I was standing on my front step on Sunday morning, and I’d been awake for about 330 seconds (45 of which were spent squinting hatefully into the hazy summer mugginess while trying to stop my hands from shaking long enough to get the Marlboro Light going) when my backbrain started sounding an urgent the Predator In Motion alarm.
The part of the human brain that still remembers being plucked from trees by lions is designed to register moving objects that don’t fit into their expected surroundings. So I was initially confused that I was getting such a feeling of trepidation over a Hispanic guy walking across my street, since it’s far from common for my neighbors to fork the Sign of the Evil Eye at the TV when Sesame Street is brought to you by the letters “I”, “N”, or “S”.
Except this particular Hispanic guy was walking right toward me. Which is far from uncommon, and I actually started reaching for my cigarette pack, which is the normal reason the neighbors deign to approach the staggering, long-haired gringo with the surly manner, the omnipresent open beer and the “Come Back With A Warrant” welcome mat. But something was still wrong…
The dude’s eyes were unnaturally bright and hopeful for a nicotine junkie. His posture was too good. And while I was sweating freely through my Batman t-shirt in the 85-degree, 100 percent humidity, he was immaculate in his black tie, sweater vest and fanny pack combo, and…
My brainstem fired off the Five-Bell, Approaching Velociraptor alert. I considered running, but I looked stupidly at my right hand, holding my life’s 10,000th first cigarette of the day, and knew I would never make it. I twisted back toward the front door, hoping stupidly that I had the three seconds to dive back into the relative safely of my living room –
“Hola, amigo! I’d like to invite you to visit us at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints!”
It was too late; he’d landed me. I turned to face my destiny.
“The church is not far from here, and we offer classes every Tuesday and – ”
“Uh… sorry, but… I was raised Catholic.”
If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, know this: that answer was wrong. Telling a Mormon that you were raised Catholic only tells him that you’re probably not a practicing Catholic, and are, therefore, fresh, bleeding meat. The only worse things that you can say in that situation are, “I’m spiritually empty inside, and my hundreds of thousands in disposable income just don’t fill the void,” or “I’m Unitarian.” Learn from your Uncle Rob’s mistakes, and fetch him another JD-rocks. But I digress.
Freshly energized by my stupidity, he said, “Our church has been in existence for more than two thousand years, and – ”
“Wait, what? How long?”
“Um… two thousand years, when Jesus was resurrected and – ”
“I thought your church was founded in Utah by Joseph Whatshisface, a couple decades before the Civil War.” *
He cocked his head, confused, like a Golden Retriever I’d pulled the pretend-to-throw-a-ball-with-an-empty-hand trick on, and I found myself calming down a bit. Settle down, Reuter; this is a Mormon. Yes, he’s scary and attempting to invade your nest, but he’s more scared of thinking, even for a second, that he might be wrong, than you are of him.
Before he could respond, I said, “Let me ask you a question.”
He sighed, “The church no longer practices polygamy, sir.”
“I wasn’t gonna ask about that,” I said with exaggerated indignation, “That question would be hack. Quite frankly, this entire conversation is hack, but since it’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since my last post, we’re both stuck with it.”
“Um… sorry; English is my second – ”
“Nevermind. Now, you’re a Mormon. You’re the guys that you don’t drink, or smoke, or use caffeine, or have sex outside of marriage so you can go to heaven, right?
“A state of paradise, yes.”
“So, what’s Mormon heaven like?”
“The Lord assigns you an immortal physical body, and – ”
“Wait – a physical body? Like, completely intact, if you get my drift?”
He began to look annoyed. “Sir, there’s no need to make fun of my beliefs.”
“I’m not making fun of your beliefs. Believe whatever the hell you want. No matter what spiritual horse you’re backing, it can’t possibly be weirder than the Zombie Jesus, transubstantiation-cannibalism stuff I grew up with. But let’s be clear: you came to me. This is my house. You’re trying to convince me of something, and I have questions. You don’t want to answer them, my front door’s right behind me.”
He sighed. “Yes, we will get a complete physical body in the state of paradise.”
“Okay. So… what the hell do you want me there for?”
“Excuse me?”
“Stick with me: you guys need to abstain from Earthly pleasures like the booze and the weird sex so you can get to heaven, right?”
“The state of – ”
“Whatever. Am I right, or not?”
“You’re right.”
“Okay. So… if you need to abstain from those things to get into hea- the state of paradise… isn’t the implication that, once you get there, you’ll be able to do all that stuff whenever you want?”
“Excuse me?”
“Isn’t the idea that, if you don’t do the stuff that brings you pleasure on Earth, that you’ll get all that stuff once you pass your finals and get into paradise? Don’t look at me like that; it’s a pretty common belief. What do you think the 76 virgins they promise the suicide bombers are for, Halo 3 team deathmatch?”
“Well… I suppose that’s one possible interpretation.”
“Okay, so once again: what do you want me there for?”
He began to get petulent. “I don’t understand your question!”
“If your paradise is a non-stop orgy of booze, drugs and weird, uncontrolled sex, and you’re trying to get me to join your church so I can get into paradise, I can only assume it’s because you want me to be a part of your depraved, eternal, drug-fuelled fuckfest.”
“Uh – ”
“Are you coming on to me, sir?”
The back door opened behind me, and my girl walked out with two cups of coffee. She handed me mine (In my Hustler mug), appraised the situation, and asked, “Mormon or JW?”
“What?”
“Is this a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness? I know it’s not a Scientologist because he came to you and he’s not libeling you.”
“Technically, it would be ‘slandering’ me, but – ”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. She picked the smoldering butt from between my fingers and flicked it at the guy. Whether or not he actually believed in the state of paradise, he definitely believed in the highly-flammable nature of a polyester sweater vest and jumped back off the curb.
“Fuck off,” my girl said, “We’re Satanists. Now come inside, dear; it’s time to invert the cross and begin Black Mass.”
The moral of the story being: no matter how persuasive your beliefs, you will never convince me that sex outside of marriage is wrong. The proof my girl offers will always trump you.
*Yes, I am aware that it was founded by Joseph Smith in Missouri in 1830. My front step, however, isn’t equipped with Wikipedia, and let’s see you try remembering religious history ephemera while under pressure and the ravages of decades of systematic alcohol abuse.
[tags]Mormon, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, Dark Humor[/tags]
