonizing strangers with too much self-control to snatch them baldheaded.

I wish they'd pick a job, any job, and leave me alone.