No more nud­nicks knock­ing on doors in Hamilton

The Trentonian (Trenton, NJ) - - NEWS - Jeff Edel­stein Jeff Edel­stein is a columnist for The Tren­to­nian. He can be reached at jedel­stein@tren­to­nian.com, face­book.com/jef­freyedel­stein and @jeffedel­stein on Twit­ter.

Didja hear about the new no­knock­ing or­di­nance in Hamilton? Put sim­ply, peo­ple try­ing to sell you stuff won’t be al­lowed to knock on your door if you sign up at Hamil­tonNJ.com/NoKnock.

No more cable com­pa­nies, no more drive­way seal­ers, no more en­ergy com­pa­nies knock­ing at your door.

It’s a good move. It will help pre­vent crim­i­nals from pre­tend­ing to be solic­i­tors, and it will pre­vent solic­i­tors from so­lic­it­ing.

So while the no-knock­ing or­di­nance is good govern­ment, it sadly doesn’t go far enough, thanks to the United States Con­sti­tu­tion.

Yep. Due to that dusty old doc­u­ment, “free­dom of speech” and “free­dom of re­li­gion” ap­par­ently trump “free­dom from an­noy­ance.” As such, the fol­low­ing types of door-knock­ing nin­nies are still al­lowed to ding your bell when­ever they please.

Re­li­gious types: That’s right. The no-knock law does not ap­ply to ev­ery­one’s fa­vorite short-sleeved and tie’d up door-knock­ers, those lovely Je­ho­vah’s Wit­nesses folk. And I mean it: They are lovely. Nice and po­lite to a fault. So nice and po­lite I al­most even feel bad when I tell them things like, “I’m not in­ter­ested, thanks” or “love to chat, but Satan com­pels me to con­tinue fold­ing the laun­dry.”

Po­lit­i­cal types: Oh yes. Politi­cians are not barred un­der this or­di­nance. Mean­ing while Jimmy the land­scaper can’t knock on your door, Mayor Kelly Yaede can. Con­spir­acy? You be the judge. (Thank­fully, we don’t elect judges, so don’t ex­pect any long flow­ing robes stand­ing on your front porch.) (Un­less they’re Bud­dhist monks, be­cause re­li­gious ex­cep­tion.)

Fundrais­ing types: This means you still might get pestered by cute lit­tle girls sell­ing de­li­cious cook­ies. Get offa my lawn! And leave the Samoas.

So. There we are. No solic­i­tors al­lowed to knock, but re­li­gious, po­lit­i­cal, and fundrais­ing peo­ple are al­lowed

Doesn’t go far enough, you ask me. There’s a few other groups of peo­ple I’d like to see banned from my doorstep.

Sexy UPS guys: What’s up with the fe­male fas­ci­na­tion with UPS guys? This is a headache I don’t need. I don’t need my wife swoon­ing ev­ery time an Ama­zon Prime pack­age gets dropped off. Although, I will say this: A few weeks back I had a por­ta­ble bas­ket­ball hoop sys­tem de­liv­ered. It came in a box roughly the size of a Mazda Mi­ata. The UPS guy car­ried it from the street to my garage on his shoul­der. Not “shoul­ders,” but shoul­der. Sin­gu­lar. I may have felt a lit­tle tingly. I don’t know. It was breezy.

An­noy­ing neigh­bors: Is there any­thing worse than a neigh­bor ring­ing your door­bell? Se­ri­ously. It’s the 21st cen­tury. Text. Email. Tweet. Face­book. Heck, even call via lan­d­line. All of th­ese are pre­ferred to ac­tu­ally hav­ing to pause “Suburra” on Net­flix and an­swer the door. (For real: “Suburra.” It’s like “Nar­cos” meets “The So­pra­nos” meets “The God­fa­ther” as di­rected by Quentin Tarantino. I’m only on episode 3, but if you like sex and vi­o­lence and in­trigue and don’t mind hav­ing to read sub­ti­tles, this show is for you.)

Ed­i­ble Ar­range­ment de­liv­ery: Se­ri­ously: No one wants 43 pounds of fruit. A few weeks back, I got de­liv­ered one of th­ese by a buddy of mine. Long story short: My car had body dam­age due to some­one in his fam­ily hit­ting my car. Since my car had pre­vi­ous body dam­age I never planned on fix­ing, I told him not to worry about it. To show his ap­pre­ci­a­tion, he sent me and my fam­ily the afore­men­tioned 43 pounds of fruit. While I told him I ap­pre­ci­ated the ges­ture, I also told him I would’ve pre­ferred 750 milliliters of bour­bon. He said that was his first thought, but he wanted to get some­thing my whole fam­ily would en­joy. I told him it was my car, not theirs. He laughed. Per­haps I’m un­grate­ful, but I also had to deal with enough can­teloupe to build a wall across the Mex­i­can border, so, yeah: Stop send­ing fruit, peo­ple. Just stop.

Ring and run kids: I’m try­ing to watch “Suburra” over here! Quit it.

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