A PEEK INSIDE OUR NEXT LATTER-DAY-SAINT-IN-CHIEF’S PLACE OF WORSHIP

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Between You and the Man-Sized Prophylactic with the Zipper

by Tom Bradley

“It’s not a cult.”

–Senator Orrin Hatch

Sam was driving his little pal Streckfuss and his favorite fabulous cousin Pynn through the night streets. They were on their way to commit felonious assault with a deadly weapon or something. Sam hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention to that part.

At any rate, Streckfuss was sizzling and hovering in the death seat, as usual. He seemed to feel the need to chat a bit, to buck up his courage with some gratuitous verbiage. So, with a tough writer’s penetrating amphetamine vision, full of sublimated rage and flouted creativity, he scrutinized something ugly, made of stark grey granite, which they happened to be driving by at the moment: the world-famous Mormon Temple.

“Lookit, Sambo,” said Streckfuss. “They got those panels way up there where everybody can see, all covered with gold leaves that’s so cheap the dump looks like it’s been vacated and boarded shut with yellow plywood. And only the most high-up starch-Mormons like my old dad can get inside, and he’s not talking. Regular people like you and me, Sambo, can’t, but I know what goes on because I talked with the really wigged-out lady that runs the hotel where I live. She told me all about the Temple secrets because she once hopped the thorn bushes, and she peeked in the back door.”

“What happened?” asked Sam.

“I’m about to tell you, if you’ll just hold your gout-water,” snarled Streckfuss. The writer in his throat was being chased away by familiar fangs erupting from his lower jaw.

“See, Sambo besides doing all those superstitious things that everybody knows about, like baptizing for the dead, such as Abraham Lincoln or Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi or Bertram Rustle, just to name but a few, they also have these wigged rites where they tie up these poor, sad minority-groupers that the SWAT vice-army arrests for prostitution and being pimps.  Yeah, and they torture and maim and shackle and boil these poor members of under-represented minorities.

“Everybody knows that the Latter-Day-Saints is very prejudice. I mean like seriously prejudice. You know, like minority-groupers didn’t used to could be priests, and they have to pay fifty-percent more tithings if they want to be members, and they can’t step inside of a neighborhood ward unless they’ve had a vasectomy or a fallopian-tube tie off, as the case might be. This is because, Sambo, The Book of Mormon says Our Lord made members of suppressed minority groups ‘loathsome’ because they are descendants from Cain, who was the first wigged-out murderer in history when he did Abel with a shiv–

“–I mean, um, wait a sec. Are minority-groupers descendants from Ham? Let’s see, was it Ham or Cain that let his old dad get drunk and bare-assed and then laughed at him? I mean like really mean laughing.  And made fun of the poor old guy until it was like all the skin was flayed off his old venerable bones, and then laughed at him some more, the kind of really mean treatment that regular guys like us, Sambo, would never, ever do to our old man, not in a zillion years, because we love the old guy, and feel tenderly toward him, in spite of it all, you know?

“Anyway, I forget which.  But these Mormons can prove who minority-groupers are descendants from, because they have the family tree of every person in the Intermountain region traced clear back to Adam, and, what do you suppose? Hard as it might be to believe, Sambo, every single solitary one of them M-groupers turn out to be the sons and daughters of Cain, or Ham, or who-the-fuck-ever.  And if you don’t believe it, all you gotta do is trip up to the secret Mormon caves and they’ll show you the microscopic xeroxes if you lay forty bucks on them and pull down your underpants and show them your secret Latter-Day-Saint identification scar.

“Come to think of it, it must be that all these minorities are loathsome because they are descendants from Cain, and not bloodless Ham, because these upper-echelon starch-Mormons, like my old dad, to help Heavenly Father get his Blood Atonement, they take these poor underprivileged dudes and chicks down there in the basement of the Tabernacle, during Choir practice so nobody will hear the screams and howls, and they tie them up bare-naked on granite altars, and they have these huge feasts where the Members of the Council of the Twelve Apostles line up in their walking frames and wheelchairs and take turns ass-raping under-represented buttholes and smashing repressed heads with rocks and fucking discriminated-against brains, while the Lesser Quorum of the Seventy sit around trying to make the ninety eight-year-old Church President pop a chubby. See, they have to do this, suck and tickle and give his dried-out balls twenty-minute hum-jobs, so he will be able to see God in the final climax-stages of the party.

“They believe their Church President’s the only cat in the world that can see God, Sambo, because he’s the Living Prophet, Seer and Revelator. Except he’s all that good stuff only when his grey cock is stiff, which it almost never is, because he’s so fucking old. And somebody’s got to really put on the elbow grease to make the cobwebby thing stand up, so he can talk to God through its pee-hole, and God can tell the Church Fathers how to conduct their business dealings.

“Did you know, Sambo, that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is one of the top twenty corporate entities in the entire history of North American, um, fiduciary matters? Yeah, that’s right, it’s a documentary fact, and the President’s prick is like a telephone receiver, a hot line to corporate headquarters, which are located in an attractive office in the celestial kingdom. And this hot line is activated not by a push-button, but by a big, drooly, backward-bending boner.

“Except God says that lady Mormons, or ‘Box-Elders,’ as they’re called by doomed heathens, aren’t allowed inside the Temple to give the President such boners, because lady Mormons would get out of hand during the sacramental minority-grouper rites and spoil the sacred mood. You know how cunts are when us regular guys get them really hot and steamy, right? I mean, they just go overboard. Good taste goes right down the chunky brown streaked toilet bowl, right? Everything would just get too disgusting, and they can’t have that in the sanctified Temple.

“So the starch-Mormons are allowed to have just homo orgies, no gashes involved, on Temple Square, where they hack to tiny pieces the half-dead M-groupers and eat their livers and pancreases raw, mixed with Gelusil, a whole lot of Gelusil, because the old codgers’ stomachs can’t metabolize the Ten High and Thunder Chicken the minority dudes and chicks drank before they were captured and read their rights and baptized for the Big Holy Blood Atonement Sacrificial Hootenanny.

“And they play Donny Osmond videos, except just the ones he made before he grew that little beard, plus his twin sister’s pregnancy exercise videos, in place of real pussy. And it’s like a fucked-up Eucharist, except, instead of chowing down on a dead Jew, they chew on live minorities. And this ceremonial observation is the only thing, the really wise old General Authorities say, that keeps Heavenly Father mellow and keeps him from sending an earthquake and killing us all on the Wasatch Fault, like tomorrow morning, because we’re all such blasphemous sinners.

“This lady that hopped the thorn bushes, she told me that the real Mormon god is really Moloch, and that, if you look in the unabridged dictionary, you’ll find that the word Mormon is derived from the phrase Moronic Myrmidon of Moloch.

“Well, they sure don’t follow the learnings of Jesus Christ, boy, if, in actual fact, they really are pulling wigged stunts like that. And that’s because their limp-dicked Revelator never saw beyond the pucker of his prepuce. There’s only one dude in this town that’s seen the Beyond, and I think both you guys know exactly who he is.”

Streckfuss’ eyes began to vomit sparks, and he started brandishing his Nazi luger, trying to chip holes in the windshield. Made manifest, he was now the Killer.

“There’s just one, and only one dude who’s seen!” he hissed and spat, “and I got proof!”

Before Streckfuss could unroll his window and fly away on bat wings, a loud, firm, even masculine voice was heard from the back seat. It said, “And it’s a good thing Mormons don’t follow the ‘learnings of Jesus Christ.'”

Pynn leaned forward his lovely face and gave Sam an only slightly nervous glance through the rearview mirror, and whispered, “Don’t panic yet, Cuz. Just keep your eye on the road. I can distract him. At least I used to be able to.”

Out loud, in this resonating tone that Sam had never heard from his shapely larynx, Pynnie said, “Can you imagine how much more unbearable this townlet would be than it already is, Streckers, if it were owned and operated by people who followed the ‘learnings of Jesus Christ,’ and expected everybody else to, too?”

Pynn nudged the bony Streckfussian shoulder that quaked with an as-yet nameless emotion in the death seat. After fluffing up the collar of his sequined pants suit, Pynn continued.

“Who wants to emulate a swishing buffoon who wore rope sandals and bed sheets and, towards the end, when He really let Himself go, nothing but little didies on His butt and twigs in His uncoiffed hair, because He hated Himself too much to fix up a little and work on his presentation self?

“Who wants to feel obliged to repress His sex drives to the extent that He ends up cutting Himself a stout willow switch, and barging into a perfectly legal marketplace, and chasing the poor entrepreneurs away, as ‘Zus did?

“How can anybody maintain a nice selection of friends, when all He’ll feed them is Wonder Bread and extra-tightly packed sardines?

“Who wants to have such a poor self-image that the only females He feels comfortable associating with are His unscrewable mom and an identically-named ex-blowjob queen, and He’s got to degrade even these poor camp followers into performing bizarre active/passive foot-to-hair perversions, tucked way down there, far beneath where He places Himself in his legendary low self-esteem?

“And, Mr. Streckfuss of the Feckless Necklace, when it is possible to cure Hansen’s disease patients ten at a pop, to replace severed ears, yea brethren, e’en to re-vivify corpses moldering in the salt pools of Gaza, who would allow Himself to be mocked, derided, and tacked up mumbling for three hours, twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds, more or less, on a splintery gibbet like a farouche beaver hide? Only a self-deprecating masochist, that’s who.”

Pynn gestured enthusiastically with his beautiful hands. He seemed for a moment to abandon the placation of his favorite little creep in his eagerness to re-sacrifice the Lamb of God, to put red stripes once again on the Son of Man, and leave His relic bones parching in the Volvo’s dust, in preparation for this, the night of nights.

“And not the salivating bondage-freak type of masochist who we see swathed in black rubber at the Deceit, Weeping and Spinning Disco, who derives his utmost pleasure from pain–but rather the slave who is so miserably unhappy that He flings Himself down in some private Gesthemane, sweats blood like a baby hippo in a carny sideshow, and bawls like a baby, ‘Ooooh Daddy, take this cup from me, puh-leeeeze?’ Oh, jism crust hung for hours upon the crotch, would you give me a break, or what?

“Yes, Streckie-the-Trekkie, your tattoos notwithstanding, the body is indeed the Temple of the Holy Spirit. And a downright panzer division of bulldozers couldn’t have done a more efficient job than Jesus did demolishing His. He was the Prophet, Seer and Revelator of discomfort. And your Moronic Myrmidons of Moloch know they can’t run a thriving state with attitudes like that.

“Just take a look at Main Street over here to our left: construction companies building up nice fountains and malls with darling facades and stuff like–”

Streckfuss twisted around and put his sharp little knuckles in front of Pynn’s face, unmarred to date. “I don’t wanna hear what strange people like you think about Christ,” he said. “I happen to believe He was a pretty wigged-out dude.”

“Crazy” Pynn started giggling. “Oh, that’s right. You’re old dad’s a Mafioso convert, isn’t he, Strych-face? Mea culpa, Signore.” But he dropped the subject and clammed up, temporarily, when he saw Streckfuss’ eyes press into burning slits.

Pynn leaned over the seat and whispered, damply, lightly, ticklingly, into Sam’s big ear, “One idiot-distraction effected. The first thing about the Jesus myth that dismays adolescents with low-average IQs is the cannibalistic stuff, then, later, the S&M stuff, right? Well, watch this, Cuz–”

In a weepy voice, Pynn moaned, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I can’t even begin to guess why, but every time I get an eyeful of the Mormon Temple, I start to feel sad. And you know how us old critters react to sadness, right? We just get bitchy. So I hope you can find it in your warm heart to pardon my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault.”

At that, Streckfuss, too, began to look saddened. He gazed down at his lap and sighed deeply. “Hey, Pynn, man?” he whispered, without looking up. “I just want to say right now, that I’m really sorry if I jumped on your case or flipped you out or anything, you know? I’m a little spooky tonight, but I know one thing: we gotta all be buddies in this car. If there’s one thing you learned over there in Nam, it’s that your buddies are the only thing you’ve got in the whole lousy, fucking, god-damned, cocksucking world between you and the man-sized prophylactic with the zipper. And you’ve all got to stick together. Especially when you got a job to do and you’re gonna see some action, shoulder-to-shoulder.”

Pynnie made a stern and noble grimace in the rearview-mirror for the driver’s benefit, and quietly pounded his sequined chest.

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