Now that I had been properly washed and oiled up, and my underwear was embedded with godly power, I was about to be taken up to the "chapel" on the second floor of the temple, but first I had to be given my "new name." The only thing about the "new name" that I had known from seminary and institute classes was that it had something to do with being called this on the Morning of the First Resurrection.
When Jesus comes back all of the good people will be resurrected first. So once again, during the zombie apocalypse if you see your dead wife take comfort in the fact that Jesus thought she was really cool before you blow her fucking brains out.
The name I was given was Samuel and I was told "never to divulge my new name until a particular point during the endowment session."
Oops! Oh well, cat's out of the bag now, we might as well move on.
It seemed important that I not forget this new name right after getting it, so I attached the name to the Book of Mormon story about Samuel the Lamanite. This is a really stupid story where Samuel, who is a Lamanite! is called to be a prophet and to go and tell all of his other Lamanite peeps to repent. Samuel is having a hard time getting through to the Lamanites, and they throw his ass out of town. So Samuel climbs the city walls and then just shouts at the Lamanites about how evil they are and that they should repent.
See god was never really good at persuasive writing or speaking. He hadn't yet invented the "shit sandwich" approach to management where you tell someone something good about them (the "bread"), and then you tell them how shitty they are, and then you end with another good thing about them. Instead, he commanded prophets to just yell at everyone about how disgusting and abominable they were, and if the people got defensive (surprise surprise), god would just smite them into smears on the dirt.
And that's how I remembered my new name.
The chapel in the temple is a place where everyone is waiting for the next "session" to begin. You sit in hard pews like a church and listen to some old lady turn what once was a lively drinking song into a funeral dirge on the organ.
Yes, if you weren't aware, most of the protestant hymns were once either drinking songs, patriotic songs, sea chanties, or all three. But protestants ripped off the music and inserted new words about how god's ass tastes like candy and they love it when he tells them to commit genocide against the heathen nations. Slowing down the the music makes it "reverent," and Mormons came along and said, "If you think that's fucking reverent, get a load of this!" And kicked the tempo down a few notches.
Bam! Death March!
Everyone in my family who had already gone through the temple before was waiting for me. Because they had gone through the temple for themselves they were now here as "proxies" for the dead. Mormons believe that these ordinances are so important to god that everyone needs them done in order for a chance at "eternal salvation." So once you do your ordinances you can go back through the temple and have it done for dead people. Even Jesus Christ, Holocaust non-survivors, and Hitler have had their "temple work" done. Jesus was baptized, but the scriptures don't talk about his "washing and anointing" or "endowment" or being "sealed" in marriage to some lucky broad - perhaps all those catholic nuns.
When it was time for the session to start we were taken super duper reverently into the room for the ordinance which was just a room with several rows of chairs that all faced an upholstered altar and behind it was a big curtain.
All the men sit on the right, and all the women sit on the left. Everyone is wearing all white, including all of the temple workers, and once everyone was seated the endowment starts with a big voice coming from speakers that remind us that we are in the fucking temple so show some goddamn respect and if we don't like it - get the fuck out now.
I didn't know what to think or expect. The "washing and anointing" was weird, but this was supposed to be the pinnacle of spirituality even though I had no idea what was coming. Why would I leave now before knowing what was going to happen?
The curtains rolled back to reveal a big movie screen and a movie started to play. If I had one Youtube wish, it would be that the Mormon temple movie was leaked. After awhile, it was obvious why my mother told me not to laugh. Mormonism may hate gays, but for this movie, it HAS to be self-hatred. Talk about camp! Even the Adam West Batman was straighter than this production.
The movie is a retelling of the creation story from parts of Genesis and the Mormon scriptures of the Book of Abraham and the Book of Moses. Synopses wise, god the father (Elohim), Jesus (Jehova), and Adam (the Archangel Michael) all took part in creating this world. One of the big themes to this movie is that heaven works like a large bureaucracy. Elohim tells Jehova what to do who in turn tells Michael the exact same fucking thing, and then Michael does this and then reports back to Jehova what he's done, and then Jesus tells god the exact same god damn thing that Michael just told him. Later in the movie when Peter, James, and John enter - the same process is repeated. Orders are given with the phrase, "return and report" and then the middle man repeats them down the chain of command until the grunts actually do the work and then "return and report" and this "report" gets repeated up the chain until Elohim is satisfied. Any one who has worked for a large corporation or a large bureaucracy probably sees that movie and thinks, "Fuck, I hate my job."
Elohim and Jehova live on another planet and the setting is like a cheap rip off of Krypton from the 1978 Superman movie. The two wear white shining robes, have white shining beards and hair, and what looks like gold spray painted sandals.
Once earth has been populated with plants, animals, and disease ridden insects it was time for Michael to become Adam. He is placed on the earth as the first man and given amnesia because that's not a fucking cliched plot device.
Adam wakes up and is like, "Whoa! Where the fuck am I?" and Elohim and Jehova are like, "Oh, shit! We forgot to make chicks, dude. Let's make a chick," and they make Adam fall asleep so they can rip out his rib and bio-engineer a smoking hot bitch "Weird Science" style.
Now Adam and Eve are walking around the garden always hiding behind large bushes and picking up huge lambs so that no one gets a raging hard on from their nakedness. And don't worry. Adam and Eve are white, ok? None of this science bullshit about coming from Africa and that dark skin came first and was a simple adaptation to the sun and as "human ancestors" spread across the globe, their skin changed as less melanin was needed.
Nope. Bullshit. God, Adam, Eve were all white until Cain needed to be cursed and became the first black man, and Mormons don't believe that Satan was literally a talking snake in the Garden of Eden. That would be stupid. Instead Mormons believe that Satan was once called "Lucifer," was our spiritual brother, and had offered Elohim a "Plan of Salvation" where Lucifer would FORCE everyone to be good so that everyone could be saved. Elohim and Jehova thought this was the dumbest idea that they had ever heard and Jehova offered an alternate plan where people had the CHOICE to be good and choose Mormonism saving approximately 0.02% of the world's current population. Elohim thought this was way better, Lucifer got pissed off, there was a big family argument like it was Thanksgiving and Lucifer was "cast down" to earth with 1/3 of the spirits that we were all apart of before being born. Mormons believe that we were all "spiritual beings" BEFORE we were born. And I'm sorry to get all Silmarillion on your ass, but you need to understand this shit to understand the temple.
So Adam and Eve are in the garden naked but not having sex and Satan shows up to tempt them to eat from the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Satan makes a compelling argument to Eve, and she eats it. She then gets Adam to eat it, and then Elohim and Jehova show up and act all confused, demanding to know what in sweet Cthulhu's name is going on. Having eaten the fruit to negate dumbassery Satan reminds Adam and Eve that their swimsuit areas are not covered by anything and to put on some fig leaves. Adam and Even obey Satan and put on aprons of fig leaves. The movie stops and the audience is then instructed to also obey Satan and put on their green apron.
The movie starts up again and Adam confesses that he ate the fruit because Eve gave it to him throwing her under the bus, Eve confesses to eating the fruit and that she had been "tricked" by Satan throwing him under the bus, and Satan is like, "What the fuck, man? If these two ignorant nudists don't eat the fruit - YOUR plan won't ever come about."
Elohim throws Satan out like he's too drunk at the local pub, and Satan sulks away as if saying, "Goddammit, I can't do anything right." And then Elohim kicks Adam and Eve out of the garden because they can't obey two contradictory commands - don't eat from the Tree of Knowledge because then you'll know that making children involves putting your ding dong in your partner's who-who. And also hump that bitch to make me some fucking grand kids already.
Adam and Eve are now kicked out of the awesome Garden of Eden (which to be fair they were too stupid to appreciate having not eaten the fruit) and now were placed in the "lone and dreary world." That's the movie's description of this planet, and one of the things it actually got right. Even though they had now eaten of the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, ironically Adam and Eve have no fucking clue what to do, and so Adam builds an altar and prays to god stating, "Oh, god. Hear the words of my mouth."
Satan answers Adams prayers and tells him that if Adam wants religion - he's got it and at rock bottom prices. Adam pouts because he misses talking to his daddy, and wants the truth and not just religion. And at this point Elohim and Jehova think that it's time to once again tell Adam what to do and how to live his life. They send down Peter, James, and John (yes, the ones from the Bible) to have Adam covenant with god. At this point the ceremony changes from an episode of Mystery Science 3000 to a slumber party where you promise god you'll be his BFF for ever, and what you'll do for his church.
A couple in the audience goes up to the "alter" representing Adam and Eve, and the temple worker in front of them represents god. The covenant is explained and then everyone in the audience is instructed to stand up, raise our arms to the square, bow our heads and say, "Yes" in order to covenant the same thing.
Now keeping promises isn't good enough for god apparently because in order to get into god's exclusive eternal night club you have to know the secret signs and handshakes to get passed the angel bouncers. So once you make a covenant with god in the temple, he gives you a sign to make with your hands and then a super secret handshake that represents that particular covenant. And the handshakes were lame. God must be white, we can put that debate to rest, no black god would make a super secret handshake about putting a thumb over the first knuckle or grasping hands with pinkies extended.
And the rest of the endowment ceremony is pretty much that. You get dressed in your stupid robes, sash, and baker's hat, you promise god you won't fuck anyone else other than your wife (wives because as a dude you can have more than one during the eternities. And they can be YOUNG as Hell too. God did it with Mary and Joseph Smith did it with Helen Mar Kimball), and then you get the sign and handshake that accompanies whatever you just promised.
The first time through, it was really weird. Mormonism doesn't have a lot of rituals, but this was ritual to the extreme. Dress up, covenants, "signs," "tokens," but I didn't get creeped out until the covenant that I was promising to avoid all "loud laughter" and "light mindedness."
What the fuck? Why would god give a shit about that? And to give it its own specific covenant. I started to feel a little sick - god didn't want me to be me. And the stupid handshakes and body symbols came with a promise to not ever "divulge them" because "god will not be mocked!"
Well if god didn't want to be mocked, he should have thought about that before making his ceremony chalk full of assclownery.
But that thought turned to horror when I made the last covenant. The Law of Consecration.
Any Mormon who's paid at least a little attention knows this law. This law is about giving all of your stuff and everything you could ever make with your hands or brain to god's church in order to build up his kingdom on earth. God was all powerful and all knowing, but he needed your shit for his kingdom. You were his fucking serf, and you better not only promise that but be happy about it too. Because as Satan warned in the ceremony, if you didn't "live up to every commandment and every covenant made in this temple, you would be in (his) power."
My body wanted to puke, but I bowed my head and said, "yes" anyway to that covenant. I had already gone this far, and god wasn't an asshole, right? I mean he created the universe with all of its super massive black holes and pulsars, what the fuck did he want with my Custom Series S Ibanez six string with a Floyd Rose System and comic books?
After all of the covenant making, the ceremony had gone on for quite some time. I was tired but still had to learn about "the True Order of Prayer" and "pass through the veil" and I just wanted to go home.
The "True Order of Prayer" was a circle of men and women from the audience who gathered in a circle ordering man, woman, man, woman where the women veiled their faces and each person raised their right arm to the square resting the elbow on the next person's shoulder and repeated word for word the prayer given by the temple worker to bless shit, the prophet of the church, and sick people.
After that it was time to see if we were paying attention and we went to the "veil" at the back where a temple worker was behind the curtain that had the same symbols as the garments did. We were told that the "V" symbol on the garment was like a compass pointing to god (why it didn't point up?- whatever), and that the backwards "L" stood for "exactness" in our thoughts and actions for god, and that the horizontal line above the knee symbolized that eventually "every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is the Christ."
Good. One day those unbelievers can suck a bag of dicks and they'll see that we were right all along, those stupid twats.
We were escorted to the veil and gave a very precise script dealing with showing each and every secret handshake and it's symbolic meaning. A temple worker was there to make sure that you got every line correct and when it came to the last handshake most of the symbolism was very similar to the washing and anointing where you were promised health and strength in various body parts. Once you had gotten everything right, "Elohim" took your hand and brought you through the veil where you were now in the "Celestial room" representing the highest degree of heaven - the ultimate reward for all your sacrifices to god in this life.
The endowment ceremony is supposed to be symbolic of each life. It is supposed to be about the nature of creation, god, religion, and man's place in the universe. And so the ceremony is confusing, full of lies and half truths, at times horrifying, you make promises that you can never live up to, and once it's done NO ONE WANTS TO TALK ABOUT IT. Instead your family is there to greet you after 'death' surrounding you and says, "Congratulations. It's over and you made it. Now let's all go to Village Inn to get cheap 'Belgian Waffles' and we'll never speak of this again."
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The anti-climactic second piece to the trilogy of the endowment ceremony.
Many Mormon temples really have two entrances. Once you go through the main entrance you are greeted by Mormon "bouncers." Then you are sifted into "haves" and "have nots." Thems that "haves" theys temple reccomends get to truly enter the temple. Thems that have nots theys recommends get the immense pleasure of going to the waiting area where they can reflect on why god thinks they are such pieces of shit that they can't see their Mormon loved ones get married or whatever. The holy ghost should be in the waiting room telling everyone that if they wanted to be in the temple they should be baptized Mormon and then give the church 10% of their income, but those kinds of conversions are rare probably because the holy ghost is too busy fleeing rock concerts and escaping from Mormon hearts as they pay for online porn.
I used the term "bouncers" in quotes because the temple workers who take your recommend and check for both signatures and then scan it are usually about two smelly breaths away from corpsing out. Mormon folklore has stories about "invisible angel warriors" guarding the entrances to the temple, and believe me, they would need it. You could one handed push the "bouncers" to the ground and listen as both hips crack and watch the stretched parchment of skin rip open.
Once I passed through "security," I went to the clothes counter to pick up some "temple clothes." People can either buy their temple clothes and bring them, or they can rent them from the temple. I hadn't purchased my temple clothes yet so I gave the money changer some money, and she gave me some white pants, white socks, white slippers, and the temple "priesthood packet." This packet is what I would need for the endowment ceremony and I peeked inside of it because I wasn't sure what it contained.
The packet holds a white robe with a hell of a lot of pleating, a white sash, a green apron with embroidery that makes it look as if it had been made from leaves, and a white hat that looks like a "bakers" hat. Not a tall, french chef's hat, but a flat square one. This was odd, but I had seen the clothing before when my great grandfathers had died. Mormons are buried in their temple clothing because when the zombie apocalypse comes, they want to make sure that everyone knows that they are Mormons. So, take this as advice for the zombie apocalypse. When you are trying to survive, don't let the odd clothing throw you off - double tap that zombie. If you get distracted by odd clothing, YOU WILL BE BITTEN. And then your family members are going to have to cry before putting an ax through your skull. And no one wants that.
Because it was my first time going through the endowment ceremony I was given a special tag to put on my white shirt to show that I was a newbie and going through for the first time. It also allowed the other temple workers to be more patient with you because you didn't know what in the fuck was going on, or where in the fuck you were supposed to go. At the clothing renting counter I was also given the "shield" which was more of just a big white poncho. This would help me through the first part of the "endowment" process. The "washing and anointing."
I was shown to the men's locker room area where I could get naked, put my shit in a locker, and then put on my white poncho. The lockers came with keys because Mormons may be the best people in the world for joining the only true church in the world, but that won't stop them from stealing all of your shit in god's house.
I was then escorted to the place where I would be "washed and anointed," while I tried to keep my poncho from opening and letting everyone else feel inadequate because of my giant cock.
The place was a room that had a lot of smaller "cubicles" where the walls were just hung white sheets. I entered one of the small white cubicles where another male temple worker who was about to bite the dust was going to perform the "ceremony."
The poncho came in handy because the ceremony first consisted of the worker lightly going across certain body parts with water while talking about being clean or some shit. None of it was sexual, but it also warranted me being naked when dealing with my "bowels" and "loins." After the "washing" came the "anointing" where olive oil was used to go over the same parts of my body while the worker talked about promises that god was going to make about me becoming a "priest, king, and god upon the condition of my faithfulness."
After this ceremony, I was taken back to the locker where I was now allowed to put on the "garments of the hoooooooooooooooooooly Melchizedek priesthood" as my man panties and then put on my white shirt, white pants, white tie, white socks, and white slippers on over top of them.
While the garments come in different styles they are all white (unless you are military or Donny Osmond), but the common factor is that they have three unique markings on them. On the right knee there is stitching that is a simple, horizontal line. On the left bitch tit is a "V" and on the right is an "L" if you were to look at it in the mirror. I had been instructed that at the end of the "endowment" ceremony, I would come to understand the symbolism of these markings.
Once fully clothed and with my "priesthood packet" in hand, it was time for me to get my "new name" and then go through the rest of the "endowment ceremony."
I was a little shaken up at this point simply because I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I was trying to pretend that I was a squire who was about to be knighted. And that made me feel AWESOME.
I used the term "bouncers" in quotes because the temple workers who take your recommend and check for both signatures and then scan it are usually about two smelly breaths away from corpsing out. Mormon folklore has stories about "invisible angel warriors" guarding the entrances to the temple, and believe me, they would need it. You could one handed push the "bouncers" to the ground and listen as both hips crack and watch the stretched parchment of skin rip open.
Once I passed through "security," I went to the clothes counter to pick up some "temple clothes." People can either buy their temple clothes and bring them, or they can rent them from the temple. I hadn't purchased my temple clothes yet so I gave the money changer some money, and she gave me some white pants, white socks, white slippers, and the temple "priesthood packet." This packet is what I would need for the endowment ceremony and I peeked inside of it because I wasn't sure what it contained.
The packet holds a white robe with a hell of a lot of pleating, a white sash, a green apron with embroidery that makes it look as if it had been made from leaves, and a white hat that looks like a "bakers" hat. Not a tall, french chef's hat, but a flat square one. This was odd, but I had seen the clothing before when my great grandfathers had died. Mormons are buried in their temple clothing because when the zombie apocalypse comes, they want to make sure that everyone knows that they are Mormons. So, take this as advice for the zombie apocalypse. When you are trying to survive, don't let the odd clothing throw you off - double tap that zombie. If you get distracted by odd clothing, YOU WILL BE BITTEN. And then your family members are going to have to cry before putting an ax through your skull. And no one wants that.
Because it was my first time going through the endowment ceremony I was given a special tag to put on my white shirt to show that I was a newbie and going through for the first time. It also allowed the other temple workers to be more patient with you because you didn't know what in the fuck was going on, or where in the fuck you were supposed to go. At the clothing renting counter I was also given the "shield" which was more of just a big white poncho. This would help me through the first part of the "endowment" process. The "washing and anointing."
I was shown to the men's locker room area where I could get naked, put my shit in a locker, and then put on my white poncho. The lockers came with keys because Mormons may be the best people in the world for joining the only true church in the world, but that won't stop them from stealing all of your shit in god's house.
I was then escorted to the place where I would be "washed and anointed," while I tried to keep my poncho from opening and letting everyone else feel inadequate because of my giant cock.
The place was a room that had a lot of smaller "cubicles" where the walls were just hung white sheets. I entered one of the small white cubicles where another male temple worker who was about to bite the dust was going to perform the "ceremony."
The poncho came in handy because the ceremony first consisted of the worker lightly going across certain body parts with water while talking about being clean or some shit. None of it was sexual, but it also warranted me being naked when dealing with my "bowels" and "loins." After the "washing" came the "anointing" where olive oil was used to go over the same parts of my body while the worker talked about promises that god was going to make about me becoming a "priest, king, and god upon the condition of my faithfulness."
After this ceremony, I was taken back to the locker where I was now allowed to put on the "garments of the hoooooooooooooooooooly Melchizedek priesthood" as my man panties and then put on my white shirt, white pants, white tie, white socks, and white slippers on over top of them.
While the garments come in different styles they are all white (unless you are military or Donny Osmond), but the common factor is that they have three unique markings on them. On the right knee there is stitching that is a simple, horizontal line. On the left bitch tit is a "V" and on the right is an "L" if you were to look at it in the mirror. I had been instructed that at the end of the "endowment" ceremony, I would come to understand the symbolism of these markings.
Once fully clothed and with my "priesthood packet" in hand, it was time for me to get my "new name" and then go through the rest of the "endowment ceremony."
I was a little shaken up at this point simply because I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I was trying to pretend that I was a squire who was about to be knighted. And that made me feel AWESOME.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Raptor Jesus's titties go through the temple for his "endowments." (Part 1)
Finally it was time for me to go through the temple for my "endowments." This was it. The time. Was. Now.
Hooray!
After 19 years of only hearing about the pinnacle of spirituality and being soul teased, I would finally climax into full blown righteousness. God would endow me with endowments and I would do some shit to prove that I was cool enough to one day die, and then be resurrected, and then be found worthy to enter the Celestial Kingdom. The highest degree of glory - godhood, an eternal family, and all the bitches I could fuck.
And I was 19. That's a lot of bitches. Sure the minutes/individual bitch ratio was low, but this wasn't about quality, this was about quantity - teen boys popping and reloading as fast as a Gatling.
But the syphilitic burning question was - What was going to happen in the temple?
Don't ask me, I hadn't been yet. And the temple was like Fight Club. The first several rules about the temple were that you didn't talk about the temple. It wasn't some kind of "secret" though. It was "sacred." That's the difference. And you better know the difference too. "Secrets" are things that you either don't tell, or you tell someone else to make the first person mad at you but you don't fucking care anymore. You're getting revenge by sharing their secret because that asshole said some shit about you, and who the fuck do they think they're messing with? That's right. You! You don't have to put up with them anymore. You are so tired of their bullshit anyway, so you told a "secret." Boo-fucking-hoo. So sue you.
A "secret" can also be a best selling book and movie about how the universe OWES you something because you desperately try to have a positive attitude. Good to know that the Baby Boomer generation cries about the "entitlement" attitude of generations X and Y, but then produces and buys this shit up like cheap beef at Taco Time.
No, the temple is sacred. That means that it doesn't get talked about because some fuckwit with a computer who thinks he's better than god is going tell you what goes on in there while simultaneously shitting all over god's super special ordinances.
Now before I tell you what goes on in the temple while simultaneously shitting all over god's super special ordinances, I should explain what happens prior to entering "god's" lamely decorated house. Most men go through the temple for the "endowment" ceremony the first time just before going on a mission. They are ordained with the "Melchizedek" priesthood and are called Elders. And most women go through the temple just before they are married.
Yes, there can be exceptions to this for all kinds of reasons, but what I've described is the standard. The temple has several ordinances that are performed and each ordinance has a different set of rules as to who may be able to attend and when, but the "endowment" ceremony is one of the biggest, and a man MUST receive the "Melchizedek" priesthood before entering and a woman must be able to justify why she should get to go through (the easiest justifications are that either she is going to be married or going on a mission herself).
The other thing that a person must have is what's known as a "temple recommend." This little piece of paper in a cheap plastic covering is your golden ticket in. It is called a "recommend" because you first sit with your bishop and convince him through a series of questions that you love the church so goddamn much that you won't even fuck yourself for it and then he "recommends" that you are "worthy" to enter the "house of the lord." And THEN your Stake President grills you with the same questions and you have to prove to him that you are also worthy to get your ass into the temple.
Both guys must sign your recommend for it to be approved. And even though I had said that the first rule of the goings on in the temples were don't talk about the goings on in the temples my Bishop was naughty enough to give me a little warning. He didn't want me to be "freaked out" but at a certain part of the temple ceremony I was going to go through, I would be naked.
What? What? What?
I'm not allowed to toss the Twinkie around while thinking about how hot Asian girls were, but there was nudity in god's house?
How very odd. But the Bishop assured me that I would be wearing a "shield" and that it was "modest." Being a nerd, I just imagined a giant shield that would protect me from a large dragon's large fireballs but that didn't seem quite right.
My parents took me to the temple after I had gotten my recommend and the week before I was supposed to go into the Missionary Training Center to report as a soldier for "god's Army," and I took with me a brand new pair of "garments."
This was the only other thing that I knew for sure about the temple before going in for my "endowment" ceremony. Somehow because of this ceremony I was going to be "privileged" to wear the "Mormon magical underwear."
Now that's a very rude thing to call "garments." Just because Mormons believe that garments protect them from evil and possibly fire, lightning strikes, and bullets doesn't make them "magic." Garments aren't magic, they are sacred. My Stake President was very clear that I shouldn't treat my garments like any other article of clothing. Garments were special and if my faith was awesome enough this underwear would give me +2 defense against electricity attacks, +1 defense against fire, and 50% damage reduction from Dark Arts spells.
But they weren't fucking magic.
So I entered the temple knowing only a handful of things:
1. At some point I was going to be naked behind a "shield."
2. My mother's advice to my older sister when she went through was, "Whatever you do, DO NOT RUN OUT DURING THE MIDDLE!"
3. My mother's advice to me was, "Whatever you do, DO NOT LAUGH DURING THE MOVIE!" (Ok, so I guess there's going to be a movie).
4. This was supposed to be one of the most spiritual experiences of my life.
5. And a friend who had recently been through said, "For awhile I thought I had joined a cult." And that's ALL she would say about it.
Ok. This better be good.
Hooray!
After 19 years of only hearing about the pinnacle of spirituality and being soul teased, I would finally climax into full blown righteousness. God would endow me with endowments and I would do some shit to prove that I was cool enough to one day die, and then be resurrected, and then be found worthy to enter the Celestial Kingdom. The highest degree of glory - godhood, an eternal family, and all the bitches I could fuck.
And I was 19. That's a lot of bitches. Sure the minutes/individual bitch ratio was low, but this wasn't about quality, this was about quantity - teen boys popping and reloading as fast as a Gatling.
But the syphilitic burning question was - What was going to happen in the temple?
Don't ask me, I hadn't been yet. And the temple was like Fight Club. The first several rules about the temple were that you didn't talk about the temple. It wasn't some kind of "secret" though. It was "sacred." That's the difference. And you better know the difference too. "Secrets" are things that you either don't tell, or you tell someone else to make the first person mad at you but you don't fucking care anymore. You're getting revenge by sharing their secret because that asshole said some shit about you, and who the fuck do they think they're messing with? That's right. You! You don't have to put up with them anymore. You are so tired of their bullshit anyway, so you told a "secret." Boo-fucking-hoo. So sue you.
A "secret" can also be a best selling book and movie about how the universe OWES you something because you desperately try to have a positive attitude. Good to know that the Baby Boomer generation cries about the "entitlement" attitude of generations X and Y, but then produces and buys this shit up like cheap beef at Taco Time.
No, the temple is sacred. That means that it doesn't get talked about because some fuckwit with a computer who thinks he's better than god is going tell you what goes on in there while simultaneously shitting all over god's super special ordinances.
Now before I tell you what goes on in the temple while simultaneously shitting all over god's super special ordinances, I should explain what happens prior to entering "god's" lamely decorated house. Most men go through the temple for the "endowment" ceremony the first time just before going on a mission. They are ordained with the "Melchizedek" priesthood and are called Elders. And most women go through the temple just before they are married.
Yes, there can be exceptions to this for all kinds of reasons, but what I've described is the standard. The temple has several ordinances that are performed and each ordinance has a different set of rules as to who may be able to attend and when, but the "endowment" ceremony is one of the biggest, and a man MUST receive the "Melchizedek" priesthood before entering and a woman must be able to justify why she should get to go through (the easiest justifications are that either she is going to be married or going on a mission herself).
The other thing that a person must have is what's known as a "temple recommend." This little piece of paper in a cheap plastic covering is your golden ticket in. It is called a "recommend" because you first sit with your bishop and convince him through a series of questions that you love the church so goddamn much that you won't even fuck yourself for it and then he "recommends" that you are "worthy" to enter the "house of the lord." And THEN your Stake President grills you with the same questions and you have to prove to him that you are also worthy to get your ass into the temple.
Both guys must sign your recommend for it to be approved. And even though I had said that the first rule of the goings on in the temples were don't talk about the goings on in the temples my Bishop was naughty enough to give me a little warning. He didn't want me to be "freaked out" but at a certain part of the temple ceremony I was going to go through, I would be naked.
What? What? What?
I'm not allowed to toss the Twinkie around while thinking about how hot Asian girls were, but there was nudity in god's house?
How very odd. But the Bishop assured me that I would be wearing a "shield" and that it was "modest." Being a nerd, I just imagined a giant shield that would protect me from a large dragon's large fireballs but that didn't seem quite right.
My parents took me to the temple after I had gotten my recommend and the week before I was supposed to go into the Missionary Training Center to report as a soldier for "god's Army," and I took with me a brand new pair of "garments."
This was the only other thing that I knew for sure about the temple before going in for my "endowment" ceremony. Somehow because of this ceremony I was going to be "privileged" to wear the "Mormon magical underwear."
Now that's a very rude thing to call "garments." Just because Mormons believe that garments protect them from evil and possibly fire, lightning strikes, and bullets doesn't make them "magic." Garments aren't magic, they are sacred. My Stake President was very clear that I shouldn't treat my garments like any other article of clothing. Garments were special and if my faith was awesome enough this underwear would give me +2 defense against electricity attacks, +1 defense against fire, and 50% damage reduction from Dark Arts spells.
But they weren't fucking magic.
So I entered the temple knowing only a handful of things:
1. At some point I was going to be naked behind a "shield."
2. My mother's advice to my older sister when she went through was, "Whatever you do, DO NOT RUN OUT DURING THE MIDDLE!"
3. My mother's advice to me was, "Whatever you do, DO NOT LAUGH DURING THE MOVIE!" (Ok, so I guess there's going to be a movie).
4. This was supposed to be one of the most spiritual experiences of my life.
5. And a friend who had recently been through said, "For awhile I thought I had joined a cult." And that's ALL she would say about it.
Ok. This better be good.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The first time my tummy tried to kill me.
4th grade was an interesting year. The school I attended was K-6, so fourth grade was getting up there. My nerdiness was deepening as several of us in class had started collecting and trading Marvel character cards. Every extra dime that I had went towards collecting them all. Once enough money was saved to by a pack, we would ride our bikes down to the nearest store that sold them and then put all the loose change on the counter-top demanding a package. The clerk would usually look at us like, "Oh, fuck. You guys again," and then he would begin counting the nickels, dimes, and quarters to make sure we weren't ripping his college drop-out ass off.
Yes, this sounds like a derivative of every "rite of passage" story you're forced to read in American undergrad Lit. class. Except my story has fucking Wolverine in it, so if your English Professor - who's totally boning the hot, brooding chick in class - doesn't like it, he can lick my balls. Otherwise Wolverine is going to go to his house with retractable adamantium bonded claws and cut him.
One night my mom thought it would be fun if my older brother and I invited friends to get pizza and see a movie. Of course that was a smashing idea, and my brother and I probably ran around like a bunch of rabies infested ferrets because we were so excited.
We saw "Edward Scissor Hands" which was also about a character who could cut you if you don't just shut up and enjoy my story, and the pizza was very tasty going down; however, later that night it wasn't quite as tasty coming back up as I puked all of it out. And for the next three days, that's what my life was about. Vomitting.
I woke up in the middle of the third night with a horrible fever and an incredibly intense and sharp pain in my lower abdomen. It was a horrible pain as if...well as if Wolverine had come into my room, removed his cigar, and gruffly said, "Listen, bub! No one tells me who to cut," before plunging his bad ass claws into me.
I laid in my bed for several hours until my parents woke up and found me curled up. When seeing how terrible I looked and how bad my pain was, they asked why I didn't wake them up. I didn't know - I just didn't want to wake them. However, they grew quite concerned when I couldn't stand up straight and the pain was focused on the lower right side of my abdomen. They mentioned "appendicitis" whatever the fuck that was, and then they went to get ready to take me to the hospital. I asked my older brother who had come into the room what was going to happen when I went to the hospital, he fulfilled his older brotherly duty by responding, "They're going to cut you open with a chainsaw and try to figure out why you're so stupid."
After arriving to the emergency room, I learned a very valuable lesson at a young age. Emergency room doesn't necessarily mean "emergency" as in "right now." It may mean - in a couple of hours. As in you need surgery or you might die, but in a couple of hours. And I spent those couple of hours grabbing a hold of the coldest parts of the metal hospital bed because it was the only thing that felt good against my feverish skin. The metal would then grow hot and I'd move my hands to the next section of metal that I hadn't touched in awhile. I asked for ice chips at one time, but I was about to go into surgery and couldn't have anything in my system solid or liquid.
When they finally got done operating on that selfish asshole who came in just before me who was in a car wreck or a gun shot wound or some stupid thing, I was wheeled into the operating room. The surgeon asked my father if he'd like help with the blessing and that he had some oil. Even though I was young, I remember being comforted that my surgeon was a Mormon. It made me feel like he was truly MY doctor. The doctor put the oil on my head and gave me a blessing to consecrate the oil on my head.
In Mormonism, blessings for healing are "best" done by two priesthood holders and some "consecrated" oil. The first blessing is to "consecrate" the oil on top of your head. This may seem weird because the oil is usually virgin olive oil, but I guess the consecration is just in case the oil may have been fingered or gotten a rim job - still technically a virgin. You need that shit to be pure or you may not get your ass healed by the lord. The second blessing (the one my father gave me) is to "seal" the oil and blessing upon your head as if your head were a deck that needed a waterproof stain. The blessing then usually contains some shit about hoping that god helps so the surgeon doesn't fuck up too badly and also that god loves you.
Now just because god loves you doesn't mean he won't kill you. Let's get that clear. Blessings are in no way a guarantee of anything. It's supposed to get you to submit to god's will. And god's will may very well be to kill you at a young age. If you look at the stats, that's pretty probable. God loves dead babies. No one knows why, but he does. Catholic doctrine stated for a long time that dead unbaptized babies went to Limbo. Not sure what they did to deserve that, but whatever. Most of "mainstream Christian doctrine" needs a person to be able to have heard of Jesus and accept him as their lord and savior to escape an eternity of fiery hell. Small children have a hard time doing that - so I guess they go to hellfire. Mormon doctrine claims that children under eight go to the highest degree of heaven. That may seem super fancy except that Mormon doctrine also states that only those who accept the Mormon "gospel" will go to the same place to be with their families for eternity. So if your kid died and you aren't Mormon, god killed your kid because he didn't think you were a good enough parent.
Oops! Too bad for you. Add that to the steady diet of grief and horror you'll be eating for the rest of your life. But at least your baby isn't in hell or Limbo. So that makes you feel better right?
Side-note and blessing done, and I'm on the operating table waiting to go under for surgery. The assisting nurse's eyes widened and she called me by name. I was confused until she removed her mask.
It was my Sunday School Teacher.
No shit. This was my hot-as-fuck Sunday School Teacher too. This chick was so hot that even before going through puberty I was having dreams of her being naked. And dammit, she was now going to see me naked. And my balls hadn't even dropped.
Fuck.
I didn't die, so the surgery went well. My appendix had exploded and so I had to be cut open quite invasively in order to clean all the poison out. I woke up in my hospital room with a huge bandage around my rum tum tummy and very harsh and specific orders. DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGE AND DO NOT GET IT WET! And I obeyed that order.
The next week or so was a constant stream of visitors and well wishers. My mom stayed with me by my side pretty much the entire time except at night when she stayed at my grandparent's house that was just five minutes away from the hospital. She occasionally brought me presents like comic books and tapes for my Walkman.
For you young whippersnappers, a Walkman was like an ipod only shittier and it played "tapes" which were "tapes" with music on them that occasionally the Walkman would "eat" and you would be fucked.
The one tape that I remember the most was M.C. Hammer's breakthrough album. I listened to that over and over again, and it helped teach me valuable life lessons like "You've got to pray just to make it today" and also that "You can't touch this."
A day before I was going to be discharged, the doctor came in with a nurse who was holding a spray can and said, "Ok, let's get you all closed up."
"Wait. What?"
DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGE AND DO NOT GET IT WET! was code for, "Your muscle tissue is completely exposed, and we'll be back later to glue your skin together." They took off my bandage where I got to see inside of myself from right under my bellybutton down to what eventually would become the "carpet," and then they glued my skin together with a spray. I was discharged the next day and my mom was given further light and knowledge.
"Make sure he takes it easy for awhile, and doesn't strain himself too much. His skin could still rip open same with the muscle tissue that's trying to heal. Then his guts would fall out. So, just be careful."
And I was, and my guts didn't fall out again. However, the doctor check up did note that I had scarred pretty prominently.
Yes, this sounds like a derivative of every "rite of passage" story you're forced to read in American undergrad Lit. class. Except my story has fucking Wolverine in it, so if your English Professor - who's totally boning the hot, brooding chick in class - doesn't like it, he can lick my balls. Otherwise Wolverine is going to go to his house with retractable adamantium bonded claws and cut him.
One night my mom thought it would be fun if my older brother and I invited friends to get pizza and see a movie. Of course that was a smashing idea, and my brother and I probably ran around like a bunch of rabies infested ferrets because we were so excited.
We saw "Edward Scissor Hands" which was also about a character who could cut you if you don't just shut up and enjoy my story, and the pizza was very tasty going down; however, later that night it wasn't quite as tasty coming back up as I puked all of it out. And for the next three days, that's what my life was about. Vomitting.
I woke up in the middle of the third night with a horrible fever and an incredibly intense and sharp pain in my lower abdomen. It was a horrible pain as if...well as if Wolverine had come into my room, removed his cigar, and gruffly said, "Listen, bub! No one tells me who to cut," before plunging his bad ass claws into me.
I laid in my bed for several hours until my parents woke up and found me curled up. When seeing how terrible I looked and how bad my pain was, they asked why I didn't wake them up. I didn't know - I just didn't want to wake them. However, they grew quite concerned when I couldn't stand up straight and the pain was focused on the lower right side of my abdomen. They mentioned "appendicitis" whatever the fuck that was, and then they went to get ready to take me to the hospital. I asked my older brother who had come into the room what was going to happen when I went to the hospital, he fulfilled his older brotherly duty by responding, "They're going to cut you open with a chainsaw and try to figure out why you're so stupid."
After arriving to the emergency room, I learned a very valuable lesson at a young age. Emergency room doesn't necessarily mean "emergency" as in "right now." It may mean - in a couple of hours. As in you need surgery or you might die, but in a couple of hours. And I spent those couple of hours grabbing a hold of the coldest parts of the metal hospital bed because it was the only thing that felt good against my feverish skin. The metal would then grow hot and I'd move my hands to the next section of metal that I hadn't touched in awhile. I asked for ice chips at one time, but I was about to go into surgery and couldn't have anything in my system solid or liquid.
When they finally got done operating on that selfish asshole who came in just before me who was in a car wreck or a gun shot wound or some stupid thing, I was wheeled into the operating room. The surgeon asked my father if he'd like help with the blessing and that he had some oil. Even though I was young, I remember being comforted that my surgeon was a Mormon. It made me feel like he was truly MY doctor. The doctor put the oil on my head and gave me a blessing to consecrate the oil on my head.
In Mormonism, blessings for healing are "best" done by two priesthood holders and some "consecrated" oil. The first blessing is to "consecrate" the oil on top of your head. This may seem weird because the oil is usually virgin olive oil, but I guess the consecration is just in case the oil may have been fingered or gotten a rim job - still technically a virgin. You need that shit to be pure or you may not get your ass healed by the lord. The second blessing (the one my father gave me) is to "seal" the oil and blessing upon your head as if your head were a deck that needed a waterproof stain. The blessing then usually contains some shit about hoping that god helps so the surgeon doesn't fuck up too badly and also that god loves you.
Now just because god loves you doesn't mean he won't kill you. Let's get that clear. Blessings are in no way a guarantee of anything. It's supposed to get you to submit to god's will. And god's will may very well be to kill you at a young age. If you look at the stats, that's pretty probable. God loves dead babies. No one knows why, but he does. Catholic doctrine stated for a long time that dead unbaptized babies went to Limbo. Not sure what they did to deserve that, but whatever. Most of "mainstream Christian doctrine" needs a person to be able to have heard of Jesus and accept him as their lord and savior to escape an eternity of fiery hell. Small children have a hard time doing that - so I guess they go to hellfire. Mormon doctrine claims that children under eight go to the highest degree of heaven. That may seem super fancy except that Mormon doctrine also states that only those who accept the Mormon "gospel" will go to the same place to be with their families for eternity. So if your kid died and you aren't Mormon, god killed your kid because he didn't think you were a good enough parent.
Oops! Too bad for you. Add that to the steady diet of grief and horror you'll be eating for the rest of your life. But at least your baby isn't in hell or Limbo. So that makes you feel better right?
Side-note and blessing done, and I'm on the operating table waiting to go under for surgery. The assisting nurse's eyes widened and she called me by name. I was confused until she removed her mask.
It was my Sunday School Teacher.
No shit. This was my hot-as-fuck Sunday School Teacher too. This chick was so hot that even before going through puberty I was having dreams of her being naked. And dammit, she was now going to see me naked. And my balls hadn't even dropped.
Fuck.
I didn't die, so the surgery went well. My appendix had exploded and so I had to be cut open quite invasively in order to clean all the poison out. I woke up in my hospital room with a huge bandage around my rum tum tummy and very harsh and specific orders. DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGE AND DO NOT GET IT WET! And I obeyed that order.
The next week or so was a constant stream of visitors and well wishers. My mom stayed with me by my side pretty much the entire time except at night when she stayed at my grandparent's house that was just five minutes away from the hospital. She occasionally brought me presents like comic books and tapes for my Walkman.
For you young whippersnappers, a Walkman was like an ipod only shittier and it played "tapes" which were "tapes" with music on them that occasionally the Walkman would "eat" and you would be fucked.
The one tape that I remember the most was M.C. Hammer's breakthrough album. I listened to that over and over again, and it helped teach me valuable life lessons like "You've got to pray just to make it today" and also that "You can't touch this."
A day before I was going to be discharged, the doctor came in with a nurse who was holding a spray can and said, "Ok, let's get you all closed up."
"Wait. What?"
DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGE AND DO NOT GET IT WET! was code for, "Your muscle tissue is completely exposed, and we'll be back later to glue your skin together." They took off my bandage where I got to see inside of myself from right under my bellybutton down to what eventually would become the "carpet," and then they glued my skin together with a spray. I was discharged the next day and my mom was given further light and knowledge.
"Make sure he takes it easy for awhile, and doesn't strain himself too much. His skin could still rip open same with the muscle tissue that's trying to heal. Then his guts would fall out. So, just be careful."
And I was, and my guts didn't fall out again. However, the doctor check up did note that I had scarred pretty prominently.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Trouble making in the mission field.
I didn't sleep much the last day that I was in the MTC. Two months in that place had seemed like an eternity, yet I felt that the "real" mission was just beginning. My mind kept me up with the possibilities of the field. I had no true expectations, but my brain was in overdrive testing out probabilities of what the future held. Too many questions and not enough answers, and it was not simply a logical exercise. I was also flooded with a lot of mixed emotions. I was excited but anxious for the next 22 months of my life. I was homesick but this was also a great adventure. I lied awake on the top bunk in the bunker that had been my residence for 8 horrendous weeks.
The next day was busy. We had already packed all of our shit the night before - and that had been quite the task. Living out of a suitcase for two years - what do you take? Most of us had taken too much. We knew we were going to be semi-nomadic and packing the night before had brought on this stark reality. One of my bags had been packed in such a way that I was going to empty out most of it when arriving at the airport. Most of the other Elders had done the same thing.
The culture of the MTC teaches Elders one very specific lesson - watch everything that everyone else does and compare yourself to everyone else. While packing, everyone had a chance to look over everyone else's and comment.
"What's that?"
"Why did you bring that?"
"Are you going to take that with you?"
"How did you fit everything into THAT bag?"
"How full is YOUR luggage?"
"How much stuff are YOU taking?"
We were loaded onto giant buses and transported from Provo to the Salt Lake Titties International Airport. Those of us who were fortunate enough live in Utah met our families at the airports and we quickly unloaded the excess items off to them before checking our luggage and heading off to security.
My mission was before September 11, 2001 so security wasn't a big deal and the entire family was able to go to the gates and wait for the departure. Missionaries with girlfriends were confronted with an ethical dilemma at the gates as to whether or not to hug them.
The mission rules were very clear that no contact other than a handshake was permitted between the opposite sexes. Some missionaries chose to break this rule, and others used it as a chance to show the lord how much they loved him more than the girls that they had dated for various periods of time before their missions. Because we all know how much sweeter the lord's embrace is than the chick who sucked our cocks and allowed us to dry hump the shit out of them.
Had we been normal teenagers, we would have just fucked the shit out of them. But we were examples of Christ's goddamn church, so instead we just rubbed those clits raw with our jeans on. Hot, dry, chaffing non-sex for Jesus!
I said goodbye to family and friends for what was assumed to be 22 months, but I called my parents again during the layover I had in Chicago. I don't remember if that was kosher, but I did it anyway. Afterwards I boarded the big ass plane to Frankfurt. It was the beginning of February and only a handful of people other than missionaries were on board.
By the time we had had our layovers the flight was going to be through the night. This wasn't a great set-up for me because I don't sleep well on planes. I might pass out for awhile with no recollection of the time interval, but not sleep. Not the kind where you have dreams that you are the Red Skull and you are fighting Captain America with a spear that you've fashioned from gardening tools, and every time you skewer him you yell, "The power of Satan compels me!" You know, normal sleep.
We arrived in Frankfurt at whatever fucking day it was. I had no idea at that point. I don't even remember what time it was. I just remember that we went through Frankfurt "customs" where every guard looked like they had been pulled out of the Nazi cast from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.
And I'm NOT saying that they were fucking Nazis, ok. I'm just saying that they looked like the Nazi guards from Raiders or even the Death Star guards from A New Hope, ok. Calm the fuck down. You go through customs at Frankfurt and tell me I'm wrong about the comparison. I dare you.
Anyway, we got our shit from the airport and then went to a Marriott Hotel for a period of time. Again, I would like to say that I remembered what day or time it was, but I was strung out from the travel.
My companion slept, but I didn't. I just was jet lagged and felt completely out of it. It may have been a few days since I slept, it may have been a few weeks, I'm not sure. But what I do know is that the whole world seemed to take on a brightness to it that freaked me out, and that I was better at picking out conversations in the distance than ones happening right in front of me and that the thought of food made me physically ill.
At some point it was time for us to go somewhere, pick up our bikes, and then ride our bikes to the mission office.
This made as much sense to me as it does to you, but the only thought I had was, "Oh, fuck! I'm going to die." I got my bike - which looked like a blue version of Pee Wee's bike from his Big Adventure except without all of the hilarious gizmos, and then we took a "ride" to the mission office.
I hadn't slept in what seemed like a week and was riding a bike for the first time since I was about ten years old on narrow cobblestone streets with heavy traffic. I remember praying desperately to god, "Please don't let me die now!" as my bike jostled over the uneven pavement and cars streaked passed me.
God must have listened to my prayers that time instead of all of those other times I begged for mercy and he front kicked my chest and then stood over me laughing, "Hahahaahahahaha! Fuck you, faggot!" because I made it to the mission office without injury. I met several Elders who worked in the office as well as the Mission President. We didn't stay long before all of us, the "Greenies" were to meet at the President's home for a meal before getting our new companions and then going of to our actual field homes and assignments.
I didn't eat much at the meal at the mission home. I could only handle a few bites, and then I spent some time in the bathroom. The whole experience was a blur because of the jet lag and the insomnia. The president's wife probably made a fantastic meal, but I couldn't tell. My head felt packed with white cotton, and my stomach felt like I had just spent the last 36 hours riding the Tea Cups non-stop.
We had a meeting where we met our new companions. These were our "Trainers" because we were the "Newbies," the "Greenies," the "We don't know what the fuck we are doing heres" where our Mission President pontificated about the mission, the "gospel," and the German people. At some point the president said something that sparked my curiosity. I raised my hand and asked, "Why is that?" The president deflected the answer to my question and moved on. I had been curious and asked a question. He didn't answer it, and moved on. That was that.
My "trainer" and I gathered my belongings and we made the trek to my first area - Langen. A little town outside of Frankfurt. We resided in a cute little apartment overlooking one of the main streets to the cute "downtown" area.
Later I would learn from my companion that I had been labeled as "trouble" by the other "trainers" because I had dared to question the Mission President. My companion laughed it off from the other "trainers" because he liked the "challenge" of having a companion who was "too smart for his own good."
The next day was busy. We had already packed all of our shit the night before - and that had been quite the task. Living out of a suitcase for two years - what do you take? Most of us had taken too much. We knew we were going to be semi-nomadic and packing the night before had brought on this stark reality. One of my bags had been packed in such a way that I was going to empty out most of it when arriving at the airport. Most of the other Elders had done the same thing.
The culture of the MTC teaches Elders one very specific lesson - watch everything that everyone else does and compare yourself to everyone else. While packing, everyone had a chance to look over everyone else's and comment.
"What's that?"
"Why did you bring that?"
"Are you going to take that with you?"
"How did you fit everything into THAT bag?"
"How full is YOUR luggage?"
"How much stuff are YOU taking?"
We were loaded onto giant buses and transported from Provo to the Salt Lake Titties International Airport. Those of us who were fortunate enough live in Utah met our families at the airports and we quickly unloaded the excess items off to them before checking our luggage and heading off to security.
My mission was before September 11, 2001 so security wasn't a big deal and the entire family was able to go to the gates and wait for the departure. Missionaries with girlfriends were confronted with an ethical dilemma at the gates as to whether or not to hug them.
The mission rules were very clear that no contact other than a handshake was permitted between the opposite sexes. Some missionaries chose to break this rule, and others used it as a chance to show the lord how much they loved him more than the girls that they had dated for various periods of time before their missions. Because we all know how much sweeter the lord's embrace is than the chick who sucked our cocks and allowed us to dry hump the shit out of them.
Had we been normal teenagers, we would have just fucked the shit out of them. But we were examples of Christ's goddamn church, so instead we just rubbed those clits raw with our jeans on. Hot, dry, chaffing non-sex for Jesus!
I said goodbye to family and friends for what was assumed to be 22 months, but I called my parents again during the layover I had in Chicago. I don't remember if that was kosher, but I did it anyway. Afterwards I boarded the big ass plane to Frankfurt. It was the beginning of February and only a handful of people other than missionaries were on board.
By the time we had had our layovers the flight was going to be through the night. This wasn't a great set-up for me because I don't sleep well on planes. I might pass out for awhile with no recollection of the time interval, but not sleep. Not the kind where you have dreams that you are the Red Skull and you are fighting Captain America with a spear that you've fashioned from gardening tools, and every time you skewer him you yell, "The power of Satan compels me!" You know, normal sleep.
We arrived in Frankfurt at whatever fucking day it was. I had no idea at that point. I don't even remember what time it was. I just remember that we went through Frankfurt "customs" where every guard looked like they had been pulled out of the Nazi cast from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.
And I'm NOT saying that they were fucking Nazis, ok. I'm just saying that they looked like the Nazi guards from Raiders or even the Death Star guards from A New Hope, ok. Calm the fuck down. You go through customs at Frankfurt and tell me I'm wrong about the comparison. I dare you.
Anyway, we got our shit from the airport and then went to a Marriott Hotel for a period of time. Again, I would like to say that I remembered what day or time it was, but I was strung out from the travel.
My companion slept, but I didn't. I just was jet lagged and felt completely out of it. It may have been a few days since I slept, it may have been a few weeks, I'm not sure. But what I do know is that the whole world seemed to take on a brightness to it that freaked me out, and that I was better at picking out conversations in the distance than ones happening right in front of me and that the thought of food made me physically ill.
At some point it was time for us to go somewhere, pick up our bikes, and then ride our bikes to the mission office.
This made as much sense to me as it does to you, but the only thought I had was, "Oh, fuck! I'm going to die." I got my bike - which looked like a blue version of Pee Wee's bike from his Big Adventure except without all of the hilarious gizmos, and then we took a "ride" to the mission office.
I hadn't slept in what seemed like a week and was riding a bike for the first time since I was about ten years old on narrow cobblestone streets with heavy traffic. I remember praying desperately to god, "Please don't let me die now!" as my bike jostled over the uneven pavement and cars streaked passed me.
God must have listened to my prayers that time instead of all of those other times I begged for mercy and he front kicked my chest and then stood over me laughing, "Hahahaahahahaha! Fuck you, faggot!" because I made it to the mission office without injury. I met several Elders who worked in the office as well as the Mission President. We didn't stay long before all of us, the "Greenies" were to meet at the President's home for a meal before getting our new companions and then going of to our actual field homes and assignments.
I didn't eat much at the meal at the mission home. I could only handle a few bites, and then I spent some time in the bathroom. The whole experience was a blur because of the jet lag and the insomnia. The president's wife probably made a fantastic meal, but I couldn't tell. My head felt packed with white cotton, and my stomach felt like I had just spent the last 36 hours riding the Tea Cups non-stop.
We had a meeting where we met our new companions. These were our "Trainers" because we were the "Newbies," the "Greenies," the "We don't know what the fuck we are doing heres" where our Mission President pontificated about the mission, the "gospel," and the German people. At some point the president said something that sparked my curiosity. I raised my hand and asked, "Why is that?" The president deflected the answer to my question and moved on. I had been curious and asked a question. He didn't answer it, and moved on. That was that.
My "trainer" and I gathered my belongings and we made the trek to my first area - Langen. A little town outside of Frankfurt. We resided in a cute little apartment overlooking one of the main streets to the cute "downtown" area.
Later I would learn from my companion that I had been labeled as "trouble" by the other "trainers" because I had dared to question the Mission President. My companion laughed it off from the other "trainers" because he liked the "challenge" of having a companion who was "too smart for his own good."
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Most Terrible Thing I'll Probably Ever Write
Mormon doctrine is pretty clear about Jesus' origins. He wasn't "conceived" by the Spirit like other Xtian peeps believe.
Nope. God for Mormons consist of "god the father," "Jesus," and "the hoooooooooooooly ghost." Three separate beings. God the father and Jesus both have physical bodies. God the father was a resurrected being on his own planet/universe with his own god and rose up to the ranks of being god himself because he was just so "spiritually cool." Jesus was a literal demi-god meaning that god the father fucked the shit out of Virgin Mary in order to conceive Jesus.
Until now that is all just theoretical, but I'm going to give you the full blown account of it:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mary awoke from a dream of a giant being overshadowing her. For awhile she thought she still may be dreaming. Her entire surroundings were pitch black. She felt disoriented, but the sharpness of the disorientation told her that she was fully conscious.
A small flickering light came on in the distant. And another. And another. She realized that they weren't candles, they were stars. She grew uneasy with the strangeness of it all, and as more and more light came from the flickering distance, she noticed a waist high cylinder appear next to her, and if she had been in a room a dove resting in the boundless corner.
"Where am I?" she blurted out.
"Don't worry, you're safe." An infinitely intense light appeared in front of Mary as she shut her eyes and put out her arm to try to block the intensity. She was able to squint and then open her eyes as the light receded and a man stood in front of her.
He was impeccable. A man fully dressed in white robes with long white hair and and a white beard but with a face that could only be described as ageless. He was average looking to the point of being somehow incredibly handsome.
Her disorientation caused her to demand rudely, "Who are you?"
The perfect man in front of her smiled, "I am Elohim."
Mary shrank to her knees immediately. Ever fiber of her being knew that this personage in front of her was God.
"What do you require of me?"
Elohim laughed at her, a very amused laugh, "All in good time, my child. All in good time."
Mary's brain exploded with emotions. This was her god. Her Heavenly Father. Speaking to her as a person. As if one were talking with a neighbor. Her entire life was devoted to worship of this being, and he was standing right in front of her - as a man.
"What ever you require of me, is yours," she thought without voicing.
Elohim though had anticipated her obedience and simply looked at her. Without a word he communicated, "It is time."
Like a fly pestering her brain she somehow knew the answer but couldn't help question, "I don't understand."
"I know you don't fully understand now. But you will eventually. It is time to bring the Savior to the World. I have watched you since you were a child, and you are the Chosen One. The one woman most precious to me before all women of the world."
Mary was flattered. She still considered herself a girl, but her god had told her that she had come into womanhood. She had chosen a path of righteousness all her life. She had done everything required of her, had kept every commandment and decree, and god himself had found her worthy. Her family had been right. The prophesies they spoke of to her - the angelic decrees - all of it had been real.
"Thy will be done," she breathed.
Elohim responded, "I have watched you grow from a child, and you I have chosen. You are precious to me. You are going to be my vessel to bring about my child. You are the one to raise my Son."
Mary didn't quite understand. "I don't...."
"It has been foretold," Elohim anticipated. "I have watched as you've grown. You are the One. You will raise my Son. He will bring my Word to the world, and through Him all will be able to come back to Me."
Mary hesitated. She saw the cylinder and realized that is was just the exact height of a bed.
"I don't..." she began but was cut off.
"You are the Chosen One. I have observed you since your Creation. You are the one to carry My Savior. It has been Foretold. I am Elohim. You are Mary, descendant of David. Descendant of Abraham, Descendant of Moses. The World requires your obedience. I require your Obedience."
Mary had not risen from her kneeling position, nor did she rise now. "Thy will be done."
"As was foretold," Elohim uttered.
Mary rose from her kneeling position but not from her own volition. Her clothing melted away from her. She felt cold in her nakedness. Her heart began to beat faster and faster and she felt every small hair rise from her body.
She trembled.
"You are my Chosen One. The One who will bring about my Will. Through You will I save the World from Itself. You are Chosen. You are the Carrier to my Mouthpiece."
She floated towards Elohim and he held her. "My daughter," he brushed back a strand of hair as she shook silently.
He held her closely, "This is my Will. You are Chosen. Through you will come the Salvation of all Mankind."
She was laid upon the cylinder. Her back was enveloped in softness as a sharp, stabbing hardness was felt on top of her.
Her breath caught, she looked towards the distance. She couldn't breathe. She was Chosen. She was Joseph's. She was Chosen. She couldn't breathe. She was Chosen. She grunted in pain. She was Chosen. She couldn't breathe.
Joseph had asked her to marry him. He had done so after so many months of observed courtship. After so many stolen kisses in alley ways, he had chosen her. She had chosen him. She had saved herself for him and found someone that she hoped would now stay.
They weren't married. She was going to carry a child, and it wasn't his. Would he leave? Or cast her out? Had she chosen correctly? What would she do without him? Even if he stayed, they would be alone. The entire world would see her unborn child and judge her, they would judge her child for her choice...
A hand - an immaculate hand - brushed the side of her face as she stared off into the vast emptiness of scattered starlight. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right. I will watch out for you, as I have always done. Joseph is a worthy servant. This is the way it has always been. This is the way it will always be. Your sacrifice won't be in vain."
Her heart beat in rapid rhythmic juxtaposition to the hard irregular rhythm on top of her.
She stared off into space, the dove cocked its head staring at her with one unblinking, red avian eye. It cocked its head again, staring at her with the other. Her sacrifice wouldn't be in vain, for god so loved the world....
Nope. God for Mormons consist of "god the father," "Jesus," and "the hoooooooooooooly ghost." Three separate beings. God the father and Jesus both have physical bodies. God the father was a resurrected being on his own planet/universe with his own god and rose up to the ranks of being god himself because he was just so "spiritually cool." Jesus was a literal demi-god meaning that god the father fucked the shit out of Virgin Mary in order to conceive Jesus.
Until now that is all just theoretical, but I'm going to give you the full blown account of it:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mary awoke from a dream of a giant being overshadowing her. For awhile she thought she still may be dreaming. Her entire surroundings were pitch black. She felt disoriented, but the sharpness of the disorientation told her that she was fully conscious.
A small flickering light came on in the distant. And another. And another. She realized that they weren't candles, they were stars. She grew uneasy with the strangeness of it all, and as more and more light came from the flickering distance, she noticed a waist high cylinder appear next to her, and if she had been in a room a dove resting in the boundless corner.
"Where am I?" she blurted out.
"Don't worry, you're safe." An infinitely intense light appeared in front of Mary as she shut her eyes and put out her arm to try to block the intensity. She was able to squint and then open her eyes as the light receded and a man stood in front of her.
He was impeccable. A man fully dressed in white robes with long white hair and and a white beard but with a face that could only be described as ageless. He was average looking to the point of being somehow incredibly handsome.
Her disorientation caused her to demand rudely, "Who are you?"
The perfect man in front of her smiled, "I am Elohim."
Mary shrank to her knees immediately. Ever fiber of her being knew that this personage in front of her was God.
"What do you require of me?"
Elohim laughed at her, a very amused laugh, "All in good time, my child. All in good time."
Mary's brain exploded with emotions. This was her god. Her Heavenly Father. Speaking to her as a person. As if one were talking with a neighbor. Her entire life was devoted to worship of this being, and he was standing right in front of her - as a man.
"What ever you require of me, is yours," she thought without voicing.
Elohim though had anticipated her obedience and simply looked at her. Without a word he communicated, "It is time."
Like a fly pestering her brain she somehow knew the answer but couldn't help question, "I don't understand."
"I know you don't fully understand now. But you will eventually. It is time to bring the Savior to the World. I have watched you since you were a child, and you are the Chosen One. The one woman most precious to me before all women of the world."
Mary was flattered. She still considered herself a girl, but her god had told her that she had come into womanhood. She had chosen a path of righteousness all her life. She had done everything required of her, had kept every commandment and decree, and god himself had found her worthy. Her family had been right. The prophesies they spoke of to her - the angelic decrees - all of it had been real.
"Thy will be done," she breathed.
Elohim responded, "I have watched you grow from a child, and you I have chosen. You are precious to me. You are going to be my vessel to bring about my child. You are the one to raise my Son."
Mary didn't quite understand. "I don't...."
"It has been foretold," Elohim anticipated. "I have watched as you've grown. You are the One. You will raise my Son. He will bring my Word to the world, and through Him all will be able to come back to Me."
Mary hesitated. She saw the cylinder and realized that is was just the exact height of a bed.
"I don't..." she began but was cut off.
"You are the Chosen One. I have observed you since your Creation. You are the one to carry My Savior. It has been Foretold. I am Elohim. You are Mary, descendant of David. Descendant of Abraham, Descendant of Moses. The World requires your obedience. I require your Obedience."
Mary had not risen from her kneeling position, nor did she rise now. "Thy will be done."
"As was foretold," Elohim uttered.
Mary rose from her kneeling position but not from her own volition. Her clothing melted away from her. She felt cold in her nakedness. Her heart began to beat faster and faster and she felt every small hair rise from her body.
She trembled.
"You are my Chosen One. The One who will bring about my Will. Through You will I save the World from Itself. You are Chosen. You are the Carrier to my Mouthpiece."
She floated towards Elohim and he held her. "My daughter," he brushed back a strand of hair as she shook silently.
He held her closely, "This is my Will. You are Chosen. Through you will come the Salvation of all Mankind."
She was laid upon the cylinder. Her back was enveloped in softness as a sharp, stabbing hardness was felt on top of her.
Her breath caught, she looked towards the distance. She couldn't breathe. She was Chosen. She was Joseph's. She was Chosen. She couldn't breathe. She was Chosen. She grunted in pain. She was Chosen. She couldn't breathe.
Joseph had asked her to marry him. He had done so after so many months of observed courtship. After so many stolen kisses in alley ways, he had chosen her. She had chosen him. She had saved herself for him and found someone that she hoped would now stay.
They weren't married. She was going to carry a child, and it wasn't his. Would he leave? Or cast her out? Had she chosen correctly? What would she do without him? Even if he stayed, they would be alone. The entire world would see her unborn child and judge her, they would judge her child for her choice...
A hand - an immaculate hand - brushed the side of her face as she stared off into the vast emptiness of scattered starlight. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right. I will watch out for you, as I have always done. Joseph is a worthy servant. This is the way it has always been. This is the way it will always be. Your sacrifice won't be in vain."
Her heart beat in rapid rhythmic juxtaposition to the hard irregular rhythm on top of her.
She stared off into space, the dove cocked its head staring at her with one unblinking, red avian eye. It cocked its head again, staring at her with the other. Her sacrifice wouldn't be in vain, for god so loved the world....
Monday, April 18, 2011
Catholic vs. Raptorian
Over the last couple of days, the I have witnessed quite a few debates on which religion is the bestest in all of the land. Apparently none of the people arguing are 14 year old farm boy/treasure seekers who have big enough peep stones to just ask god and regular Jesus directly.
And if you have, it probably came as no surprise that god and regular Jesus may have burned your bosom, but no one had a vision where eventually one of the versions of the vision was that god and regular Jesus told you that every other church sucked, and you should start your own.
Being a deity, I already knew that. I have my own church, and that part is awesome. However, getting many followers is tricky. The marketplace of spiritual ideas is overcrowded to say the least.
My church is totally cool, and I only require money. Kiss my ass, don't kiss my ass, as long as you are donating money, that's all I require. And I'm at least HONEST about the money part. I need and want money. YOUR money. And I promise you NOTHING tangible in return.
See? Isn't that at least refreshing? But I haven't gotten a billion followers like Catholicism. What am I doing wrong?
Regular Jesus told people that if they put certain parts of his body in their mouths, his spirit would come inside of them.
I've tried telling people that, and I just get arrested. What the fuck is up with that?
Maybe it's because I need to hand out free wine samples and nilla wafers as if people are at Costco on a Saturday.
Or maybe it's because my church doesn't have a "service" where everyone plays the game of Simon Says.
Simon Says, "standup." Now Simon Says, "sit down." Now Simon Says, "sing this song." Now Simon Says, "shut the fuck up."
If only I could get an emperor to convert and then spread my gospel through blood and fire. That's what I'm missing!
Anyone know any good emperors? Preferably ones who have just:
1. Recently moved
2. Recently had a death in the family
3. Are in any kind of emotional distress
And if you have, it probably came as no surprise that god and regular Jesus may have burned your bosom, but no one had a vision where eventually one of the versions of the vision was that god and regular Jesus told you that every other church sucked, and you should start your own.
Being a deity, I already knew that. I have my own church, and that part is awesome. However, getting many followers is tricky. The marketplace of spiritual ideas is overcrowded to say the least.
My church is totally cool, and I only require money. Kiss my ass, don't kiss my ass, as long as you are donating money, that's all I require. And I'm at least HONEST about the money part. I need and want money. YOUR money. And I promise you NOTHING tangible in return.
See? Isn't that at least refreshing? But I haven't gotten a billion followers like Catholicism. What am I doing wrong?
Regular Jesus told people that if they put certain parts of his body in their mouths, his spirit would come inside of them.
I've tried telling people that, and I just get arrested. What the fuck is up with that?
Maybe it's because I need to hand out free wine samples and nilla wafers as if people are at Costco on a Saturday.
Or maybe it's because my church doesn't have a "service" where everyone plays the game of Simon Says.
Simon Says, "standup." Now Simon Says, "sit down." Now Simon Says, "sing this song." Now Simon Says, "shut the fuck up."
If only I could get an emperor to convert and then spread my gospel through blood and fire. That's what I'm missing!
Anyone know any good emperors? Preferably ones who have just:
1. Recently moved
2. Recently had a death in the family
3. Are in any kind of emotional distress
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The worst haircut I've ever had.
I know that the thought of me having "hair" may seem downright blasphemous, but you need to remember that I have taken mammalian form to complete my ministry here on earth during this dispensation.
Those who are worthy enough by kissing my ass consistently and thoroughly have seen my true form with their spiritual eyes.
With that being said, my "human form" of flesh and occasional boners has had quite a few different hair styles. Growing up in Utah during the 80's meant that I was on the cutting edge of boy's fashion by sporting the "side spike." This was easy to do because my hair naturally spikes as it gets shorter. I had to grow my hair out a little when I decided one year to be Superman for Halloween as a child.
The picture of me flexing in the Super Suit as a six year old boy with a very slight curl in the hair across my forehead is a favorite of most of my family members and friends.
I've had short hair, long hair, shaved head, a Mohawk, a mullet, and another year for Halloween I was Wolverine and that was a very difficult growing period and preparation because there is a fine line between Wolverine's hair and A Flock of Seagull's.
As I've already stated before, the MTC was an Orwellian nightmare from which I could not escape. When I finally left, my feelings could only be described by quoting H.P. Lovecraft by saying, "I thanked heaven that we were clear of a haunted, accursed realm where life and death, space and time, have made black and blasphemous alliances, in the epochs since matter first weighed and swam on the planet's scarce cooled crust."
Two months at the MTC means that one MUST get a haircut eventually. This was difficult for me because as I've mentioned, my hair spikes as it gets shorter, and short, spiky hair is missionary stigmata for being Satan.
The missionary haircut code demands that missionaries look like old douche bags from the 1950's - 19 year old boys with faux comb-overs.
Our district leader (the one that we took great pleasure pissing on in the shower) spent at least 15 minutes a day blowing drying his "sweep across" bangs just right and adjusting his part in order to look like the perfect missionary. The spitting image of a general authority, but not balding quite as badly yet.
I had made an appointment with the MTC "barbers," and what an unfortunate lot of decrepit souls they were. My particular "stylist" reminded me of what might happen if Mario stopped having his endless war with Bowser and given up on all his aspirations and dreams. The man was clearly a useless substance abuser but the "gospel" was his drug of choice.
The Holy Spirit (also known as just my gut instinct) let me know that bad shit was going to go down with this unfortunate meat bag, but like everything else in the MTC, there was NO alternative.
I sat in his old timey barber stool - I guess the MTC thought they were quaint, or at least cheap, and informed him specifically that if he cut my hair too short, that it would spike, and he could not get the side part that was so desperately needed to "teach with the Spirit."
Of course the overly bloated skin sack of compressed organs and farts cut my hair too short, and he was surprised - SURPRISED! - after my vain attempts to warn him could NOT get my hair to part.
This obvious physical feature screamed that I was not in conformity with my fellow "Elders" and that panicked the "barber." After flailing with a normal brush to part my hair, he reached for a brush that must have come from an expedition to a European Museum for the Spanish Inquisition.
Inch long metal spikes adorned the brush's head, and in spite of the "barber's" zeal and ferocity, the metal bladed brush could not get my hair to part.
In between grunts I told him, "My hair isn't going to part." And after a few more continued attempts, Dickstache parroted me by saying, "Yeah, your hair isn't going to part."
The healthy part of my brain screamed out, "WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?!" However, the rest of my brain that had been thoroughly washed, rinsed, and repeated with non stop talks about "obedience" kept my mouth shut.
At this point the pinnacle of "Friseury" decided to "do me a solid" and stated that he was going to cut my hair a different way and that if anyone said anything about my non-compliant haircut to "talk to him" and gave me a shorter hair cut into a 1950's military flat-top. However, being as competent as he was, his "level" was a little off and my flat-top was crooked.
I looked like fucking Gumby.
Unfortunately my hair was now too short to cut further. The man couldn't get a straight line, and anything else "off the top" would have resulted in a bald head. While I was fine with that, I also had no control over the decisions of my life. I was a Mormon missionary after all, and that meant subjugation.
I kept that haircut for a month or so until I was finally in Germany, and it had grown out enough for someone competent to do. One of my best haircuts I have ever had in my life came in Germany after looking like a big, green rubber character. The lady who did my hair took special care in the spikiness and carefully layered and textured my hair. I looked very chic.
But the other missionaries were very quick to point out how "worldly" my hair seemed.
Those who are worthy enough by kissing my ass consistently and thoroughly have seen my true form with their spiritual eyes.
With that being said, my "human form" of flesh and occasional boners has had quite a few different hair styles. Growing up in Utah during the 80's meant that I was on the cutting edge of boy's fashion by sporting the "side spike." This was easy to do because my hair naturally spikes as it gets shorter. I had to grow my hair out a little when I decided one year to be Superman for Halloween as a child.
The picture of me flexing in the Super Suit as a six year old boy with a very slight curl in the hair across my forehead is a favorite of most of my family members and friends.
I've had short hair, long hair, shaved head, a Mohawk, a mullet, and another year for Halloween I was Wolverine and that was a very difficult growing period and preparation because there is a fine line between Wolverine's hair and A Flock of Seagull's.
As I've already stated before, the MTC was an Orwellian nightmare from which I could not escape. When I finally left, my feelings could only be described by quoting H.P. Lovecraft by saying, "I thanked heaven that we were clear of a haunted, accursed realm where life and death, space and time, have made black and blasphemous alliances, in the epochs since matter first weighed and swam on the planet's scarce cooled crust."
Two months at the MTC means that one MUST get a haircut eventually. This was difficult for me because as I've mentioned, my hair spikes as it gets shorter, and short, spiky hair is missionary stigmata for being Satan.
The missionary haircut code demands that missionaries look like old douche bags from the 1950's - 19 year old boys with faux comb-overs.
Our district leader (the one that we took great pleasure pissing on in the shower) spent at least 15 minutes a day blowing drying his "sweep across" bangs just right and adjusting his part in order to look like the perfect missionary. The spitting image of a general authority, but not balding quite as badly yet.
I had made an appointment with the MTC "barbers," and what an unfortunate lot of decrepit souls they were. My particular "stylist" reminded me of what might happen if Mario stopped having his endless war with Bowser and given up on all his aspirations and dreams. The man was clearly a useless substance abuser but the "gospel" was his drug of choice.
The Holy Spirit (also known as just my gut instinct) let me know that bad shit was going to go down with this unfortunate meat bag, but like everything else in the MTC, there was NO alternative.
I sat in his old timey barber stool - I guess the MTC thought they were quaint, or at least cheap, and informed him specifically that if he cut my hair too short, that it would spike, and he could not get the side part that was so desperately needed to "teach with the Spirit."
Of course the overly bloated skin sack of compressed organs and farts cut my hair too short, and he was surprised - SURPRISED! - after my vain attempts to warn him could NOT get my hair to part.
This obvious physical feature screamed that I was not in conformity with my fellow "Elders" and that panicked the "barber." After flailing with a normal brush to part my hair, he reached for a brush that must have come from an expedition to a European Museum for the Spanish Inquisition.
Inch long metal spikes adorned the brush's head, and in spite of the "barber's" zeal and ferocity, the metal bladed brush could not get my hair to part.
In between grunts I told him, "My hair isn't going to part." And after a few more continued attempts, Dickstache parroted me by saying, "Yeah, your hair isn't going to part."
The healthy part of my brain screamed out, "WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?!" However, the rest of my brain that had been thoroughly washed, rinsed, and repeated with non stop talks about "obedience" kept my mouth shut.
At this point the pinnacle of "Friseury" decided to "do me a solid" and stated that he was going to cut my hair a different way and that if anyone said anything about my non-compliant haircut to "talk to him" and gave me a shorter hair cut into a 1950's military flat-top. However, being as competent as he was, his "level" was a little off and my flat-top was crooked.
I looked like fucking Gumby.
Unfortunately my hair was now too short to cut further. The man couldn't get a straight line, and anything else "off the top" would have resulted in a bald head. While I was fine with that, I also had no control over the decisions of my life. I was a Mormon missionary after all, and that meant subjugation.
I kept that haircut for a month or so until I was finally in Germany, and it had grown out enough for someone competent to do. One of my best haircuts I have ever had in my life came in Germany after looking like a big, green rubber character. The lady who did my hair took special care in the spikiness and carefully layered and textured my hair. I looked very chic.
But the other missionaries were very quick to point out how "worldly" my hair seemed.
Raptor Jesus goes Hometeaching in Logan, Utah.
Once upon a weekday dreary as Raptor Jesus became tired and weary talking with coworkers about church lore,
While discussing and gently nodding, there came a thought
That I felt worth sharing even though this idea
would label me a bore.
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "I hate my ward"
My coworkers were shocked, when calling them "Fascists!" And my coworkers implored,
"How can this be?
Your assertion must be poor!"
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "Nazis run my ward."
My spirit grew stronger and I hesitated no longer
I began to filling with rage while telling them more
About our bishops demands to keep spiritual score
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "I will home teach no more"
I filled in my coworkers with the details that as hometeachers we would begin by rapping, not just gently tapping, but full blown rapping, rapping on chamber doors.
And upon gaining entry, we would make observations that would fill in the families spiritual "score" about how often they would gather and discuss scriptural lore and kneel for prayer upon the floor.
Quoth Raptor Jesus "I will Hometeach never more"
Because after each monthly visit we would then gather for Hometeaching interviews, and the Elder's Quorum President would carefully note the score of how oft the family would discuss scriptural lore the President would always ask, "Of information I need more."
Quoth Raptor Jesus "Nevermore."
I felt disgusted that this church wanted details about how often a family gathers for prayer upon the floor and of this practice we were required to demand of them more. Surely I wasn't alone in feeling that this Bishop's morality was poor.
Quoth Raptor Jesus "Nevermore."
My protests were in vain, because I alone felt that this Bishop's decision making skills were poor all the other Elders were more than happy to side with him for this chore. But not I.
I was NOT this Bishop's whore.
I went hometeaching never more.
While discussing and gently nodding, there came a thought
That I felt worth sharing even though this idea
would label me a bore.
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "I hate my ward"
My coworkers were shocked, when calling them "Fascists!" And my coworkers implored,
"How can this be?
Your assertion must be poor!"
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "Nazis run my ward."
My spirit grew stronger and I hesitated no longer
I began to filling with rage while telling them more
About our bishops demands to keep spiritual score
Quoth Raptor Jesus, "I will home teach no more"
I filled in my coworkers with the details that as hometeachers we would begin by rapping, not just gently tapping, but full blown rapping, rapping on chamber doors.
And upon gaining entry, we would make observations that would fill in the families spiritual "score" about how often they would gather and discuss scriptural lore and kneel for prayer upon the floor.
Quoth Raptor Jesus "I will Hometeach never more"
Because after each monthly visit we would then gather for Hometeaching interviews, and the Elder's Quorum President would carefully note the score of how oft the family would discuss scriptural lore the President would always ask, "Of information I need more."
Quoth Raptor Jesus "Nevermore."
I felt disgusted that this church wanted details about how often a family gathers for prayer upon the floor and of this practice we were required to demand of them more. Surely I wasn't alone in feeling that this Bishop's morality was poor.
Quoth Raptor Jesus "Nevermore."
My protests were in vain, because I alone felt that this Bishop's decision making skills were poor all the other Elders were more than happy to side with him for this chore. But not I.
I was NOT this Bishop's whore.
I went hometeaching never more.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Raptor Jesus Goes to the Hospital: The Naughty Nurse that Snuck a Peek
My forced deepthroating revealed nothing major. I had acid reflux, but that was not the cause of the debilitating pain that I was in the hospital for. More tests were ordered.
My mission president stopped by to assure me that everything was awesome. What an honor! It was like your boss's boss's boss come to drop in on you in the hospital. That kind of thing isn't even important enough to be on his radar, but how cool is that is what my companion reminded me. My mission president was there to let me know that German doctors were the tits so there was nothing to worry about. They were going to get me back out doing the lord's work in no time. Everything was fine, don't worry. The church was taking great care of me. There's no need to even call home, so don't worry about that. However, don't call anything that I'm getting "surgery." They are only procedures. Surgery is something that usually only happens to missionaries after they are sent home. And fuck, we can't have me being sent home early. It's very hard to come back to Europe after being sent home for surgery. What a lucky, lucky boy I was to be able to come into the hospital with great doctors and get a few quick procedures to get me back out working as quickly as possible.
I asked if my companion should get some things for me for my stay. What, why? You won't be here very long at all, that's not necessary. You can go without for a little while. Maybe even "grow a beard."
My companion thought THIS was really funny. My mission president joked that I could "grow a beard" in the hospital during my stay. Ha Ha Ha. He thought that was sooo damn funny. A missionary with a beard in the hospital? Tee-fucking-hee! What was this, "Scrubs?" Haha! Order my companion a side stitching "procedure" because he has just split his goddamn sides from laughter at a missionary with a beard.
Fucking douche.
They left, and I was alone. The lead doctor came in with his entourage to let me know about the next procedure. He spoke, and "my" doctor translated.
I was going to have a "laparoscopy" because the theory was that my intestines were being constricted with scar tissue. I had had an appendectomy years earlier, scar tissue had built up around my abdomen and was fucking with my intestines. The laparascope could go in and clean up the cobwebs and have me feeling better lickity clits.
That was the theory at least, so that night, they shoved some goo up my ass to clean out my system and shaved part of my pubes in preparation for the "procedure." This time I was at least under all the way and woke up to a large bandage across my tummy and for some reason I was wearing these tight, completely see-through, mesh panties along with knee high white stockings. I guess that's what you wear when you have surgery in Germany. No one leaves without being dressed like a naughty school girl. Time had been difficult to gauge, but I woke up in the middle of the night. A very pretty, young nurse came in to check on my bandages.
I watched her eyes as she lifted up my "gown" and looked at my stomach. She checked under the bandages to make sure there wasn't any blood. And I watched her eyes as she checked the contents of my see through mesh panties before lowering the bottom of my gown.
The only thought that ran through my head was, "No. Not now. It's cold in here."
My mission president stopped by to assure me that everything was awesome. What an honor! It was like your boss's boss's boss come to drop in on you in the hospital. That kind of thing isn't even important enough to be on his radar, but how cool is that is what my companion reminded me. My mission president was there to let me know that German doctors were the tits so there was nothing to worry about. They were going to get me back out doing the lord's work in no time. Everything was fine, don't worry. The church was taking great care of me. There's no need to even call home, so don't worry about that. However, don't call anything that I'm getting "surgery." They are only procedures. Surgery is something that usually only happens to missionaries after they are sent home. And fuck, we can't have me being sent home early. It's very hard to come back to Europe after being sent home for surgery. What a lucky, lucky boy I was to be able to come into the hospital with great doctors and get a few quick procedures to get me back out working as quickly as possible.
I asked if my companion should get some things for me for my stay. What, why? You won't be here very long at all, that's not necessary. You can go without for a little while. Maybe even "grow a beard."
My companion thought THIS was really funny. My mission president joked that I could "grow a beard" in the hospital during my stay. Ha Ha Ha. He thought that was sooo damn funny. A missionary with a beard in the hospital? Tee-fucking-hee! What was this, "Scrubs?" Haha! Order my companion a side stitching "procedure" because he has just split his goddamn sides from laughter at a missionary with a beard.
Fucking douche.
They left, and I was alone. The lead doctor came in with his entourage to let me know about the next procedure. He spoke, and "my" doctor translated.
I was going to have a "laparoscopy" because the theory was that my intestines were being constricted with scar tissue. I had had an appendectomy years earlier, scar tissue had built up around my abdomen and was fucking with my intestines. The laparascope could go in and clean up the cobwebs and have me feeling better lickity clits.
That was the theory at least, so that night, they shoved some goo up my ass to clean out my system and shaved part of my pubes in preparation for the "procedure." This time I was at least under all the way and woke up to a large bandage across my tummy and for some reason I was wearing these tight, completely see-through, mesh panties along with knee high white stockings. I guess that's what you wear when you have surgery in Germany. No one leaves without being dressed like a naughty school girl. Time had been difficult to gauge, but I woke up in the middle of the night. A very pretty, young nurse came in to check on my bandages.
I watched her eyes as she lifted up my "gown" and looked at my stomach. She checked under the bandages to make sure there wasn't any blood. And I watched her eyes as she checked the contents of my see through mesh panties before lowering the bottom of my gown.
The only thought that ran through my head was, "No. Not now. It's cold in here."
Raptor Jesus goes to the Hospital in Germany (Watch out for those Facehuggers)
One night in Germany my companion and I were tracting as we always did in Germany. And yes, this is the same companion as described in another post called "Setting Goals as a Missionary."
Tracting (A.K.A. Knocking on strangers' doors and bugging the shit out of them about our racist, sexist, homophobic, money grubbing "church") was the least favorite part of most sane missionaries, it was the least productive part of the mission, but for those of us in Europe - it took up most of our time. We would spend anywhere from 8 to 11 hours a day tracting. We kept meticulous records of who we had already annoyed, who we still needed to annoy, who was about due for another annoy-ing because most of our time was spent tracting, many places within our "mission boundary" had already been annoyed. This didn't stop us from rotating those places just on the off chance that someone hadn't been annoyed sufficiently.
So the next time two "Elders" who are still just babies themselves knock on your door and you think, "I swear to Cthulhu weren't these pants shitters just here?" it's because they were, but they have nothing better to do.
(I'm going to deviate here for just a second to explain that last statement. Mrs. Raptor Jesus and I were teaching Primary, Sunday School for little children, and one lesson was about "Missionary Work" and we asked the class, "What are some of the things that missionaries teach to people?" Well, this one girl who was actually a giant bitch trapped in a little girl's body blurts out in the snottiest tone possible, "Do they teach people how to poop in their pants!?"
I'll give you a minute to process that before going back to main story. There are other reasons to call missionaries "pants shitters." Most missionaries who have gone to foreign countries with exotic "water" have stories of either close calls or abject failures.)
Missionaries who tract a lot, tract until about 9:00pm. The mission rules stipulate that we are back in our apartments by 9:30, but often the zeal gets to missionaries and they begin thinking, "maybe that next house will actually let us in and to talk about a 14 year old boy who saw angels, and the people might actually believe us." And one of those endless nights we were tracting late and I mentioned to my companion that my tummy hurt. It wasn't a big deal, more of an annoyance, but we kept going.
The next morning the pain and discomfort are still there, and I again told my companion, but we didn't do anything about it. Just kept working. Around the third day though, I was in a bad state. The pain had moved to my entire abdomen and it was debilitating. Which says a lot for missionaries because the culture of missionary work is all about bragging rights. Who can "serve the Lord" the most when the Lord is either directly fucking with our lives and bodies or taking bets with Satan about how far we can be pushed before standing up for ourselves. An often repeated theme from the "prophets and apostles," "general authorities," "mission presidents," "assistants to the presidents," and other missionaries is that you should do the "work of the Lord" so fucking hard that you have to be taken home in an ambulance.
Which I did, and I really don't recommend it, but that's not what this story is about. I just wanted to give you context for "debilitating" and missionaries. This pain was bad enough that I told my companion that we needed to get our hairy asses to the hospital because something was wrong with me other than the usual laundry list of things wrong with me.
We got to the hospital and I went through the process of trying to explain to everyone what I could given my limited German. It didn't matter much because there wasn't much to explain. I looked and felt like someone had stabbed me repeatedly in the abdomen - but there were no physical wounds. I hurt, and there was no reason for it. So it was decided that we needed to do TESTS! Everyone's favorite!
I was taken into the room with the scanning equipment, and a gaggle of gossiping German women came in to undress me. I don't think everyone gets that treatment, but I was a 19 year old boy....
After the hens had come in, inspected the young rooster, clucked, and left, I was given an IV and a very small hospital "gown" and was led to my "room."
This hospital was a teaching hospital. For the next couple of days, I would never see at least one doctor.
The lead doctor came in and in doctoral fashion asked me what was wrong. I told him the same thing that I told the person at the front desk of the hospital who wrote it down, the nurses who undressed me who wrote it down, the other nurse that put in my IV and wrote it down, and the nurse who had all of it written down and then handed the writing to the doctor who then glanced at all of the writings before asking me what was wrong.
A line formed behind the doctor as he began to press into my abdomen. He was looking for the spots that caused me to growl at him. Once he found them, he went to the back of the line and the next doctor got his chance to repeat the process. Everyone got their turn to hurt me, no one was left out. I was pretty sure that some janitors sneaked in that line because it was a long line, and "any line that long HAS to be for something good."
When everyone was done coping a feel all the doctors left except for one. While he wasn't the "lead doctor" he was going to be "my doctor." He had been trained in L.A. and had impeccable English. This was good for me because my German was limited to things more like "Jesus loves you, wants you to be baptized and give all your money to his church. And you have to stop drinking wine even though drinking wine IS what Jesus would do."
This doctor asked me some other questions that hadn't been already asked. He wanted to rule out that this wasn't some kind of STD. I told him that I wasn't sexually active at the time. He then asked me in these words specifically, "Do you have any problems jerking off?" Yes, this German doctor was clearly trained in L.A. and was talking to a 19 year old male. What he didn't realize is that this kind of question for Mormons is really much more appropriate when asked by a Bishop who has a picture of a disapproving Jesus on his desk and doesn't mean. "Does anything bad happen when you jerk off?" As in, "is there pain when you jerk off, or does ketchup come out instead of tartar sauce?"
No, the bishop's context is "only evil perverts masturbate. So if you do, you have a problem that I need to know about. Do you have a problem?"
He didn't know this distinction, but I did. I simply said, "no" to his question but I found it funny enough to share with my companion.
Big fucking mistake.
My companion did not find any humor in the situation at all. What he saw was that I had an obvious moment to "teach the gospel" but I didn't take it. To him I was supposed to say, "NO, WE MORMONS DON'T DO THAT." And what that was supposed to really accomplish is anyone's guess. But missionaries are so brainwashed with magical thinking that it's is completely plausible that my companion had this reaction because he thought that if I had gotten on some self righteous high horse and told him that we were better than masturbating that this doctor might think to himself. "Oh my god! I've touched myself most of my life, and it's so not as sweet as if the Holy Ghost were to come inside of my soul while Jesus touches me. Please, Elder Raptor Jesus, teach me how to be truly happy that doesn't involve the crushing guilt that I wasn't raised with concerning masturbation, that is considered completely normal to everyone except for religious nutjobs. Please convert me to your religion that knows so little about what's actually normal and healthy but brands those things as evil and sinful. That uses fear and ignorance instead of actual facts. Please, Raptor, I don't even feel bad about this practice so Satan must have bound and gagged my soul and forgotten to give it a safe word."
Whatever. The important thing is that I didn't have Super Chlamydia, but what I DID have was still up in the air. More tests were needed.
I was given a drug in my IV that I still to this day don't know what it was. It definitely was not a full blown anesthetic. It was probably ether. I was totally high, but not "under" and in Germany this is a great time for a gastroscopy, but I don't know that word. I am only given something in my IV without words. Like I mentioned, I was high but awake. I had no idea what in the fuck was going on but I remember the feeling of movement as they carted me down to another room. The bright lights in my eyes.
People in masks
Open your mouth
Bite down on this
What the fuck is that
Gagging choking
Masks Movement Lights
Gagging choking
Talking. I don't understand
Flashing
Gagging Choking
I feel something swimming in my stomach
Gagging Choking
Movement inside of me and out
Flashes
I move my head
Gagging and Choking
I move my head
Stop doing that
Something is holding my head
Gagging and choking
My jaw hurts
Is that my jaw
I throw up a fifteen foot metal snake
Is that real
I can't close my mouth
Movement back to my room
What the fuck happened
I slept and still can't remember if it was the next day that I woke up, or the same day. I still was not sure exactly what happened, but I remember that there was a very good chance that I had been impregnated with a Xenomorph that would burst from my chest over a nice spaghetti dinner. The whole hospital was fucked too, because I really didn't think any of them was capable of rigging a flame thrower before it had killed all of them.
Tracting (A.K.A. Knocking on strangers' doors and bugging the shit out of them about our racist, sexist, homophobic, money grubbing "church") was the least favorite part of most sane missionaries, it was the least productive part of the mission, but for those of us in Europe - it took up most of our time. We would spend anywhere from 8 to 11 hours a day tracting. We kept meticulous records of who we had already annoyed, who we still needed to annoy, who was about due for another annoy-ing because most of our time was spent tracting, many places within our "mission boundary" had already been annoyed. This didn't stop us from rotating those places just on the off chance that someone hadn't been annoyed sufficiently.
So the next time two "Elders" who are still just babies themselves knock on your door and you think, "I swear to Cthulhu weren't these pants shitters just here?" it's because they were, but they have nothing better to do.
(I'm going to deviate here for just a second to explain that last statement. Mrs. Raptor Jesus and I were teaching Primary, Sunday School for little children, and one lesson was about "Missionary Work" and we asked the class, "What are some of the things that missionaries teach to people?" Well, this one girl who was actually a giant bitch trapped in a little girl's body blurts out in the snottiest tone possible, "Do they teach people how to poop in their pants!?"
I'll give you a minute to process that before going back to main story. There are other reasons to call missionaries "pants shitters." Most missionaries who have gone to foreign countries with exotic "water" have stories of either close calls or abject failures.)
Missionaries who tract a lot, tract until about 9:00pm. The mission rules stipulate that we are back in our apartments by 9:30, but often the zeal gets to missionaries and they begin thinking, "maybe that next house will actually let us in and to talk about a 14 year old boy who saw angels, and the people might actually believe us." And one of those endless nights we were tracting late and I mentioned to my companion that my tummy hurt. It wasn't a big deal, more of an annoyance, but we kept going.
The next morning the pain and discomfort are still there, and I again told my companion, but we didn't do anything about it. Just kept working. Around the third day though, I was in a bad state. The pain had moved to my entire abdomen and it was debilitating. Which says a lot for missionaries because the culture of missionary work is all about bragging rights. Who can "serve the Lord" the most when the Lord is either directly fucking with our lives and bodies or taking bets with Satan about how far we can be pushed before standing up for ourselves. An often repeated theme from the "prophets and apostles," "general authorities," "mission presidents," "assistants to the presidents," and other missionaries is that you should do the "work of the Lord" so fucking hard that you have to be taken home in an ambulance.
Which I did, and I really don't recommend it, but that's not what this story is about. I just wanted to give you context for "debilitating" and missionaries. This pain was bad enough that I told my companion that we needed to get our hairy asses to the hospital because something was wrong with me other than the usual laundry list of things wrong with me.
We got to the hospital and I went through the process of trying to explain to everyone what I could given my limited German. It didn't matter much because there wasn't much to explain. I looked and felt like someone had stabbed me repeatedly in the abdomen - but there were no physical wounds. I hurt, and there was no reason for it. So it was decided that we needed to do TESTS! Everyone's favorite!
I was taken into the room with the scanning equipment, and a gaggle of gossiping German women came in to undress me. I don't think everyone gets that treatment, but I was a 19 year old boy....
After the hens had come in, inspected the young rooster, clucked, and left, I was given an IV and a very small hospital "gown" and was led to my "room."
This hospital was a teaching hospital. For the next couple of days, I would never see at least one doctor.
The lead doctor came in and in doctoral fashion asked me what was wrong. I told him the same thing that I told the person at the front desk of the hospital who wrote it down, the nurses who undressed me who wrote it down, the other nurse that put in my IV and wrote it down, and the nurse who had all of it written down and then handed the writing to the doctor who then glanced at all of the writings before asking me what was wrong.
A line formed behind the doctor as he began to press into my abdomen. He was looking for the spots that caused me to growl at him. Once he found them, he went to the back of the line and the next doctor got his chance to repeat the process. Everyone got their turn to hurt me, no one was left out. I was pretty sure that some janitors sneaked in that line because it was a long line, and "any line that long HAS to be for something good."
When everyone was done coping a feel all the doctors left except for one. While he wasn't the "lead doctor" he was going to be "my doctor." He had been trained in L.A. and had impeccable English. This was good for me because my German was limited to things more like "Jesus loves you, wants you to be baptized and give all your money to his church. And you have to stop drinking wine even though drinking wine IS what Jesus would do."
This doctor asked me some other questions that hadn't been already asked. He wanted to rule out that this wasn't some kind of STD. I told him that I wasn't sexually active at the time. He then asked me in these words specifically, "Do you have any problems jerking off?" Yes, this German doctor was clearly trained in L.A. and was talking to a 19 year old male. What he didn't realize is that this kind of question for Mormons is really much more appropriate when asked by a Bishop who has a picture of a disapproving Jesus on his desk and doesn't mean. "Does anything bad happen when you jerk off?" As in, "is there pain when you jerk off, or does ketchup come out instead of tartar sauce?"
No, the bishop's context is "only evil perverts masturbate. So if you do, you have a problem that I need to know about. Do you have a problem?"
He didn't know this distinction, but I did. I simply said, "no" to his question but I found it funny enough to share with my companion.
Big fucking mistake.
My companion did not find any humor in the situation at all. What he saw was that I had an obvious moment to "teach the gospel" but I didn't take it. To him I was supposed to say, "NO, WE MORMONS DON'T DO THAT." And what that was supposed to really accomplish is anyone's guess. But missionaries are so brainwashed with magical thinking that it's is completely plausible that my companion had this reaction because he thought that if I had gotten on some self righteous high horse and told him that we were better than masturbating that this doctor might think to himself. "Oh my god! I've touched myself most of my life, and it's so not as sweet as if the Holy Ghost were to come inside of my soul while Jesus touches me. Please, Elder Raptor Jesus, teach me how to be truly happy that doesn't involve the crushing guilt that I wasn't raised with concerning masturbation, that is considered completely normal to everyone except for religious nutjobs. Please convert me to your religion that knows so little about what's actually normal and healthy but brands those things as evil and sinful. That uses fear and ignorance instead of actual facts. Please, Raptor, I don't even feel bad about this practice so Satan must have bound and gagged my soul and forgotten to give it a safe word."
Whatever. The important thing is that I didn't have Super Chlamydia, but what I DID have was still up in the air. More tests were needed.
I was given a drug in my IV that I still to this day don't know what it was. It definitely was not a full blown anesthetic. It was probably ether. I was totally high, but not "under" and in Germany this is a great time for a gastroscopy, but I don't know that word. I am only given something in my IV without words. Like I mentioned, I was high but awake. I had no idea what in the fuck was going on but I remember the feeling of movement as they carted me down to another room. The bright lights in my eyes.
People in masks
Open your mouth
Bite down on this
What the fuck is that
Gagging choking
Masks Movement Lights
Gagging choking
Talking. I don't understand
Flashing
Gagging Choking
I feel something swimming in my stomach
Gagging Choking
Movement inside of me and out
Flashes
I move my head
Gagging and Choking
I move my head
Stop doing that
Something is holding my head
Gagging and choking
My jaw hurts
Is that my jaw
I throw up a fifteen foot metal snake
Is that real
I can't close my mouth
Movement back to my room
What the fuck happened
I slept and still can't remember if it was the next day that I woke up, or the same day. I still was not sure exactly what happened, but I remember that there was a very good chance that I had been impregnated with a Xenomorph that would burst from my chest over a nice spaghetti dinner. The whole hospital was fucked too, because I really didn't think any of them was capable of rigging a flame thrower before it had killed all of them.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Seniora Fawn McKay Brodie, non esquire.
While I was battling my father of the lowest dungeon on the highest peak, before I at last threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside, Fawn Brodie came up.
My father was very concerned with some of the allegations I had made towards the profit Joseph. He said that a lot of my information had come from the book No Man Knows My Teen Raping History written by Brodie.
My father was quick to point out that Brodie was clearly biased and had an agenda for that book, and that non Mormons liked No Man because they didn't understand that most of what she said was just anti-Mormon lies. He went on further to say that Brodie did the same thing to Jefferson later and was exposed as being an shitty historian.
I had heard the part about the Jefferson biography, but did not know much about the book other than that Brodie was a supposedly stupid anti-Mormon bitch and couldn't be trusted.
Well, here's something interesting:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fawn_M._Brodie
According to this wikipedia article, the statement about Jefferson is not at all true. There were definitely some negative reviews to her Jefferson book (I believe the title of that book was "I'm a Great President and will Fuck My Slaves If I Want to, Goddamnit".), but overall the book was incredibly well received, and she pointed out some things that were proved later through DNA evidence - unlike Mormonism.
I thought I'd share this with you just in case you stumble upon a TBM while traversing the Mines of Moria, and that TBM wants to take a giant shit all over Fawn's chest, and not in that loving way you did with your significant other last weekend.
You don't have to put up with those kinds of apologetic nonsense. You are the servant of the secret fire, wielder of the Flame of Arnor, and those TBM lies SHALL NOT PASS!!!
My father was very concerned with some of the allegations I had made towards the profit Joseph. He said that a lot of my information had come from the book No Man Knows My Teen Raping History written by Brodie.
My father was quick to point out that Brodie was clearly biased and had an agenda for that book, and that non Mormons liked No Man because they didn't understand that most of what she said was just anti-Mormon lies. He went on further to say that Brodie did the same thing to Jefferson later and was exposed as being an shitty historian.
I had heard the part about the Jefferson biography, but did not know much about the book other than that Brodie was a supposedly stupid anti-Mormon bitch and couldn't be trusted.
Well, here's something interesting:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fawn_M._Brodie
According to this wikipedia article, the statement about Jefferson is not at all true. There were definitely some negative reviews to her Jefferson book (I believe the title of that book was "I'm a Great President and will Fuck My Slaves If I Want to, Goddamnit".), but overall the book was incredibly well received, and she pointed out some things that were proved later through DNA evidence - unlike Mormonism.
I thought I'd share this with you just in case you stumble upon a TBM while traversing the Mines of Moria, and that TBM wants to take a giant shit all over Fawn's chest, and not in that loving way you did with your significant other last weekend.
You don't have to put up with those kinds of apologetic nonsense. You are the servant of the secret fire, wielder of the Flame of Arnor, and those TBM lies SHALL NOT PASS!!!
My Online Patriarchal Blessing.
For those of you who don't know, Patriarchal Blessings in the Mormon church are a rite of passage for Mormon youth.
Once a person reaches around 16, he or she can get a very special blessing by the Patriarch of her immediate area (called Ward/Stake/or Branch). The year is never set, so a person can get the blessing earlier than this, and the can definitely get them later than this. But for Utah Mormons, the tradition is usually around 16 or so now.
You set up an appointment through your local Bishop and then set up an appointment with the Patriarch. When it comes time, you go over to the Patriarch's house and he gives you a blessing.
This blessing is supposed to be your specific blessing from Heavenly Father himself. It's supposed to give your lineage back through the tribes of Israel, and then give you direction in your life. It's all incredibly "magical."
While you aren't usually expressly told not to share your blessing with anyone else you are discouraged from doing so. This is supposed to be your very very personal blessing from god, and you wouldn't want anyone to shit on it.
Well, for those of you who are very jealous now and want your own patriarchal blessing, YOU ARE IN LUCK. There is a website that you can go to and have your own made. And these blessings are VERY accurate to what you would find if you gathered a ton of blessings together and compared them and took common phrases found throughout all of those blessings and then randomized those phrases and put them into a "blessing" form for people.
God's ways are truly not our ways.
Here's the link:
Patriarchal Blessings Online
And here is my blessing from that place. I didn't quite find it adequate enough for a deity of my stature, so I had to tweak it a little.
Once a person reaches around 16, he or she can get a very special blessing by the Patriarch of her immediate area (called Ward/Stake/or Branch). The year is never set, so a person can get the blessing earlier than this, and the can definitely get them later than this. But for Utah Mormons, the tradition is usually around 16 or so now.
You set up an appointment through your local Bishop and then set up an appointment with the Patriarch. When it comes time, you go over to the Patriarch's house and he gives you a blessing.
This blessing is supposed to be your specific blessing from Heavenly Father himself. It's supposed to give your lineage back through the tribes of Israel, and then give you direction in your life. It's all incredibly "magical."
While you aren't usually expressly told not to share your blessing with anyone else you are discouraged from doing so. This is supposed to be your very very personal blessing from god, and you wouldn't want anyone to shit on it.
Well, for those of you who are very jealous now and want your own patriarchal blessing, YOU ARE IN LUCK. There is a website that you can go to and have your own made. And these blessings are VERY accurate to what you would find if you gathered a ton of blessings together and compared them and took common phrases found throughout all of those blessings and then randomized those phrases and put them into a "blessing" form for people.
God's ways are truly not our ways.
Here's the link:
Patriarchal Blessings Online
And here is my blessing from that place. I didn't quite find it adequate enough for a deity of my stature, so I had to tweak it a little.
"Brother Raptor, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold and the authority in me as a patriarch, I place my hands upon your head to give you your patriarchal blessing. The fulfillment of these things will be dependent upon your righteousness and your obedience in keeping the commandments of our Lord and Savior Raptor Jesus Christ. So, you, I guess.
Brother Raptor, you were the noblest of the children, of the premortal world, there in that holy sphere, through your faithfulness, grew and developed, and presented the plan of salvation to our Heavenly Father. You were chosen through your obedience to come to earth at this appointed time to fuck shit up for real.
Call upon Yourself to give yourself guidance and direction. Seek direction from Heavenly Father and then, through the power of the Holy Ghost, He will enlighten your mind as to the direction and the paths that you should follow. Remember that "up up, down down, left right, left right, B, A" will give you more lives.
I bless you that as you gather your tithes and offerings and keep the Sabbath Day holy, you will never want for food, clothing, shelter, a lovely home, and all the needful things of life. Because that's other people's fucking money. No good thing will be denied you, every righteous desire of your heart will be granted, and as you put first in your life the Lord's Kingdom and the promotion of His Cause, you will have the constant sweet companionship of the Holy Spirit, He will lead you beside the still waters, He will restore your soul daily; and he will point out the hottest of chicks to plow. Angels will then watch over you and be your constant companions.
Through the Priesthood, you can withstand all of the temptations of the evil one, Satanosaurus. Heavenly Father will never let you be tempted beyond your ability to withstand the temptation and trials that come to you.
Our Heavenly Father will bless you that your testimony shall continue to be increased and grow. Keep the commandments of your Heavenly Father, study the scriptures that you don't have to write down yourself, pray and fast and you will be blessed with spiritual experiences that will strengthen you to have unlimited power.
Brother Raptor, your Heavenly Father truly loves you more than any of his other stupid children and is anxious to extend his most generous blessings to you. You, like your Father before was the most faithful spirits, held back in reserve until the Meridian of Time, were crucified, then became gods and fucked a lot of bitches.
These blessings are yours, according to your faithfulness, and I pronounce them upon you through my calling as a patriarch, in the name of, well, You, Raptor Jesus Christ, amen."
Brother Raptor, you were the noblest of the children, of the premortal world, there in that holy sphere, through your faithfulness, grew and developed, and presented the plan of salvation to our Heavenly Father. You were chosen through your obedience to come to earth at this appointed time to fuck shit up for real.
Call upon Yourself to give yourself guidance and direction. Seek direction from Heavenly Father and then, through the power of the Holy Ghost, He will enlighten your mind as to the direction and the paths that you should follow. Remember that "up up, down down, left right, left right, B, A" will give you more lives.
I bless you that as you gather your tithes and offerings and keep the Sabbath Day holy, you will never want for food, clothing, shelter, a lovely home, and all the needful things of life. Because that's other people's fucking money. No good thing will be denied you, every righteous desire of your heart will be granted, and as you put first in your life the Lord's Kingdom and the promotion of His Cause, you will have the constant sweet companionship of the Holy Spirit, He will lead you beside the still waters, He will restore your soul daily; and he will point out the hottest of chicks to plow. Angels will then watch over you and be your constant companions.
Through the Priesthood, you can withstand all of the temptations of the evil one, Satanosaurus. Heavenly Father will never let you be tempted beyond your ability to withstand the temptation and trials that come to you.
Our Heavenly Father will bless you that your testimony shall continue to be increased and grow. Keep the commandments of your Heavenly Father, study the scriptures that you don't have to write down yourself, pray and fast and you will be blessed with spiritual experiences that will strengthen you to have unlimited power.
Brother Raptor, your Heavenly Father truly loves you more than any of his other stupid children and is anxious to extend his most generous blessings to you. You, like your Father before was the most faithful spirits, held back in reserve until the Meridian of Time, were crucified, then became gods and fucked a lot of bitches.
These blessings are yours, according to your faithfulness, and I pronounce them upon you through my calling as a patriarch, in the name of, well, You, Raptor Jesus Christ, amen."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Only True Church gets its first donations!!!
Hooray! Donations are great.
Just to let all of you know, I have decided on a policy for donations that you may or may not agree with, but it doesn't matter because I RUN THIS SHOW!
When you donate (NOT IF!), and you want to be praised, go ahead and use the comment feature to let everyone know that you donated.
Praise will be heaped upon you as will your reward in Raptor Heaven.
If you do not use the comment feature, I will assume that you wish to remain anonymous and will respect your wishes.
If you have a hard time thinking for yourself and wonder, "Who is greatest among us, those who donate anonymously or those who donate and brag about it?" well, here is your answer.
"All those who give money are equally awesome and are saved. All those who don't give money will burn in hell eventually."
Just to let all of you know, I have decided on a policy for donations that you may or may not agree with, but it doesn't matter because I RUN THIS SHOW!
When you donate (NOT IF!), and you want to be praised, go ahead and use the comment feature to let everyone know that you donated.
Praise will be heaped upon you as will your reward in Raptor Heaven.
If you do not use the comment feature, I will assume that you wish to remain anonymous and will respect your wishes.
If you have a hard time thinking for yourself and wonder, "Who is greatest among us, those who donate anonymously or those who donate and brag about it?" well, here is your answer.
"All those who give money are equally awesome and are saved. All those who don't give money will burn in hell eventually."
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