Dear People Who Hang Shit On My Door:

Dear Shit-Hangers:

I came home from work today, and was greeted with this:



And this:



These items were, in no particular order, a brochure for membership at Gold's Gym (the nearest location to my home of which I'm not even sure), a take-out menu for a Korean BBQ restaurant, and an enormous flyer for Universal City Nissan. And the piece de resistance? The Verizon Yellow Pages.

I already belong to a gym. I'm less likely to go to a restaurant if they advertise by door-flyering. I'm certainly not in the market for a Nissan Sentra, no matter how attractive its lease offer. And I can't remember the last time I actually handled a phone book, other than to hurl it into the closest recycling bin.

The flyer-papering in my neighborhood is out of control. Most front doors are a scant half a dozen steps off the sidewalk, and we, the good people of the Fairfax/Mid-City district, are sitting ducks. I've seen you, diminutive Shit Hangers, (and you are always diminutive), scampering through the neighborhood, Flyer-Bjorn satchels stuffed with pamphlets slung around your shoulders, and I just want to scream at you "If we WANTED to buy a Nissan, we WOULD!"

I wonder, does each advertising establishment find its own Shit Hanger, or is there some sort of Shit Hanging service that distributes this colossal waste of paper en masse? And if so, what do you call yourselves? Shit Hangers, LTD? And where do you advertise? Shit Hangers Monthly? These are the questions that trouble me every day when I come home and there are eight business cards on my front porch for E-Z House Kleening.

I'm getting ready to either put a "Post No Bills" sign on my front door, or, better yet, booby-trap it. It'd be worth the entire day sitting behind the door, armed with a can of silly string and an air horn, lying in wait for the next brave soul to venture onto my porch, spreading their gospel of discount movers, non-English speaking maid services, and mom and pop Indian restaurants. I would savor the moment, hearing an unsuspecting Shit Hanger creep up onto the porch, insert his (or her) flotsam and jetsam into my screen door, and I'd yank open the Wizard of Oz booby hatch in my front door, and let him have it: "HONNNNNNNNNNNNK!"

Surely that would be enough to get my door on the coveted "Do Not Hang Shit" list. I'd be thrilled if that were to happen, as I already have a big enough shit list of my own.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby