Actually, yes. My mother had foot surgery a few years back, and chores that involved standing up were out of the question. Some Witnesses came by and stuck around to vacuum. YMMV of course, but it can’t hurt to try.
Once, long ago, my father found a way to make prosetylizing missionaries not only go away, but stay away.
I come from a very small, very rural town in Alaska. It’s the kind of town where if you catch sight of someone in a suit, you can be assured there’s either a funeral or a wedding. Except for the Mormon missionaries. Those poor boys not only had to wear suits, they were the only males over the age of 16 riding BICYCLES. In other words, they were grossly, painfully conspicuous and ripe targets for mockery.
One golden summer when I was right about eight, my dad, brother and I were passing our day outside, where my mother couldn’t shanghai us into one of the chores on her Infinite List Of Tasks. My brother and I were in the shrubbery growing along our very steep driveway making homemade bows and arrows in an eternal and mostly futile attempt to shoot each other. My dad was shooting rats.
We had chickens that summer - and the chicken coop attacted giant rats. Norwegian ship rats that had been living at the city dump. Those suckers weighed at least 5 pounds each. They were really too big to trap, and since they were living in our chicken coop, they were impractical to poison. So my dad would head up to the roof once or twice a week and shoot them with a .22 rifle until he got bored. This kept the rat population at an acceptable level.
So on this slow summer day, just when my dad had finished his rat-shootin, and was collecting up the corpses to throw away, two of those oh-so-conspicuous Mormon missionary boys rounded to corner at the top of our driveway and headed down the hill, intent on saving our souls and spreading the Word. My brother and I caught sight of them and burst out of the bushes, brandishing our poorly-constructed bows, covered with leaves and other assorted dirt, and began pelting down the driveway as fast as our little legs could carry us.
Screaming.
“The Mormons are coming!! The Mormons are coming!!”
My dad, hearing his children shrieking and pelting down the dirt driveway, but unable to make out the actual words, ran frantically to the bottom of the driveway - afraid for us. (You see, there were bears also living at the dump - quite close to our house. Just like the rats, only bigger.)
He was still clutching his rifle in one hand. In the other hand he had half a dozen dead and bleeding giant rats gripped by the tail.
My brother and I slid to a stop clutching his legs screaming in unison.
“The Mormons are coming!! The Mormons are coming!!”
The aforementioned conspicuous young men were 2/3 of the way down the driveway by this time. They’d brought their bicycles to a stop and were staring at my dad with wide eyes.
My dad, a patient man by all accounts, but a man with a very dry sense of humor, looked down at our flushed little faces and announced:
“Good thing I’ve got my gun, then.”
Those missionaries were doing at least 20 miles an hour when they rounded the corner at the top of the driveway on their bicycles. Lance Armstrong wishes he could make that time up our driveway.
That was the very last time we had missionaries visit our house. This is despite the fact that my mother was horrified when she heard about it and brought those poor young men a layer cake to apologize. Maybe she shouldn’t have told them I baked it.
Aangelica, that was beautiful. In my day I’ve heard (and experienced) my share of Mormon missionary horror stories, but that one was a doozie. I’m sure those two will be telling that story to their grandkids.
Damnation!! I just HAD to follow that link… now I gotta’ wait for delivery of my new T-shirt. 
It was a pretty classic my dad moment for sure
Almost a decade later I mentioned the incident casually to the father of a friend of mine who was actively involved in the LDS missionary program in our area and he told me that they decided it was for the best if they just took our address off the list. I guess the thought process was that there was less chance of ice hockey becoming the national sport of Hell than there was of my parents actually converting, and it was just plain cruel to send missionaries to our place, what with the rat incident incident and our giant, slobbery, affectionate dog who thought bicycles were chew toys. Also there was a separate incident that involved a totally different pair of LDS missionaries showing up as my brother and I were making S’mores in the burning embers of a house we’d just burned down. We offered them some S’mores but they didn’t seem all that interested for some reason. We were a little hard on the missionaries. The general feeling was that while some adversity is good for the soul, our house was pushing it.
What? It was our house! We could burn it down if we wanted to!*
*Okay so it was an antique rental property my parents owned that was no longer fit for human habitation. It was cheaper to just torch it and start over than it would have been to try and repair it. Besides, my dad wanted to lot to park his boat on in the wintertime. My parents made “being the kid who gets to light the first match” the prize for getting the best grades that year. I was never so glad to be a straight-A student. My brother still hasn’t forgiven his fourth grade teacher for not letting him do extra credit that year.
Many moons ago, I was over at a friend’s house very early on a Saturday morning. We were going to pull the motor out of a car and were drinking some coffee to wake us up enough to not drop it on our feet when there is a knock at the door. Sure enough, it’s the Witnesses. Now, remember that I’m over at my friend’s house.
He answers the door, they start their spiel and he says, “Waitaminnit - CHUCK! Somebody to see you!”, then steps over to the side and starts snickering. I come to the door, they start over and I cut them off.
“That’s okay, folks, I have a religion I’m happy with.”
“Oh, really? Do you mind telling us what it is?”
“Sure. I’m a devil worshipper. Would you like to come back during the next full moon and choke a chicken with us?”
The dust from their departure hung in the air for at least an hour. My friend lived in that house for seven years more and they never came back. In fact, they used to hit the house on one side of him, then cross the street, walk down, cross back over and go to the house on the other side.
This is fucking brilliant. You get your work done, they get God Points. It’s a victimless crime, really.
A friend of mine from school once answered the door to a JW with a Satanic Bible in one hand and a black candle in the other. Worked like a charm!
“You folks really have to leave. I’m in the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program. Run along, now.”
“You’ve come at a bad time. We’re right in the middle of sacrificing a goat.”
This one actually happened: A 70-ish man and a charming little granddaughter (or his 4th wife, for all I know) showed up on my porch, carrying Bibles. I let him get three bars into his speil before I politely told him I wasn’t interested, and better luck at the next door. He carried on without a comma about the Mercy of God. I stopped him again. “Wait a minute. I asked you to leave. Now I’m gonna go into my office. It’ll take me about three minutes to assemble and load my old .45. If you’re still here when I get back, you’ll be looking down the barrel.” The little girl’s eyes widened, and they left without another word.
I’m not usually that hostile to missionaries, but they came on a bad day.
Oh my. Beautiful story. I’m still wiping the tears from my eyes.
I lived in Strasbourg, France for a year. One day, I was in the local laundromat halfway through the week’s washing when I see two guys a little ways off. Black pants, white shirt, thin black tie, black name badge, walking down a typical Alsatian street. The only thing that would have been more out of place would have been the Pope himself in SLC. They spot me, and come inside to talk. Their French was pretty basic and very American (mine was a little better, and with an Alsatian accent), but I had pity on them and quickly switched to English. I told them that they wouldn’t have luck on the streets: they would be pointedly ignored. Their best bet would be on the U of Strasbourg campus, where at least the students would argue with them.
Vlad/Igor
I can understand disagreeing with the missionaries, but threatening physical violence? How hard is it to be firm but polite? It always worked for me.
Besides, what if they’re right? I’m sure God won’t let you into Heaven if you’ve threatened his Chosen People. You might have a chance if you’ve been nice to them, though.
I think you might have an easier time wearing one of these.
Seriously, visible Judiaca, no matter how subtle, is the equivalent of Raid Extra Strength JW Repellent.
You obviously don’t understand theistic reverse psychology. The harder it is for them, the better JW they will be in the eyes of God, who loves the whole sacrifice thing. You really can help the missionaries with just a modicum of well-crafted abuse.
Huh? Physical violence? Where?
What makes their beliefs so compelling that I should drop mine and take up theirs?
Vlad/Igor
A gal I knew in college used to be woken up regularly on Saturday mornings by the Witnesses. She had nothing against them, but Saturday morning to a student is sacrosanct, and so she felt the need to take desperate measures. She came to the door wearing a tiny bathrobe, and said, “Yeah? Make it quick - I’ve got a client tied up back there!” motioning over her shoulder.
Amazingly, it worked, and she was never bothered again.
Can I buy a couple and keep the suits? I have a business trip coming up.
I meant to point out that your story was a good way to handle this. I just got rushed on my end.
But chasing them with a sword, saying that I’m going to go get my gun, etc, I consider threatening with physical harm.
But hey, whatever. Just as long as no one loses an eye, I guess it’s all good fun.
How about a sign for your door or gate? “Missionsaries will be crucified” or something like that?
No so around here. A friend of mine has a mezzuh on his front door, and still gets visits.
Those are often small enough that they go unnoticed. We had one on the door post of a house I grew up in, and it was several years before we took it down. It was only 1/2" wide by 2" long (14mm X 50mm) and mounted toward the top of the post.
The Mormon missionaries I met in France were reasonable, and knew how to target their audience. But there are others, blinded by enthusiasm, disregard for anyone else’s wishes or under-developed social skills who can’t or won’t see that you want to be left alone. How else can you get their attention?