Who Wants To Be A Mormon?

The reason for my lengthy absence from town had to do with my fiance Jack. Jack, as you may recall, was the beneficiary of a miracle that rendered an inoperable brain-tumor into a benign little nut that the surgeon went in and snatched with one hand tied behind his back. Never has this gal been so impressed by anything. I was witness to a miracle. Baptize me, Temple me, anoint me--do what you must, I'm ready for a little Mormon-approved lovin'. Lay those hands on me. Alas nothing has worked out worth a crap since I hooked up with good old Jack, and sadly my hormone-fueled faith, has hit another snag. What a surprise.

You see, Jack returned from the Pearly Gates with an evangelical fire burning in his soul. It goes something like this: "It was made known to me, that the days of Biblical prophesy are upon us. The antichrist walks the earth and will arise to great power in the tumultuous sea of mass media. The final battle between the forces of heaven and hell will soon commence, and I've been called to preach repentance. Time is short." Do I know how to pick 'em or what?

We pretty much spent the entire hospital stay watching television so that he might ascertain the identity of the antichrist. At one point he was convinced it was Regis Philbin. "Is that your final answer? I was thinking. I didn't think he was serious, so I suggested that it also might very well be Pat Sajak--either way it's going to come as a terrible shock to my grandmother. Jack didn't get upset at my attempts at humor, he just acted disappointed. Well I know a little something about disappointment myself, Jacko.

After several days of this wacky quest, he could tell I was getting more than a little fed up with the whole project and asked, "Don't you want to go to heaven?" "Yes, I do," I told him, "but not right this minute. Maybe being in heaven is boring--what are you supposed to do all the time." He just shook his head ruefully, "you have no idea of the capacity for joy that's possible in the next life." Guess what Jack, I'm an 18 year old virgin with a born again returned-missionary for a boyfriend. I'm not sure I could define joy in this life without a dictionary. I enjoy eating certain kinds of ice cream--am I getting warm?" Is that what joy is? He merely shook his head sadly and offered me his little holier-than-thou smile and gazed off into eternity. If it weren't for the bandages I'd have smacked him.

Why couldn't I have fallen for a normal guy? Some happy-go-lucky hippie dude who just wants to follow Phish around for a couple years. I want to live. I want to run naked on the beach. I don't want to spend my youthful days gleaning the airwaves for the antichrist. "What good is figuring out who the antichrist is gonna do you," I asked at one point, "whadderya gonna send him a nasty letter, tell him to chill?" "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," he told me. I'm tellin' ya, the guy's gotten weirder than a German biker. What happened to my Jack? He no longer seems to enjoy my sense of humor--and every time I crack a joke he gives me a little patient smile and tells me that this is no time for light-mindedness.

I was so perturbed by this latest wrinkle in the
'Jack saga" that I asked a doctor at the hospital if this phenomenon was merely a textbook reaction to brain surgery, that would clear up as soon as his hair grew back? The doctor just looked at me like I was crazy and laughed--the lightminded bastard. I hate this to sound like I'm some huge supporter of "evil" or whatever, I just want to go on a date. Maybe I could talk him into going to see that flick about the wacky little devil girl who spins the plates. He could keep an eye out for Satan's boy, and I could have some friggin' popcorn. Is that too much to ask? A lousy Junior Mint?

He's recovering rapidly and he almost looks like the Jack I fell in love with, but I honestly don't know how much further I'm going to go with this. I finally decided to point blank the moon-eyed bugger-- "I thought we were going to get married--whatever happened to that?" "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," he replied sagely. "The next ten years are not exactly going to be a picnic. Plague, pestilence, earthquakes, rampant crime--does that sound like a honeymoon?" "No, it sounds like Whittier--that's where I grew up, remember?" I was going to say something cute like, "our love is stronger than pestilence," but I bit my tongue--I'm not so sure I'm still in love with Jack. We shall see. We shall see.
Wanted: attractive normal guy, into Zeppelin, good times and naked beach running. Will follow Phish.