Satire: Before I Hold This Door Open for You…
Before I hold this door open for you, I must first ask myself, “Do you really deserve this?”
I saw you walking towards the door from the counter, juggling scones, bagels, and countless cups of coffee in those weird little carton/holder things.
You seem nice enough. Your hair is coiffed and your beard is trimmed: you’re masculine but you take care of yourself. I respect that.
You also have kind eyes. They seem to softly plea for help with the door, as they stare at me over your precariously stacked coffee cups. They also seem somewhat wide fear – namely of spilling all that coffee on your white shirt if you don’t get out of this door and into your car in t minus ten seconds.
On second thought, why would you wear white if you knew full-well that you were going to be carrying literal armfuls of what is basically stain-serum? You must be pretty dumb.
Anyways, it’s okay if you’re not the fastest grinder in the coffee shop: you don’t need intelligence to have a kind heart, good intentions, and be worthy of my gracious yet assertive door-opening abilities.
Is that a vintage hardback book I see poking out of your satchel? You’ve got soul. You respect the past and the knowledge that can be plucked from it. You, sir, may just have earned yourself an open door.
As you turn sideways, anticipating (prematurely) my opening the door, I see the title of the book. It’s by Proust. You pretentious douchebag. Not even Joel Rich understands Proust. And you probably wouldn’t understand that reference because Joel Rich is one of the world’s leading Proust scholars, proving my point that nobody gets Proust.
You know what, judgment has been passed; you have proven yourself unworthy of the grace of my door holding. I hope you ruin that white shirt, and/or get Lou-Gehrig’s disease.