LLLLLLLLLet's get ready to RRRRRRRRRRRumble!

Posted by Playelder on April 13, 1999 at 12:35:10:

I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
 

Violence solves all problems. When it comes to getting what you want and all else fails, you will never go wrong by resorting to “The way of the fist.” This doctrine was preached unto me in the form of a miserable little song:

I have 2 little hands folded snugly and tight
They are tiny and meek yet they know how to fight
During all the long hours till daylight is thru
My 2 little hands beat the crap out of you

“Hey, kid! Get outta here! Is this your class or not? Don't make us pull your dad out of priesthood!”

 And then wondering if they'd test our worthiness by holding up a sign for a Primary class in Sunday school and seeing whether or not we'd be deceived into going to our primary classroom on a Sunday school day. 

“HA HA! Today's Sunday! There's no Targeteers on Sunday! That's Wednesday! Now repent and sit back down until we hold up your Sunday school sign!” 

We'll just have to hold a meeting and work this nonsense out about which day which meeting for which title you are in that particular day's meeting. That will clear everything up. 
 

Suffice it to say I learned it, but whether I learned it in primary as a Targeteer or in Sunday school as a Sunbeam remains in question. When faced with a dilemma of this nature, I will resort to something else I learned,

“There are some things that Heavenly Father just doesn't want us to understand. Now go pay some tithing!”

 “The way of the fist” is a doctrine from Heavenly Father that will never be reduced to the status of couplet, changed revelation, or simply brushed aside with feeble excuses as,

“Well, that was back in the 1800's and there were more women than men so they had to put carrots in the Jell-O and he wasn't speaking as a prophet when he said that.”

The church has this way of involving itself in every facet of your life. In high school we had to go to early morning seminary every day. Fortunately for us, the church was located about half a mile from the school. It is my belief this convenient location served ulterior motives. If you forgot to wear your CTR ring to school that day and you were cheating in a geometry test, you could look out the window and see the church looking back at you, knowing that you were engaged in less than honest dealings with your fellow man. If you were sitting behind that cute non member girl in health class and allowing yourself to think impure and unwholesome thots, you could look out the window and see the church looking back at you, knowing that you were defiling yourself with such lustful thots. If you were in history class and they were discussing the western movement of the pioneers, you could look out the window and see the church looking back at you, and you felt guilty for taking your religious freedom for granted.

The fact that you could look out the window and see the church looking back at you was worse than wearing a CTR ring on every single finger and then making a nose ring out of the little one you had in primary....... or was it Sunday school?

The close proximity of the church was not lost on my non member schoolmates. They, too, knew where it was, and they made regular pilgrimages unto it. Their purposes in going to the church were not the holy and spiritual ones my missionary instincts had hoped for. They had not become curious about my church from the sterling example I set before them. They did not feel the spirit I had radiate before them and wish that they, too, could know peace and salvation as I did. Sadly, this was not the case. These miscreants and malcontents came to the church for one doctrine and one doctrine only. The way of the fist!

The church was the chosen battleground for those who had disputes with one another. They knew they could take it here and settle it like men. They knew that the fight would proceed in peace, and that no teachers would come out and break it up before it was over. They knew the best damn place to fight was behind the Mormon church and they all went there to do it. This made me damn proud to be a Mormon. 

We all remember those manly high school fights. I never had the privilege of witnessing a womanly fight, but had there been one, the Mormon church would have been the perfect place for it as there was plenty of Jell-O on hand.

The ritual is the same everywhere. One guy talks to another guy's girl, or spits on his car, or calls his masculinity into question, or calls him a Mormon. It's usually one of those things. Word spreads around the school that there's some bad blood a'brewin, and that blood's a'gonna spill before the day is done. They encounter each other in the hall and have a little pre skirmish that resembles more of a posedown than anything else. They both try to out macho each other while secretly wishing that a teacher would come around the corner to break it up. If no teacher shows up, and things get kind of ruff, each of the combatants gets held back by his homies. Knowing that they have effectively saved face in front of everyone, they struggle just enuff to get held back by their homies while throwing down the gauntlet thru clenched teeth,

“YOU AND ME! THE MORMON CHURCH! AFTER SCHOOL!”

Knowing they had one more theatrical obligation to fulfill, each guy made one last lunge at the other, knowing that their homies would hold them back while saying,

“Dude, like, save it for the fight, dude. Save it for the fight.”

Word of the impending fight spread like an STD thru the school. Everyone knew there would be a fight. 
 

“Dude, like, check it out! Cecil and Clarence are gonna duke it out today! “
“Gnarly, dude!”
“Mormon church after school, dude! Catch you later, my most awesome compadre!”

This left the girls standing there in their leg warmers and chic headbands shaking their heads in disgust while declaring,

“Like, I'm so totally sure! Gag me with a spoon! How far is that Mormon church again?”
“Like, I know where it is! As if? I'm so totally sure!”

Speech impediments aside, word traveled as fast as was allowable considering the speech patterns of the day.
 

Once the final bell rang, it was time for the pre fight ritual to begin. The 2 combatants and their homies would meet each other by the high jump mat and adjourn themselves to the church from there. Ahhh, the 1/2 mile walk to the church. This was as precise and rigid as any ordinance practiced by the church itself. The 2 gladiators would lead the procession, walking in silence side by side to the arena. Each was followed by his group of respective homies who marched in solemn reverence, knowing that they might be called into the fray. They secretly eyed each other, trying to pick out the opposing homie they best had the chance of beating up, should that chance present itself. They were then followed by the revelers and merrymakers who were there to see the fight and have a good time. They shouted with glee and jumped with joy. They made known their favorite in this fight and kept it no secret. The irreverence of the masses irritated the homies. This was a solemn occasion. Manhood is at stake here. The battle for supremacy is not to be opened to public ridicule and shame. They invariably took it upon themselves to silence these revelers and merrymakers, even threatening to use the way of the fist themselves if they had to, for their homie would not be mocked. Cool! 2 fights for the price of one! This was countered with the revelers and merrymakers challenging the homie to put his money where his mouth was, and since he was just some stupid homie, he usually shut up and turned his attention back to the plight of his master. 

Upon the procession's arrival at the church, it quickly became evident why this was a most awesome primo fighting place, dude. There was nice green grass for the revelers to sit on as they enjoyed a good fight. It was hidden from the public view, so we knew this fight would not end prematurely, and it had one of those satellite dishes so we could put it on Bonneville Communications pay per view and get rich. After we paid 10% of course.

“Good afternoon, brothers and sisters! I'm Gordon B. Hinckley coming to you live on the Bonneville Broadcasting Network from the Burns Ward bringing you the blow by blow account of the fight! We've got a real good bout scheduled for you today, brothers and sisters, and I know you won't be disappointed!” 

There was now silence as the 2 men (one soon to be boy) eyed each other. It was common knowledge among all present that I was a Mormon, and this was my holy ground upon which they were fighting. It was always the same damn thing! Everyone kind of looked at me as though since I was the presiding priesthood authority, it would be appropriate for me to call this service to begin. I just sat there thinking,

“WHAT?!? OK, so it's my church, big deal! What do you want from me, an invocation? Do I have to set these guys apart before they are called to fight? There's no way I'm going to give the loser a blessing, or seal his girlfriend to the winner! “

When it became evident that I wasn't going to use this cool priesthood power I had, the attention rightfully shifted to the warriors. NOW THIS IS WHAT WE CAME TO SEE!!! 

The 2 boys began fighting. The cheer of the throngs of revelers was exhilarating.  “Kick his ass, Cecil! Sock him in the face, Clarence! Punch him in the stomach! Hey, only sissies pull hair! Throw some dirt in his face! Smack him with his shoe! Who's your daddy, Cecil? Who's your daddy? Rub his face in the ground! Spit in his mouth! Gouge his eyes! Give him a big ass wedgie!“

The homies were much more serious in fulfilling their obligation in this ordinance. They yelled their advice on how to win the fight, “Don't advertise your punches, Clarence! Hit him with your left, Cecil! Hit him when he's open! Go for his nose! Go for his jaw!”
 

And thus they waged war one with another on holy ground. I reckon it's just the opposite of that Hilander holy ground thing. You're not safe here, son! This is where you come to fight! Surely the pioneers would be saddened to know that their sacrifices and long trek across the plains were made so that these rogues and ruffians could have a suitable place to fight. Imagine Brigham Young's frustration at having his words used to declare the Mormon church a good place to fight. 

“This is the place!”
 

The fights were over soon enuff. One of them finally decided he'd had enuff and was subjected to the scorn of the revelers.

You wimp, Cecil! I can't believe you let Clarence take you down like that! You fight worse than my grandma! And she's a Mormon!

 Aside from some ruffed up manhood, no serious damage was done. They always ended with the 2 fighters shaking hands in the end after having settled it on the fields of war. Bodies were bumped, egos were bruised, but the masses got to see a really cool fight that was not interrupted by those pesky teachers. It eventually occurred to the revelers and homies that they were hanging around the Mormon church and they had reputations to uphold, so they soon split, leaving me standing there on my own with a handful of First Vision pamphlets I was going to hand out after the fight. Once again I was left to wonder what it would take to get my friends to not only come to church, but to stay there as well. Perhaps I could convince some Laurels to wear bikinis and come out between rounds and hand out literature. “Hey, bish. it brought them all to church, didn't it?”

Looking back, there were some advantages to having grown up a Mormon. Guaranteed ringside seats, knowing the fight won't start before you get there, and credit for having brought 57 people to church in one day. 

A, ahem, Penis Story

By Playelder on January 13, 1999: 

I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here.  Just a stupid story.
 

Many years ago my mother was giving my 3 year-old brother his monthly bath.  During the course of his washing and annointing, he kept grabbing at his... his... HIS PENIS!!!! There! I said it!  Penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis!!!! Are you happy now?!!

That felt so good, so cleansing. One of the more liberating aspects of ditching life as a Mormon is the realistic approach you can take to life's complexities. If I want to drink a beer, as bad as it tastes, by God, I'll walk directly into that 7-11, grab one, plunk my prize down on the counter, look the clerk directly in the eye and say, "I'd like to buy this can of beer!" 

And I don't have to worry about my home teachers seeing me and telling the bishop, if I don't want to!  And if I want to smoke a cigarette, by God, I'll walk right up to that sandbox outside the post office and pull out a still smoking Marlboro, take a big long drag on it, blow it in you face, and say to myself, "You've come a long way, Playelder!"

So, if you want to talk about the male sex organ with me, by God, I'll boldly stride right up to you and proudly declare, "So, you want to talk about penises, eh? Fine by me! Lets talk about penises!" 

Sorry about that.  It just felt so good to get that off my chest. 

So as my mother is bathing my brother, he keeps grabbing for his penis.  My mother is discouraged by this wanton act and pulls his hand away.  As soon as the left hand is pulled away, the right hand shoots over to take it's rightful place on the penis.  My mother pulls that hand away and his other hand shoots back to grasp the iron rod.  My brother is now laffing as he thinks this penis game is more fun than a barrel full of monkeys with penises.  My mother was becoming exceedingly agitated at the fact that this bath had now become a game of debauchery.  She must put an end to this damning practice and do it now.  Summoning up all the authority she could without actually holding any priesthood power, she came out with both guns blazing.

"Hey!  Stop that right now!  Jesus said you're not supposed to do that!" 

Looking her dead in the eye and declaring with the seriousness of a prophet, the child replied, "I didn't hear him." 

Truly, this is wisdom from the mouth of babes.

The Book of The John

Posted by Playelder on January 28, 1999 at 12:17:02:

1. And lo, it came to pass that as Jesus and His disciples went forth unto Galilee, Jesus turned unto His brethren and saith unto them, 

2. "Behold, verily I saith unto thee, the time of passing is near and it shall arrive upon thee as a thief in the night. Ye shall prepare thyselves for this passing, lest ye suffer great torment as though it were a river of water trickling forth upon the land."

3. And the disciples of Jesus all looketh upon one another with wonderment, for the words Jesus spoke unto them that day were unheard of before them.

4. "Master, tell us more of this passing, for we know not of what thou speakest."

5. Jesus looked upon His disciples and saith unto them, "Behold, yea verily I saith unto thee, is it not written that there shall be a passing of that which is unholy from that which is holy? Is it not written that which is unclean cannot dwell within that which is clean? Surely the prophets have spoken this unto the children of Man for many generations. 

6. And if that which is unclean passeth not from that which is clean, is it not all thereby made unclean before the Lord thy God? Yea, verily, I saith unto thee, it shall surely be made unclean before God. And no unclean thing may dwell in the presence of God.

7. And it came to pass that the disciples of Jesus were still bewildered at the words of their master.

8. But Lord, what is this torment that shall be as a great river of water trickling forth upon the land which thou speakest? We have not heard such doctrines before this day. 

9. And Jesus saith unto him, "Dost thou seekest to be clean before the Lord thy God?"

10. "Yea, master. I desire it above all other things. I have forsaken all to be with thee and purify myself. All with us here today have forsaken all things of the world to be found pure at the last day."

11. And Jesus saith unto them, "And ye shall surely be purified before the lamb of God. But first ye must seek to purify yourself, lest ye suffer great torment as though it were a river of water raging forth upon the land."

12 And Judas saith unto Jesus, "Rabbi, what would this raging river of water be? Surely for the price of 30 pieces of silver we could divert these waters and change their course."

13 And Jesus saith unto Judas, "Thy stubbornness and thy silver shall surely lead to death. Dost thou thinkest that 30, yea even 30 times 30 pieces of silver may cease the raging of impurity that is within us all? Behold, I say unto thee, nay. It surely shall not come to pass. My bowels are filled with compassion for thee and thy stubborn ways, for ye thinkest ye can stray from the path placed before us. I must depart from thee for a short time. "

14 And Jesus left his disciples by the wayside.

15 And Peter, being filled with great wonderment and awe at the words of The Son of God, straightway went forth after Him and sought him among the bushes.

16 And it came to pass that Peter found Jesus among the bushes, yea even with his staff of holiness in his hand, spouting forth a raging river of water upon the land.

17 And Peter saith unto Jesus, "Master, what is this which thou dost? Surely mine eyes are not meant to look upon the staff of holiness of the Son of God!"

18 And Jesus straightway saith unto Peter, "Get thou behind me, Peter, I have withheld this impurity within me since we departed Jerusalem. My torment was as a great river of water that now rushes forth upon the land. Remove thy shoes from thy feet, for this is now holy ground on which we standeth.

19 And Jesus returned unto his brethren by the wayside and saith unto them, "Why must I always speaketh in parables unto thee? Just one time, canst I not say, "Excuseth me while I taketh a piss?" 

20 And the disciples of Jesus went forth unto Galilee, yea even with Jesus, and marveled at the wisdom of their master.

AMEN

Apples, Onions, and Iron Maiden

Posted by Playelder on December 15, 1998 at 14:17:00:

 I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
 

As a child it was always a source of extreme embarrassment that I was an expert on music. And not the cool kind that my ultra chic and hip friends listened too. No, unfortunately I was an expert on the golden oldies and all that Happy Days sock hop stuff that makes your parents get that wistful look in their eyes as they long to recapture the days of their carefree youth before you ever came along, a twisted wretched result of one night at inspiration point in their dad's 57 Chevy. And he wasn't pissed at them so much as because of what they did together, but what they did to the shocks in the Chevy as they did what they did together. Whenever they got that look, I knew that it was time to jet that joint lest I see the dancing, snuggling, necking, petting, and conception of yet another sibling. 

My parents had an extremely large collection of their "real music" and I was subjected to it at such a regular basis that I might as well have been raised at Arnold's. Except there was no cool guy like The Fonz there to teach me how to score on chicks. I knew every song from the golden age of rock and roll and who sung it. I could, and did, sing along to every one of those K-Tel and Ronco Records Presents ads. Buddy Holly, Chubby Checker, Elvis the King, and the older stuff like Patti Paige and Jerry Vail. Let's not even get into Glenn Miller and Spike and his orchestra. I'm having wicked flashbacks that would rival those of any Vietnam vet. 

But the child abuse did not stop there. I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk, Sha Na Na, (Bowser was a big mouth lunk head) and Hee Haw (lot's to be learned about anatomy by watching those Hee Haw Honeys!!!) during what was allegedly Family Hour. 

This was rationalized by citing D&C 68:10, I believe it was. Teach your children the things they are supposed to know and if they screw it up later, you won't be held accountable on judgment day in the event they try to cite some sort of doctrinal technicality and sting you with a Celestial loophole. Nope, I was bein' raised right, no questions about it.

As I came of age in junior high and things like girls and dances became the normal focus on social activity, I found myself being exposed to "Other " forms of music. This did not sound like what my parents had on their records, or when they decided to catch up with the times, their 8 tracks , back in the sanctuary of our beloved home. No, I heard my classmates singing strange things about "We don't need no edu-KY- tion" in the worst British accents ever to be subjected to human ears, Arkansas included. And there were other wayward children who were singing some thing like "bomp bomp bomp ... another one bites the dust."
These kids were to be avoided at all costs. They were an unholy influence on the chosen few, such as myself. Their ways were evil and their parents probably had no idea that they weren't listening to The Everly Brothers or The Lettermen. They would be severely punished when they were caught. 

This was also when my sister went to BYU to find a husband. She was safe from all that in Provo, the bastion of that which is good and holy. It was almost as if she went to the Celestial Kingdom for a short while, and then she would come home for Christmas and tell us all about it. We eagerly awaited her arrival.

When she finally came home after that first semester, we had to get over the initial disappointment that she hadn't gotten engaged yet. Dad was miffed, because that meant he had to shell out for another semester at least. And this was even after he had gotten her braces and all sorts of other enhancements in order to assure that she would not be viewed as defective merchandise. 

It kind of reminded me of some of my friends who raised cattle for show. They spent all year brushing and grooming and feeding that cow the very best food to get it ready for the county fair. The cow thought all this was because it was loved and being cared for, when in reality, all the kid wants is a damn good cow it can ditch onto some buyer for the most profit. Thus was the fate of my sister. And she had no takers the first semester of the Church Fair. Oh, well, there's still 3 1/2 semesters to go. All is not lost. Some desperate rancher is sure to at least look at her for pulling his plow. 

My sister enlightened us as to the path trodden by the holy at BYU. It sounded like such a wonderful place. I was only in 7th grade, but I made a silent covenant to my maker that day that I, too, shall go there and uphold this holy tradition. After my years of grooming and brushing , of course. We were all mesmerized by my sister's accounts of BYU, basking in her glow of special feelings, finding love for all things sacred and holy, and feeling the spirit prompt me to cry tears of joy normally reserved for fast and testimony meeting. This was truly a sacred story hour. It was a pity that it would ever have to end, but end it did. And quite harshly, too. 

Not all things were sunshine, love and laughter at BYU. There were also some people there who did bad things. Sometimes they swore, sometimes they drank coke, sometimes they didn't go to church. "How can this travesty go on?" my soul wailed. 

Words cannot expressed the grief and anguish I felt at this new knowledge. It was as if I had just walked in on Mickey Mouse boffing Minnie Mouse after I had inadvertently walked through one of those "employees only" doors at Disneyland, the happiest place on earth. How could I live with such despair, now knowing that Provo wasn't actually the 2nd happiest place on earth. 

My sister assured us that these bad apples were actively being sought out and expelled. Most of them were people from California, and you know how they are. My heart was filled with righteous indignation towards them. 

She also told us of people who listened to bad kinds of music. Very bad music. It was called "acid rock" and those who played, and I use that term loosely, this kind of music had names like Van Halen and Styx. They didn't really play their instruments, either. They merely banged them on the ground and kicked them around the stage. Theirs was not music, it was Satan's plague unleashed upon an unwary mankind. I must be watchful, I again silently covenanted.

A year or so later, we were going on a youth temple trip. We were going to the Seattle temple to do baptisms for the dead, after we passed our interviews, of course. I just shrugged my shoulders at the big M question. I had no idea what that was. It must be something people from California do while listening to acid rock. I was deemed worthy to go and get dunked like a holy donut. Again. And again. And again. And again. How much dunkin' could a holy donut dunk if a holy donut could dunk... uhhh... sorry about that.

On our way to the temple, a kid asked if I wanted to see something. 

"Sure." 

With a look of sheer malevolence, he pulled a cassette tape from out of a bag. He handed it to me and I looked at it. I felt this slimy feeling like I had just taken a pack of cigarettes from him or did to Minnie what I saw Mickey do. This was not good. He had handed me a tape of a group called Iron Maiden. The tape was called "The Number of the Beast." 

"Where did you get this?" I asked, my heart beating faster by the second as I tossed this filth back to him.

"My brother got it at college." 

"Your bother goes to BYU, though!" 

"So what, that's were he got it. He doesn't know I have it either." 

I could not believe what I was hearing!!!!! My sister warned me about these people, but they were all from iniquitous places like California! We couldn't possibly have one of those people here in our ward! And yet his brother smuggled this tape on the van. AND THIS VAN IS GOING STRAIGHT TO THE TEMPLE!!!!!!! 

He opened it up and put it into one of those new fangled tape players they called ghetto blasters and boom boxes. Surely this fool was not thinking of actually playing this thing!! My soul was filled with terror. Heavenly Father would most definitely not allow this to take place. He would stop it, but how? Would he cause this clan van to wreck in order to keep us from defiling His holy temple? Would I be allowed into the Celestial Kingdom after I stood idly by and did nothing to stop it? My heart raced wildly with fear. I felt like the guy in the movie who is the only one who knows a bomb is about to go off and he has to find and disarm it before it kills innocent people. I was surrounded by holy children talking and laughing on their way to the temple. They were completely oblivious to the perils that awaited them. Their fate was in my hands and it was up to me to save the day. Thinking fast and trying my best to look like Harrison Ford, I turned to the kid who was going to subject us all to the wrath of Heavenly Father and play the tape. It was too late. In the time it took for me to consider the consequences of his foolhardy ways and my heroic efforts to thwart them, it allowed him ample time to put the tape in and push the play button. My plan of righteous intervention had already failed. Now there was nothing to do but await our grisly fate for indulging in this veritable orgy of acid rock. 

Before I go on, I seem to remember this church musician/motivational speaker. His name was Lynn something or another, I just can't remember what it was. For some reason the name Brinkley comes to mind. Is this the spirit prompting me with wisdom from above? He used to go about speaking and peddling his worthless wares. I best remember him from a talk I once heard about music called "Apples or Onions." Does anyone remember this? He goes on to warn us about the perils of bad music and what becomes of those who listen to it. He relates a parable about a hi school pep rally where they have a caramel apple eating contest. The upperclassmen are given caramel apples, but the freshmen are slipped caramel onions and they were forced to eat them lest they suffer the wrath of the seniors. I saw it happen to a kid once. He was in my ward, too. It made him cry. Such is it with music. Be careful what you bite into. This Lynn fellow was also prepared to offer us an alternative to caramel onion music. He said there are 4 types of music and they are

1. Bad people making bad music
2. Bad people making good music
3. Good people making bad music
4. Good people making good music

"Get Lynn Brinkley's Greatest Hits, The Best of Lynn Brinkley, and Lynn Brinkley sings the Good Music!! All for $49.95! Available immediately after the benediction! And if you're a full tithe payer, Lynn will autograph them all himself!! Buy all 3!!! Act now and you also get "Lynn Brinkley tells you what's wrong with everyone else's music and why the prophet wants you to listen to Lynn Brinkley " at no extra charge!!! BUT YOU MUST ACT NOW WHILE SUPPLIES LAST!!!!"

So Lynn, the prophet wants me to listen to MoTab and you. Hey Lynn, if you see this, I want you to know your music is REALLY lame. And then you have the gaul to endorse it as church sanctioned because you're a good person making good music. You're damn lucky Beavis and Butthead didn't ever hear of you or they would have nailed your good guy good music thing good!! Actually, you probably could have used a little exposure as I have no problem conjuring up images of you trying to make it as the Dick Clark of stake dances in SLC. You're probably a dj and you try to slip in a few of your songs hoping someone will saunter up and ask who it is so you can say, "Why that's ME young lady! Would you like me to autograph an album for you? I got lots of them in the back of my clan van!" 

"Uhhhhhhhh... like... no thanks, dude. I, like , just wanted to find out, like , who it was, y'know, so, like, you wouldn't play it again, y'know?" 

And this leaves you to wonder if your career could be revived if you wore baggy pants and talked like your from the tuff side of Orem, ya know what I'm sayin'? And then if you incorporated a stronger beat and emphasized the bass a little and PRESTO! Lynn Brinkley's back with it again! And I remember your song about the 2 elders who saw the angel. But it was a Hell's Angel and they were on their Harleys. Really, Lynn, couldn't you think of anything better to rhyme with Harley that to call him "Big Starley"? gagpukevomitwretch 

My career is over I'm down on my luck
My music is good but good music sucks

Sorry about that, I just wanted to leave a message in case he sees this. But then again, if he does see this, that must mean he's questioning things. WAHOO! Welcome to the 13th Tribe, my brother!!! But your music still sucks.

So back to Harrison Ford rescuing the holy children from the satanic bomb on the temple bound clan van. My heart was racing 1000 mph. I was genuinely scared to death at what I was about to hear. I said a silent prayer hoping it would help. I felt as helpless as someone sinking on the Titanic knowing they were about to die. As the song "The Number of the Beast" began and I heard the first kicking of the guitars I frantically rocked back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut praying, " Heavenly Father, I'm so thankful for the blessings which thou hast given me... please forgive us of us our sins... P-P-P-P-P-P-P-PLEASE forgives us for... Hmmmm....... Wait a second... This is acid rock?!?! ....This is kind of cool.... and he's only kicking this guitar around on the floor? ................"

I stopped my prayer in mid sentence. These sounds I was hearing had some strangely profound effect upon me. It reached into the very depths of my soul with all the force of a testimony and grabbed something in there that I had no idea even existed and would not let it go. This music spoke to me. It WAS me. The music and I became as one as I danced with the Devil, and liked it. This was truly a spiritual conversion. It was more powerful than any religious experience I had ever had. And once the song ended, I was assaulted by the hymn "Run to the Hills" I was forever hooked. Those of you who may have partaken from this chalice of Satan know the sweet power that now coursed through me. It was intoxicating. It engulfed and overwhelmed me, taking me on a journey of unprecedented pinnacles heretofore unknown by my virgin ears and soul. This van better not wreck. I'm going to get this tape at the mall as soon as we're done with our holy dunkin' donut routine!!!!

Many years later, still as saved as I ever was, I still sing these hymns. I am a devoted convert to the powers of Devil Music, and I openly worship on a daily basis. I have an electric guitar and and renew my covenants as I feel the power rage through my soul as it is cleansed by the spirit of the B power chord. My wife and neighbors feel this power, too. I preach it unto them. I will convert them to my ways. I must thank the little boy who has now grown into the righteous and upstanding TBM who chastises and upbraideth me for my falling away. I must thank him for being the tool that set me free. Satan works in mysterious ways.

Playelder

P.S. I noticed an interesting development as to the identity of the apple/onion guy. It way well give me a clue as to how our beloved FPR's develop and are perpetuated. While I have never heard of Jack Christensen, the speaker I heard was indeed Lynn Bryson. I just couldn't remember his last name and prophesied falsely when I called him Brinkley. It was an evil spirit which took posession of my body. It appears as though there was some confusion as to who did what. It seems to me, given the LDS culture, that one may be borrowing from another, or perhaps both are borrowing from an outside source altogether, and presenting this information at firesides. While I don't question anyone's experience listening to either one at their respective firesides, I thot it quite interesting that there were different claims as to who heard what from which source. This intrigues me. I am interested in knowing when and where either one claimed the apple/onion incident originally took place. Back in 1982, our pagan high school in Oregon had a pep rally and the apple/onion trick was pulled. In fact, 'twas a kid in my ward who got the onion and he became so frustrated in his effort to actually eat it that be broke down and cried in front of everyone. This was before I had ever heard of Lynn Bryson and his story, much less his wonderful music. Lynn, if you see this, YOU SUCK!!!!! Outside of this, I have only heard of it referred to in my LDS dealings. I find it hard to believe that our cheerleaders picked up a copy of the October 1982 New Era and proclaimed, "I'm so totally sure! Like, let's play this gnarly trick at our pep rally!" Perhaps the roots of this apple/onion phenomenom lie elsewhere and it served a purpose to those church speakers who pulled a Paul H. Dunn on unsuspecting children. If anyone has any input on this Iwould like to hear it. I know this is rather trivial and hardly something to concern myself with, but what can I say? I like stupid stories.

Look Out! He Could Be an Undercover Jesus!

Posted by Playelder on December 01, 1998 at 15:15:50:

Today is especially near and dear to my heart, for on December 1st, 1988, I returned home from my mission and was now free to indulge myself in all manner of worldliness from which I had abstained for the 2 best years of my life. (Cue sad violin music and dim lights as a rather simple fellow sits on a stool alone on a stage.) Simple things now had precious new meaning. Being called by my given first name. An individual identity. Spending my time as I pleased, relaxing, watching TV, listening to music, or just taking a nap. A walk ALONE, as in, all by myself, late at night as the silent snows of winter fell about me, causing me to wax philisophical and contemplate my new freedom that I had lusted after for so long. (Orchestra's tempo gradually increases until it reaches cresendo, then falls silent.)

And if you would have had the gall to tell me that in exactly 10 years I would be sharing this experience within this particular forum, I would have soundly rebuked thee and cast thine evil out from within thee. After I bore my testimony, of course. (Gong rings)

Having shared that, I now leave you with the standard disclaimer:

I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story. (House lights go up to enable half the audience to leave safely and in orderly fashion. The other half who remain are sleeping soundly. Tuff shit)
 

I remember as a youngin' singing the song in sacrament, "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief." We all know this song. It's the one about the guy who keeps encountering this pathetic loser and keeps bailing him out of whatever trouble he's in while the guy gets stuck with the bill and the loser just jaunts away knowing he's suckered yet another good Samaritan. And in the end he sees the loser about to be executed (was this in Texas?) and the loser asks the guy if he'll take his place and die for him. With heart beating frantically, knowing he's about to get involved in something he has no business in that could be the biggest mistake of his life, something bursts forth uncontrollably from within the guy and his answer was similar to mine was at my wedding, "I Will!"

Then, miraculously, the loser sheds his disguise and it turns out it was Jesus undercover the whole time! The guy falls to his knees and the Undercover Jesus says, "Fear not, thou didst them unto me. Now get me a beer..........just kidding!"

Then they leave and all the revelers at the execution are left just kind of standing there, pissed that there will be no execution today. That is, until one of them suggests that the gallows could easily be transformed into a cross, then maybe the afternoon will not be a total loss after all. Jesus splits and leaves the guy to fend for himself.

Well, that's how I remember it! And this is MY special day, so butt out! The moral of the story was to be nice to everyone as you never knew who would be the Undercover Jesus ready to nab you in a Celestial sting operation. There is no such thing as entrapment. If you did it, you did it, and your thoughts, deeds, and actions would testify against you on the last day.

We even had a Sunday School lesson about encounters with Undercover Jesuses. The lesson manual told the story of a BYU religion professor who was giving the finals in his course. At the last minute, he changed the location of where the test would be given, and it was inconveniently out of the way for the students. As they hurried over to where the test would be, they encountered a guy having car problems asking for help. Unfortunately, the students were in such a big hurry that they could not take the time to help him and risk missing this test, lest they go to the Telestial Kingdom for flunking a religion course at The Lord's university. Anyway, someone else would come along and help him.

They then encountered a young lady whose papers had blown all over the place and asked for help picking them up, but she was met with the same response.

Lastly, they encountered an old man who had fallen and couldn't get up, but he had one of those safety beepers, so he'd be OK. It would be a good story to tell the grandchildren.

When the students finally arrived at the new location, they were somewhat relieved that the professor had not arrived yet. When he finally did show up, he was accompanied by the the man with the car trouble, the young lady with the scattered papers, and The Apostle Howard W. Hunter. The professor smugly asked if any of these people looked familiar. Several of the students sheepishly acknowleged that they did. As it turned out, the man with the car and the lady with the papers were planted there as a sting operation to entrap the unwary students. Howard W. Hunter actually had fallen down and couldn't get up, and the professor was pissed about the fact that he had to go get him because he was to be a surprise guest speaker on doing unto others.

Standing before his students and in the presence on an Apostle, the professor, hopefully soon to be a G.A., proclaimed with righteous indignation, "This WAS your final exam! And all of you failed! Let this be a lesson to you!"

He then cited Matthew 25:48 (?) that states, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto these, the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Thus I was fatally infected with the Undercover Jesus Syndrome.

So, now that I knew the world was fraught with Undercovers Jesuses, my journey thru this earthly realm was now made extra hazardous indeed. They were everywhere. You never knew where they'd turn up or what trick they were going to pull to nail you. They were waiting at every corner to tell you an off color (as opposed to an "on color") joke at school and if you dared to laugh then the Undercover Jesus would rip off his mask and yell "BUSTED!!!!" right in your face.

And if you were walking to class and the school babe was in the hallway up ahead of you wearing those tight jeans that had no back pockets (Hey! It was the 80's! They were cool back then! Not like those baggy ass clown pants that these damn kids wear today) and if you thought any impure thoughts, then she would stop dead in her tracks, turn around and approach you in front of everyone while all the guys were thinking, "Whoah! The class babe is gonna talk to him. Maybe she wants to ask him out."

While standing there with sweaty palms and trying to think of something witty to say to her so she'll like you, she rips off her clothes -- I mean mask, sorry, you know how it is with these teenage fantasies -- and it turns out that she was an Undercover Jesus and she yells "BUSTED!" right in your face in front of everyone.

All the guys then just kind of disperse themselves muttering stuff about how glad they are that they aren't Mormons and don't have to worry about the consequences of failing to uphold the high standards. Yes, these Undercover Jesuses had a way of stinging you good.

My personal weakness is the unsupressable urge to laugh at things I'm not supposed to laugh at. The Division of Undercover Jesuses knew this and they constantly used this intelligence against me in the war that we waged against one another. I was stung many times, but I developed the required skills and instincts to sniff out and detect an ambush by the Undercover Jesuses. I could not be fooled any longer in the small town of Burns, Oregon, as I had seen every possible trap the Undercover Jesuses could come up with. It was time for a new challenge.

(It is my theory that Eric K is a high tech 90's model Undercover Jesus and he's just biding his time before he rips off his cyber mask and yells "BUSTED!!!" in all our faces. There are others among you who I also believe are Undercover Jesus Agents who have infiltrated this site and don't really want to leave because it's so much fun. God, is Eric gonna kick your asses when he decides to wrap up this sting operation and finds you guys have pulled a Donnie Brasco. He's gonna forget all about clowns like me.)

I was worthy enough to be accepted into Pricks College (damn that Spellbinder!) and went forth unto the city of Rexburg. There I met many fellow dungbeetles who diligently rolled their balls of dung as required. Some of us left our balls of dung behind and focused on other things. It was just a matter of time until I chose to share my theories on the Undercover Jesuses with several of my aquaintances.

They felt my theory was viable, but they had not heard it preached unto them in such terms. We all went forth now, wary of the Undervover Jesuses, or UCJ Agents, as they were now referred to. Pricks College was filled with UCJ Agents, like the guy wearing sideburns and highwater bellbottoms. I'm not sure what his story was, but everyone knew him and they snickered at him as they made John Travolta Saturday Night Fever finger pointing moves.

"Fools!" I thought to myself.

This was clearly a UCJ Agent on his first assignment. He hadn't been out long enough to know how to slyly weave his web in order to ensnare you. This greenie UCJ Agent merely dressed up funny and screamed to the world, "Look at me! Heap scoff and scorn upon me! Surley there is no harm in that!" as he eagerly awaited that very first chance to rip off his mask and yell in your face. Then he, too, could be like all the veteran UCJ Agents and reflect fondly upon their very first busts. The startled looks on their silly little faces. The gasps of horror. The miserable feeling of knowing that they were teasing Jesus and he caught them red handed. I steered clear of him as his amateurism nauseated me.

No, my adversaries must be worthy of my talents. There was another UCJ Agent who almost nailed me in a cafeteria sting. He was disguised as a rather gentle fellow who had the misfortune of being born into this world looking EXACTLY like Alfred E. Neuman aka that Mad Magazine "What, me worry?" guy. I saw him all the time. While I felt sorry for him, I just couldn't resist pointing him out and saying , "What, me worry?" as he walked by. My UCJ Agent instincts kicked in, but I was weak and he knew it. I would soon be his. One day, as UCJ Agent Neuman walked by, someone apparently said something he didn't take kindly to and UCJ Agent Neuman jumped this guy right in the cafeteria and they came to fisticuffs. UCJ Agent Neuman was either a lot stronger than he looked or years of frustration finally manifested itself and this wiseguy paid the debt that had accumulated during all these years. Agent Neuman had violated the rules of the UCJ Division. Once you have them stung, you are NEVER to engage in physical confrontation. You are simply to rip off your mask and identify yourself as an Undercover Jesus and yell "BUSTED" as a fight between a mortal and an Undercover Jesus would hardly be fair. It does explain those lightning bolts that came out of UCJ Agent Neuman's fingers and zapped that guy's ass all to hell.

With time, my fellow wastrels became as adept as I when it came to detecting UCJ Agents. One of them had a tune he would hum whenever we encountered one. There was this old song, maybe from the 70's, and all I know are the words, "Undercover Angel, midnight fantasy" and this guy would hum this tune whenever we were strolling thru the campus or throwing snowballs at people or engaging in other behavior that would get us close to being stung. One time we found someone's Playboy hidden in a piano in the dorm. We planted it in the room of a UCJ Agent, after we looked at it, of course, and tried to get him busted by the floor RA, who also happened to be a UCJ Agent. The thought of 2 UCJ Agents trying to bust each other was more than we could pass up. Unfortunately, the Playboy was discovered before the room inspection, but we got to give the UCJ Agent hell about it and there was nothing he could do to bust us. They just HATE it when they are thwarted by us silly mortals.

Many years have passed and I have given up my war with the Undercover Jesuses. I've other things to do that are more important. Like drink beer and look at Playboys and tell my wife to bring me more beer. My wife is very understanding. She gets tears in her eyes when I tell her my tales of being a poor wayfaring man of grief and she rubs my feet. She feels indignant when I tell her why I cannot go to my sisters wedding in the temple. Her heart is filled with sorrow when I tell her how I'd get hit with stuff on my mission while riding a bike. It makes her sad just to think about it. Yes, she's very kind, caring, and understanding. I couldn't ask for a better wife. But that bitch can't fool me. I've seen her without her mask. It's just a matter of time until she rips it off and yells, "BUSTED!!!"

-- For Young Women Only --
Your Body, Your Garage

Posted by 100Proof on February 03, 1999 at 16:04:04:

(Since I *fear* the garage post will get archived, I decided to give it a tune-up. Here it is again, after receiving 60,000 mile service. Thanks to alien and BR for a couple of ideas I've included.)

A speech given by Apostate Hunerd Proof at the RfM Young Womens Conference on February 3, 1999

My dear special sweet young spirits, I wish to address a topic that is very sacred and dear to the Lord.

The Lord has blessed us with special bodies. Our bodies are like a house. We have many different rooms for many different purposes. Dear girls, the Lord has instructed us on the proper use and purpose for all our rooms.

This morning, I would like to talk about your garage.

As you mature, you will find new vines growing around your garage. You may discover an urge to raise the garage door and explore the opening. Satan will tempt you to fiddle with the automatic opener button, causing the door to rise and fall again and again. Resist Satan's temptations, for he simply likes to watch.

My dear sweet special things, the Lord has asked you to keep your garage closed until you have chosen a car for time and all eternity. Keep your garage empty until you've found that one special car to join you in the Celestial parking lot. Resist the urge to put your own bicycle in your garage. Do not allow foreign tools into your garage. Keep the door locked, for that is what our Heavenly Housebuilder has requested.

And if you find the temptation is too much, I have a suggestion for you. Turn your thoughts to construction sites, to messy bulldozers and cranes. Think of the noise and the mud and exhaust fumes. Imagine all the dirty grease these monsters drip. Are these the things you want in your garage?

You may find young men eager to park their cars in your garage. Young men like to brag about their cars. They like to show you their cars and let you feel the finish. They may even ask that you help them wax their cars, and then they'll insist that the wax job be followed by overnight parking in your garage. Dear ladies, do not be deceived by the shine. Encourage young men to park on the street, to wax in their own driveway if they must, for your garage is to remain unsoiled. Young men need to drain their crankcase once in a while. Do not allow them to drain in your garage, for they will leave a mess behind for you to clean.

Occasionally, young men drive cars that are loud and have strong engines. These cars are sports cars and are most dangerous. You should never let one into your driveway, for the Lord has asked that you marry a family sedan or a minivan. If you see a sports car in your neighborhood, you should schedule a visit with your Bishop. Your Bishop knows your neighborhood well and can instruct all young men on proper parking and driving.

When you find the one automobile that is right for you, and you both have been sealed in the showroom, allow him to park. He may need assistance parking his sedan the first few times, for if he has followed the maintenance schedule, he will be due for an overhaul. Keep your garage attractive and free of other cars. Trim the vines, and scrub the door. 

Yours is only a one car garage, and he is your eternal car.

My Quest for Carrots: Wednesdays at the MTC

Posted by Playelder on November 05, 1998 at 14:05:27: 

This was originally posted as a follow up to a bloke (or blokette) named Brace Point. Since I'm redoing it from memory and it's a little different from the original one, I plead the Book of Lehi Defense, cause this definately ain't inspired of God. 
 

The long awaited, glorious, day had finally arrived. My mission was completed honorably and I was now on my way back home. I had served with all my heart, might, mind, and strength and I was now looking forward to the vast and bountiful blessings that would now come my way as promised. AT LONG LAST I HAVE TRIUMPHED!!!THE CARROT SHALL BE MINE!!!!!!!! 

We all know these Celestial carrots. They were a big part of our decisions to serve missions. We lusted after those carrots and could almost taste them as we tracted in the rain and endured all manner of indignity in order to obtain them. Those wonderful, blessed Celestial carrots. Those carrots were a powerful reminder to keep us "on the plan" when we may have struggled a bit. Just 2 years and I can have the most blessed, righteous carrots this side of the veil. Almost as sweet as the fruit of the Tree of Life. And no slicked up, ultra chic, toga sporting Patricians in their penthouses with Corvettes parked out front to laugh at me as I dug them out of their front yard. No, their scorn was reserved for those who plucked the fruit off of their tree of life over by the jacuzzi in the gazebo. I was free to partake of my allotment of carrots for I had earned them fair and square. But there is a catch to our quest for carrots. You can NEVER admit to yourself or others that they are the motivating factor for your goodly works. Carrot misers are frowned upon by Heavenly Father and His servants. To do so would remove all promise of any carrots you may have obtained thru your acts of righteousness. Consider this scenario at zone conference: 

Mission Prez: Elder/Sister why are you here?

Elder/sister: I am here because I love The Lord and I want To share the joy of the restored gospel to all of His children. I have a testimony and I want to share it's joy with everyone."

Mission Prez: Good answer! Good answer! Now, Playelder, why are you here?

Playelder: Because I seek CARROTS! They were promised me if I but give 2 years of my life! I want them now! Where's my carrots? My dad, my bishop, my stake president, and everyone else promised me lots and lots of carrots if I go!!!! All I've seen is broccoli and chard and kale! Where's the carrots? Have ye not read D&C 82 vs 3 -10? Is it not written that 

"I the Lord am bound when ye do what I say, but when ye do not as I say ye have no promise?"

And I sure better do as He says because 

"Unto whom much is given much is required and he who sins against the greater light receiveth the greater condemnation."

Who has been given more than me? I was valiant in the pre existance and therefore entitled to be born into the church. I'm a sonofabishop! Are we not told to promise investigators blessings? I promised them some carrots! But then I am told to tell them that Satan will now come into their life and try to keep them from hearing the gospel. Am I to offer them garlic now? Which shall it be? The masses await my wisdom. Oh yeah, where's my carrots I was promised for doing this? I'd like an advance please.

Mission Prez: No carrots for you, Playelder. You should give freely and willingly and not seek carrots from on high." 

And such is the fate of any carrot seekers who have the audacity to actually admit they are engaged in a quest for carrots. 

So now I had completed my mission and was secretly hoping that I could collect a few carrots. Admit the facts, folks. It's crossed all our minds. When you first came home you thought the blessings would just roll right on in, didn't you? HA HA HA you just fessed up! No carrots for you!!!! HA HA HA! Come on, you gotta be more careful than that if you want your carrots. Anyway I was in dire need of a carrot or 2. I had turned down scholarship offers in order to do the right thing, (Can you imagine the carrot attached to that sacrifice?) and the outlook for any type of anything at all was bleak at best. 

You see, I was returning home to a small town in Eastern Oregon in the middle of winter. Life stands still. There is nothing there. Oh what the hell, I'll just tell you where, who's it gonna hurt? BURNS, OREGON!!! There! I said it! I came from Burns, Oregon! Whatcha gonna do about it, tuff guy? ATTENTION K-MART SHOPPERS Playelder is from Burns, Oregon! Get out your maps and take a look. It's worse than Gilligan's Island out there. I knew all along that when I came home things would be pretty bad and I'd really need a carrot or 2 to help me out. The lumber mills are pretty much shut down, workers are on strike, half the town is unemployed, and Playelder just got back from Georgia. Life doesn't get any better than this in Burns, I tell ya. So having said this, it kind of puts my parents promise into perspective: 

"Playelder, if you just go on a mission now, when you come back you can go to work or school or do whatever you want. As long as you do what's right, Heavenly Father will bless you and take care of the rest." 

So after 5 months of unemployment I was finally tossed a carrot in the form of finally getting my old grocery store job back. I left a delightful job as a shelf stocker in the only store in town to ride a bike in Georgia and now it was given back to me. Hooray! Hooray! I finally got a carrot! There was a catch, however. All my toils and labor would be compensated with the celestial sum of $3.45 an hour. This was in 1988, folks. And when they're the only store in town they can do that to you. There is another store in town now, just in case some Burns historian thinks I'm trying to pull a Paul H. Dunn here. So now I was home for 6 months and finally got a job that paid me $138 a week. Now all I've got to do is find me a wife and start a family and pay $13.80 a week in tithing. Time's ticking away, I've already been home for 6 months and my slothfulness in following the Mission Prez's "get married within 6 months" advice was going to cost me a carrot or 2. My dad sensed that this was the case so he offered me the Ward Cleaverly advice that I should move to SLC and seek my future there. 

Translation: Well, since you aren't enrolled in school and at the rate you're earning you never will, why don't you just move to SLC where all the members are and find a wife. Oh, you might want to get a job and a place to live while you're there, too. 

So I was off to live in SLC and find a wife. That would be much easier there because everyone goes to church and if one chick tells you to get lost, she has 3 more sisters you can try your luck with. WAHOO! It doesn't get any better than that!! Life in SLC was very Utah-like and it took me some getting used to. Like, every female that I saw was now a potential eternal mate. They all warranted attention of some sort or another. They could be just carrying on with their lives as normal and have no idea that they are merely a carrot promised to a puke from Oregon because he rode a bike in the rain once while muttering, "I better get a damn fine carrot for this." I just knew I would find my future mate in Utah. 

I had a brother in-law in SLC and every now and then he'd go to Provo to do stuff. I didn't know and didn't care what. I went with him because it was something to do and also you never ever knew when Heavenly Father would toss you that female carrot that you earned while getting beer cans thrown at you. One day we drove by the MTC and it brought back a lot of memories. I remember the day I got abandoned there like the proverbial baby in a basket. I was watching everyone get their things out of the family clan van and and crying and all that stuff. I also remember seeing a future elder who refused to get out of the clan van. His dad was pushing and pulling and struggling with him but the dude wouldn't budge. As small children were stopping to stare and being ushered away by their parents, his dad was getting visibly aggravated by it all. There was no way I was going to leave. This was a first class show! His dad was damn near putting him in the "pine box of honor " himself. He said one last time, "You've got to grow up and be a man some day, and today is that day. Now get out of the car!" He grabbed the kid and pulled and yanked and grunted but to no avail. That kid was stuck like a dingleberry on my dog's butt and he wasn't going anywhere. Pretty soon The MTC prez George Durrant came out and used some softer tactics to get him out. Oddly enough, there were no carrots involved. 

Once the show was over I remembered thinking to myself, "Geez, I'd hate to be that guys partner." The whole thing reminded me of my first day of kindergarten in 1972 when Ronnie Pratt's mom had to physically throw him into the room and slam the door behind him. I was watching the whole thing and kind of snickering to myself. That stopped real fast when the teacher went and assigned me to be Ronnie's "special friend." 

Once we all got thru the last goodbye "missionaries thru this door, everyone else thru that door" ceremony, I went to my new room anxious to meet my new partner. When I got there, the room was empty, but there were guys in the next one over. I went over there and I heard sobbing inside. My heart was grieved. I was now filled with the new Christ-like compassion that was to be mine for the next 2 years. Perhaps I could comfort this forlorn elder. His sorrows were my sorrows. My bowels were filled with compassion for him. As I opened the door and looked inside I came face to face with my destiny ...................... OH NO!!!!!! It's "Elder Pratt" 

I remember thinking to myself that if the only day where I saw the new guys arrive was that good, what would the rest of them be like? Since I really didn't have anything better to do, it became somewhat of a ritual to go to the MTC on Wednesdays and watch the farewell cermonies. Sometimes they were pretty good, others were kind of boring. Yeah, I know it's pretty low to admit that as a source of entertainment, but what do you expect from someone who wanted to pass the sacrament to Brother Greedyfingers just so he could watch everyone else partake afterward. 

In a previous life I had season tickets to the Roman gladiator/ christians vs the lions fights. After all these centuries I still had it in me. I knew it and I knew that God knew it and I could not deny it. Besides, I was in Utah to find my wife the carrot, remember? You never knew where she was going to turn up. (turnip......get it?........ok, then be that way) She could very well be the sister of one of the many "Elder Pratts" who viewed their departure as a Trials of Life video. What better way to impress upon her my preisthood powers than by getting in there with dad and putting my shoulder to the wheel and getting her brother Ronnie out of the clan van. 

"Oh who IS that strapping young virile man who's helping dad get Ronnie out of our clan van? Look at the way he uses his power of 'the laying on of hands.' Ronnie is no match for this priesthood holder, and neither am I. He could be my future husband! How's my hair? How's my makeup? Does this dress make me look 'immodest?' I sure hope he notices me after all this ruckus that Ronnie is raising. I just KNEW I would meet my eternal mate at a church function in Utah!" 

Well, maybe it could happen. 

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

He's Coming to Take You Away!

Posted by Playelder on December 07, 1998 at 13:53:13:

I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
 

My family has a tradition. Boys go on missions and come home to reap the blessings from above, and girls go to BYU to find a husband, feeling free to attend a class or two if it aids them in their search. It is a time honored tradition and it has worked well thru the years, producing 2 RM sons and 2 daughters married to RM's who were accosted at BYU. There are also the 2 deviant siblings, the brother who didn't go on a mission and tools about town in this really cool Keystone Beer truck, delivering beer to the stores and taverns and putting up those sexy cardboard Elvira displays at Halloween, and the sister who stole away to Las Vegas and now has a non member boyfriend who happens to be of the seed of Cain. My brother and sister have chosen to break the traditions of our fathers and will pay for their indolence. He will be forced to live the lowly life of a beer man and know the shame of everyone laffing at his exposed butt crack as he gets down on his knees to put the beer in the far reaches of the bottom shelf, his only girlfriend being a cardboard vampire he has to share with the rest of us once a year. Although his is a noble calling, he shall suffer for his art. And she will no longer be white and delightsome as she has chosen a path that will punish her for her pursuit of the love of a kind and caring young man who happened to be less than valiant in the pre existance. How do you explain that to your boyfriend? And then how do you explain that ever darkening tan to your TBM parents? "Hmmmm. It must be that Las Vegas sunshine she's in all day long, I reckon."

Having concluded that I needn't add to the punishment of these 2, I looked toward my younger sister, "Mildred," who was heading out for BYU. She must be punished, because that was what big brothers are for. We are tools in the Hand of God when it comes to punishing little sisters. It is our divine right and calling to do so. To shirk my sacred responsibilities would result in my being punished for failing to put my shoulder to the wheel and magnify my calling. I had made a covenant to Heavenly Father and I fully intended to honor it. I wanted to punish her in a way that would be everlasting, that would remind her on a continual basis that she was suffering sacred punishment at the hands of her elder brother.

It was then received my revelation from the heavens as to how Heavenly Father wanted my sister to be punished.

It was a rather simple revelation consisting of sending a letter to her future roommates and relying upon the expected reactions of my sister and her best friend who also went to BYU. Their reaction was the crucial part, for if they didn't reply as hoped for, Heavenly Father's revelation of punsihment would be in vain. Then I would be punished for failing to live up to my covenants in building the Kingdom of Zion.

I sent a letter to her roommates that reads as follows:

To the girls in #69 (please don't let "Mildred" see this, thanks)

Hi, my name is Jeff Hawkins (a name contrived from 2 obnoxious little nosepickers in the ward) and I'm Mildred's boyfriend from home. Mildred is a VERY special spirit, as I'm sure you have already found out by now. I'm glad that she's at BYU, but I love her and miss her so much, I'm just losing it. Mildred and I were very close. I don't think anyone has ever been closer to each other than we were. She's shared things with me that she hasn't even told our bishop at home about. That's how close we are. We really cared for each other a lot. Originally, I was going on my mission and Mildred was going to BYU and when I got back we'd get married. As the time got closer for her to come to BYU, she seemed a little unusual. She said that she needed some time away from me to think about things, and this really hurt my feelings. I think her and I knew each other in the pre existance and Heavenly Father wanted us to be married here on Earth, so you know how much this must have torn me up inside. She has a friend from home who's at BYU with her named "Mabel." Maybe you met Mabel already. She started talking to Mildred about seeing other guys and things like that. She really made me mad the way she tries to come between me and Mildred. One time we were at a stake dance and Mabel and Mildred were talking to some guys from another ward. I just couldn't handle it anymore and I went over to Mildred to get her out of there. She didn't want to come and when the guys asked who I was, Mabel told them that I was just her brother. She started doing that, now. Whenever I came to talk to Mildred and other guys were there, Mabel would always tell them, "Oh that's just Mildred's brother" so they wouldn't know that me and her were having a relationship. I just got to where I couldn't handle it anymore. One of my friends told me that one time some boys were talking to Mildred and one of them said, " Hay aren't you Jeff Hawkins' girlfriend?" and she said she'd never heard of Jeff Hawkins in her whole life. When he told me that I just wanted to commit suicide. I don't know how she could just tell them that she didn't know who I was. Now Mildred is at BYU and I really miss her alot. It hurts so much inside to not have her here with me. I need your help. I'm coming to BYU next Thursday to surprise her and bring her back with me. I know she misses me, too, but it's time for us to get married and I've got to get her and bring her back with me so we can straighten things out. The reason I told you this was because if she didn't come home one night, I wanted you to know that she was with me and she's safe and you don't need to worry about her. Please don't let her see this or tell her I'm coming. Thanks alot.

Jeff Hawkins.

I sent the letter and waited for a few days. I called #69 and asked for "Mildred." The girl from #69 who answered the phone asked who was calling and I identified myself as Jeff Hawkins. There was a lllloooonnnngggg pause and then I was told that Mildred wasn't there. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! The seeds of fear have been planted.

The girls of #69 weren't quite sure what to do about this Jeff Hawkins fellow. Should they just mind their own beeswax or tell their new friend Mildred that Jeff Hawkins was on his way to Provo to take her away. They decided that they sould tell Mildred that Jeff Hawkins was coming. They sat her down reluctantly broke the bad news to her. Mildred looked at them and asked, "Who is Jeff Hawkins?"

"Mildred, don't act like you don't know him!!!! This is serious!!! Jeff Hawkins is coming !!!! I even talked to him on the phone!!!!" They pleaded and begged for Mildred to listen to them, but to no avail. She didn't know who Jeff Hawkins was. That's her story and she's stickin' with it. Just like what Jeff Hawkins said she'd do. Jeff really did know Mildred pretty good. The girls of #69 were getting frantic about the impending arrival of Jeff Hawkins. They told Mabel about it and she denied Jeff Hawkins as well. 2 denials before the cock had crown thrice. Not bad for a psycho little mormon boy. In a desperate last ditch effort to convince Mildred and Mabel of the imminent doom of Jeff Hawkins, the girls of #69 sat both of them down and pleaded for hem to take this seriously. They even pulled out the letter that Jeff Hawkins had sent to them as proof.

Mabel had the solution to this problem and would settle it once and for all. "I don't know who this Jeff Hawkins guy is, but that letter was written by Mildred's brother!"

"DON"T YOU SEE?!?! That's exactly what Jeff Hawkins told us you would say!!! This isn't a joke anymore!!! Jeff Hawkins is coming!!" Mildred and Mabel just kind of looked at each other in their best little molly "what the hell?" kind of way.

One of the girls of #69 just couldn't handle it anymore. She stood and shreiked in Mildred'd face, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!! HE'S COMING TO TAKE YOU AWAY!!!!!"

It took several days for the girls of # 69 to be fully convinced that there was no Jeff Hawkins. They diligently watched over Mildred and made sure they knew of her wherabouts at all times. "Where are you going?" When are you coming back?" They were good little guardian angels. When they finally were convinced that Jeff Hawkins really was Mildred's brother Playelder they were rather good sports about it.

I called and as soon as one of the #69 girls said hello, I blurted out that I was Jeff Hawkins and I was in Provo and I was coming over. "HA HA you're so funny......you scared us all to death, you know that?"

"Sorry, I just wanted to stick my sister with a joke."

"Well don't ever do that again. It was kind of funny looking back on it, though. That name still gives us all the creeps."

The rest of the year every time I called my sister I identified myself as Jeff Hawkins. It was sort of a running joke now. And when my sister announced her engagement to "Clarence" he got a letter from Jeff Hawkins congratulating him. Jeff Hawkins got one back rather promptly from Clarence stating that he knew who I was as soon as he started dating Mildred and it just wasn't going to work on him. Oh well, it was worth a try to ruin her marriage, too.

OK Stake President Warhol, your 15 minutes, as well as my patience, have come to an end.

Posted by Playelder on May 21, 1999 at 14:32:19:

 Hello there, my ecclesiastic milk maiden.

I see that you would have us believe that you come here bringing with you the knowledge and wisdom imparted upon they who hold the mantle of Stake President. Knowing the anonymity provided here for us all, it is rather easy to accept what is presented to us at face value. I was a member for many years myself, therefore I am an expert in that department. I do not believe you are what you purport to be. Perhaps you do not care what I think, but I can remain silent no longer. In the words of Jesus Christ I declare unto thee,

"It is enough."

I know how easy it is to come into a place like this and post something under a catchy name or post some sort of provocative message and then stand back and watch the results. I know how easy it is to use a pseudonym and that there are those who will unquestionably believe all your words at face value and take the bait. If you want to catch a fish, you use the proper bait. I do it on another BB.

I do not believe you are a stake president. I think you are something far less than that in the great hierarchy of Zion. My personal gut feeling is that you just got off your mission and you feel that you have found a way to lengthen your stride. My personal integrity forces me to take the X Files approach on issues of this nature. 

Trust no one.

We all can come here and say whatever we want and nobody knows anything about us. That's why this place is so cool, Prez. It's almost as cool as masturbating, and it's definitely cooler than asking others if they masturbate. Even someone such as yourself can come in here and engage in cordial and well mannered exchange of ideas and scripture mingled with the philosophies of men.

However, I cannot force myself to believe you are who you say you are. And I was able to force myself into believing in riding a bike for 2 years at my own expense preaching doctrines of various degrees of lunacy while trying to convince myself that the underwear I was wearing had more spiritual worth than I did as a human being. Even I have my limits.

I do have an X Files theory, however. When I was a member I always stated with pride that the church was in possession of EVERY piece of anti-Mormon literature that was published, and they could easily refute every piece of anti-Mormon literature ever published. I was proud that the church was ever watchful over those whose unhallowed hands would stop the work from progressing. In other words, if you speak evil of the church, they keep record of it and thy words shall stand as testimony against thee at the last day. 

I find it rather easy to believe that there are church operatives amongst us here on the BB. I don't concern myself with it, but I feel that if you have the power to change the very mind of God Himself, you surely have the power, or pettiness, to keep record of the new ways of denigrating the church, such as this cool BB. 

Perhaps the church has sent their undercover Jesus agents in here to do their deeds of honor and righteousness. Perhaps they sent in an imbecilic buffoon such as RICK to give us what they know we expect, and than they send in someone such as yourself to offer the doctrinal counter punch. Sort of like the good cop/bad cop routine.

Then again, this very site might even have been put here by the church itself as a way to keep track of those who would revile against them. Just lay out the bait and wait for the sharks to circle. That way you know where they all are.

The scenarios, unlike my gullibility, are vast and limitless.

Personally I do not believe you to be a stake president by the very way in which you conduct yourself and the answers you give. I have read what you would have us believe as answers to questions that could quite possibly influence our eternal welfare. Pretty serious stuff when you think about it. And yet what you would pass off as answers, if you even go so far as to provide one (i.e. Hmmm......I don't know. But I know it's true. Mystery of God, thing. You wouldn't really understand. I know I don't so why should you.........next question please)
are lame at best, and an appalling insult to human intelligence at worst. And the glory of God is intelligence, by the way. I have given answers to gospel questions with far more substance than you have given. And I was a jr. companion at the time. Your lack of knowledge is inexcusable for someone who would preside over the eternal welfare of others. You bring nothing to the table but milk. And the milk which you bring is of the weakest powdered food storage variety.

 If you had actually been a stake president, you surely did not receive this calling because of your wisdom and leadership. I am then left to believe it must have been due to your occupation. I hope you know more about your field of work than you do about your own eternal path to salvation.

I have no problem at all envisioning you as a "pointy haired stake president." And lest ye are not of the world and my words, much like masturbation, are strange to you, check out Dilbert sometime.

Perhaps your calling was extended to you as one of those inspired versions of,

"Well, the person who benefits most from the calling is the one who holds it."

This was a polite way of saying,

"Give them the job. Nothing wises you up like getting thrown to the wolves."

I do not believe you are a stake president. Where do you find the time to read the questions posted to you, research answers, give up, and then consult the stake prez handbook section on how to say "I don't know the answer, but I know the answer is true" and then post it?

I come from a white- I mean pure and delightsome lineage. I am a sonofabishop. There was no possible way my dad could have found the time to fulfill his calling as a bishop, father, and internet "I don't know the answer man." And he had a Franklin Planner! So how do you do it? You must have one hell of a 1st and 2nd councilor to pick up your slack while you haul your buckets of milk to and fro. Just don't use your priesthood power to make someone else do all the work or you could end up like Mickey Mouse did in Fantasia when he made the brooms haul his buckets for him. What a mess!

Once again, I do not believe you are who you say you are. I think you dilly dally about while bolstering your testimony and then go back to church and bare your testimony about how you withstood the onslaught of the internet anti Mormons. If that is your plan, do me but one favor. When you stand up in this Sunday's squawk fest, I shall provide you the opportunity to testify more efficiently on judgment day.

The name is Playelder. One word with a capital "P".

And if by the most minutely astronomical chance that you really are a stake prez, may God have mercy on your stake and may you not be found guilty of shirking your stewardship on judgment day.

Now excuse me while I masturbate because I know that's how you think I got this wicked. 

A response .....

In Reply to: OK Stake President Warhol, your 15 minutes, as well as my patience, have come to an end. posted by Playelder on May 21, 1999 at 14:32:19:

...to your latest epistle (or should I say, diatribe?). For all your clever words, I only gleened one real question to which I will respond: How do I have time to respond to questions on this BB? Frankly, not much time is spent. I don't do any research; I simply respond as I would in conversation. I pop on from time to time during the day, and simply take a few moments to answer any queries put to me. I think it's only courteous to those that take the time to ask me questions. Most (if not all) of my church duties during the week occur at night, so, no, this BB does not get in the way of the Lord's work. Sorry to disappoint you on that one.

I have tried very hard to be courteous to all I correspond with on this BB, even though my natural instinct is to lash out at those that send personal attacks my way (which happens quite often on this BB), but I resist going to their level. Playelder, you are very good with words (much better than I am), so your personal insults have had the expected sting. I suspect you have always been the type of person that feels inferior to others (even though you're not) and compensates by showing off your vocal and literary talents. When put in that perspective, I feel sorry for you, instead of angry. You can continue to feel and believe as you will (as will I), but let's at least try to be kind to each other (and others) when we make our respective points on this BB. Sorry for this long epistle.

Still not breaking my habit.

 In Reply to: A response ..... posted by A Stake President on May 21, 1999 at 15:08:18:
 

I'll tell you the reason why Playelder might think that you're not *really* a SP. You are far too calm about it. However, in this last post you do reveal a couple of things that makes me think that you really are a SP.

First of all, you admit to the temptation to lash out at people. You must be congratulated for overcoming that temptation, but it is an admission that reveals the feelings we all used to feel when we were TBMs.

Secondly, you say that you are "sorry" for Playelder. That's the dead giveaway. TBMs *always* say that they are "so