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Men’s Room Etiquette – a Refresher Course for Neanderthals.

September 20, 2012 Leave a comment

Some guys just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.  So for those of you who didn’t get the memo, here it is:

DO NOT START A CONVERSATION WITH A COMPLETE STRANGER IN THE MEN’S ROOM.

PERIOD.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

No exceptions means no banal pleasantries like “So, how’s your day goin’?”  Here’s a clue: my day was going just fine until you took an interest in me as soon as I pulled my dick out.  No exceptions mean no stupid, sophomoric jokes such as, “How’s it hangin?” or, “So, is this where all the pricks hang out?”  Ask me that, and I’ll pee on your leg.

There is an un-written, un-spoken code of conduct that, apparently, some guys are unaware of or blatantly ignore: you don’t chitchat in the men’s room.  You go in, you drain your radiator, you wash your hands (please, for the love of all that is holy, wash your freakin’ hands) and you leave.

Quietly.

No eye contact.  No chattering.  No exchanges.  Strictly business.  You keep your eyes, your hands, and your thoughts to yourself.

Speaking for all men everywhere, I say this: I am only pulling my wanker out in this semi-public place because it’s socially unacceptable to pee myself, so don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, don’t acknowledge my presence.  I do not exist to you.

So here’s the bottom line for all you Chatty Charlies out there; if I have my dick in my hand, I want some privacy.

Beware: Mormons Masquerading as Christians

September 4, 2012 1 comment

My family now has pictures of Jesus on their walls.  Every few years he changes, though, moving from a scarlet-robed Charleton Heston type to a cuddlier man clothed in fluffy homespun, his kind face turned toward his sheep.

When I look at their Jesus, I remember my childhood in this same house where a portrait of Christ on the wall was considered bizarre.  Only converts to the Mormon faith would tolerate Jesus icons, or people who were not tightly wound.  My family was fifth-generation Mormon and we knew how to behave.

At Seminary school, I remember a lecture on why it was against our religion to wear a crucifix.  My handsome instructor, Brother Dolan, pointed out that a Mormon girl wouldn’t sport a cross anymore than she would string a tiny guillotine around her neck.  He called it “execution jewelry” and, being 15, I agreed.

The prophet-saint Joseph Smith was everywhere in homes and churches then along with prints depicting the pioneers’ struggle to reach the Salt Lake Valley.  Joseph, reconstructed to mirror the current strong-jawed movie star image,  appeared with a glow around his head.

For many of us ex-Mormons, this Presidential Election time of spotlight on our church of origin is uniquely uncomfortable.  The Mormon face-lift rankles even more than usual.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me about her “other mother.”  Her name was Fanny and she was a convert from England.  Fanny came to help out in my great-grandmother’s house and stayed on as my great-grandfather’s second wife.  This would have been standard procedure in the community, but unfortunately, great-grandpa Edwin favored Fanny and built her a beautiful new house of her own where he spent more of his time.  When the federal government began arresting polygamists, he took Fanny and their offspring to hide in Mexico, abandoning my great-grandmother to fend for herself in a harsh desert land with 11 children.  That’s a face of Mormonism that isn’t depicted in missionary literature.

I can accept the Mormons’ colorful history, but not the pretending that it never existed.

African-Americans are now admitted to the church with full privilege.  I have clear recall of being taught that black people were genetically inferior and not suitable hosts for the restored Gospel.  Gays, by the way, did not exist.

The civil rights movement cured the church of their misconception regarding blacks, but women have not fared so well.  Still clearly inferior, women in the church are taught that since they have been “given the privilege of bearing children” they forfeit the priesthood authority.  I probably believed this was a good trade until, on a sweltering August afternoon, I experienced the privilege of birthing twins.  I’ll take the Priesthood.

The schools of my girlhood in Idaho were so influenced by Mormons that pants were forbidden to females.  The church still teaches that a woman of any age must always wear a skirt to enter into the door of the chapel.

By the way, Bibles were not very evident in the Mormon homes of my childhood, either.  After all, the Holy Bible is only true until it contradicts the Book of Mormon, a higher wisdom.

The Mormon church has changed so subtly and with such skillful art that my family, who still believe, seem unaware of it.  When I comment on the new Jesus focus they look at me with bewilderment.   However, any Christian or other faith beliefs I have acquired since my liberation from Mormonism are regarded with suspicion or outright disdain.  If I am not Mormon, no matter how devout or solid in my faith, I am deluded, deceived, or otherwise influenced by Satan.   Certainly, I am not accepted or respected.

Neither, my  friends, are you.

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