Saturday's Warrior Is A Load Of Crap

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: A postmormon review of Saturday's Warrior

Recently LDS Church spokesperson, Michael Otterson, penned a scathing review of the Book of Mormon on Broadway. In it he disparaged believing Mormons who saw and enjoyed the show, then went on to lament the bad PR the musical will bring the church, worrying not so much about "when people laugh, but when they take it seriously."

So, in the spirit of fair play, and out of respect for the believing Mormons who have seen and enjoyed The Book of Mormon on Broadway, the San Francisco postmormons decided to have a screening of God's Other Favorite Musical, Saturday's Warrior!!!

Last weekend Mark fired up our grill for yet another great exmormon event. Dodgy weather made it a tough commute for some, especially those in the East Bay, as the Bay Bridge was packed with limos filled with hyperactive prom goers. But once everyone arrived at our house, we opened the wine/beer/etc, and enjoyed our usual super-yummy potluck fare. (Some habits never die.) Afterward we retired downstairs for a viewing of the 2000 film version of the production.

Saturday's Warrior begins in the billowy clouds of heaven where we meet:

Julie and Tod: gooey young lovers who can't wait to gain physical bodies.

The Flinders Siblings

Pam: a sweet spirit who wants to be a dancer when she goes down to earth.

Jimmy: Pam's twin who is destined to "go astray."

Julie: the dewy ingenue, and Tod's main squeeze.

[Four insignificant middle children]

Emily: the adorable youngest child who will probably have to die because Jimmy is so selfish.

The Missionaries
Elders Kestler and Green: a couple of self-righteous, hubris-infused chuckleheads who ring surprisingly true to life.

Once the above are introduced through a few catchy tunes, sappy lyrics and beginning ballet choreography, a bossy temple matron prods the characters to get in line to go down to earth -- lest they miss their appointed time and, instead of going to a righteous Utah Mormon household, they wind up in some terrible place like Uganda or Madagascar. Then an even darker scenario is introduced; that is, the chance they won't go to earth at all, because of a grievous and unmentionable sin.

In my recent review, The Book of Mormon is True!, I wrote, "because the show (The Book of Mormon) begins with the premise that all Mormon boys are expected to go on missions, the audience immediately sympathizes with the two main characters in spite of their foibles." 


Employing a similar logic, because Saturday's Warrior begins with the premise that humans arrive (or don't arrive) in their earthly situations according to the aforementioned scenario, the audience immediately concludes that God is an unfair, racist asshole so intent on controlling His children that He will even stoop to blaming a kid for his little sister's death.


While the first 7 of the 8 Flinders children do land safely on earth, things don't exactly turn out as planned. Jimmy, a good looking high school kid, selfishly chooses to behave like a teenager. Jimmy's twin sister Pam, who wanted to be the dancer, ends up in a wheelchair. (No doubt thanks to some prenatal indiscretion by Jimmy.) Julie, while attractive, turns out to be a fickle ditz with the personality of a postage stamp, and a wardrobe that belongs back at the compound on the show, "Big Love." The four middle children remain insignificant, and Emily remains in heaven wondering if she will ever be born. (Also thanks to Jimmy.)


Down on earth, we arrive at the airport with Julie, her then boyfriend, Elder Kestler, and some other missionaries and BYU coeds who sing an annoying version of "Will I Wait For You?" and perform a self-conscious dance routine that is obviously designed to keep them from wiggling their tushes and exposing their knees.


Meanwhile, Jimmy is tired of singing along to "Daddy's Nose" with the family, prefers hanging out with his friends, and claims to want "plain ordinary freedom to pursue my own goals." This shocking behavior is explained through the "Zero Population" number sung by Jimmy and a bunch of mid-drift baring delinquents who lounge around a dorky looking dune buggy and dream of a day when abortion is legal. (Even though . . . it is legal.)


Thoroughly brainwashed by the Planned Parenthood gang, Jimmy flips out when he discovers his mother is pregnant, and demands she have an abortion. Mom  -- strike that -- Dad refuses, so Jimmy runs away from home. As a result, Mrs. Flinders becomes so distraught that she has a miscarriage, making Jimmy a murderer.


Then Julie finds another guy and dumps poor Elder Kestler via the production's show stopper, "He's Just a Friend/Dear John," a peppy number that alternates between a G-Rated bump and grind featuring Julie and her sisters, and a chorus line of male missionaries who perform an awkward routine that makes them look like dogs relieving themselves along a row of hydrants. (Forget the feminists and gays, the ones the Brethren should really go after are the choreographers.)


Back to Jimmy who arrives somewhere in SoCal for a "Summer of Fair Weather" with the protected sex crowd. We are left to speculate how they support themselves. -- Pushing illegal condoms perhaps? (According to the postmormon Anagrammy, that detail is in the Director's Cut.) Jimmy's holiday ends, however, when the family calls to tell him his beloved twin sister, Pam, has died. -- That's right Jimmy, now you're guilty of double murder.


Up in heaven, we see Pam dancing around with little Emily in her arms. She comforts her unborn sister by telling her that life is just a blip, a meaningless and insignificant moment. (A line that might be more aptly delivered by one of the evil pro-choicers . . . but I digress.)


We then return to Elder Kestler who has just paired up with Elder Green. They come across Tod, a chain-smoking non-member who spends his days moping around the park because he doesn't have a "cause to die for." The elders teach him the gospel, he gleefully gives up smoking, and gets baptized. -- Meaning he can now look forward to feeling dead everyday for the rest of his life.


Julie, who has broken up with her fiance, decides she wants Elder Kestler back. So she slips into a dress that resembles a denim grocery sack and goes to the airport to welcome him home. But, as fate would have it, she instead falls for Tod, whom Kestler has brought back with him. The two lovers reunite by singing the same duet they sang in the pre-life, only this time with an obvious appreciation of each other's physical body. (Not that he can admire any of her charms under that ridiculous dress.)


Finally Jimmy sees the error of his ways, shakes off the safe sex crowd, and returns home so that little Emily can finally be born. 

And all is right in Mormondom.

In the case of Saturday's Warrior, I find myself echoing Otterson. I worry about the guilt-ridden souls who take this shit seriously. Of course, that wasn't an issue for the postmormons. We pretty much laughed through the whole thing. And when we saw that there was a karaoke option on the Main Menu -- OMG! Suffice to say that Steve's tequila fueled aria was our evening's show stopper.


So how does the work of Matt Stone and Trey Parker compare to that of Lex de Azevedo? 


Let's see. The Book of Mormon is a fun romp that never takes itself seriously. It has earned stellar reviews, 14 Tony nominations, is set for a nation-wide tour, and has been the subject of many thoughtful articles and discussions about faith in America.


Saturday's Warrior is a tiresome screed (with catchy tunes) that takes itself too seriously. It has earned no recognition outside of Mormonism, is on tour in LDS ward cultural halls, and is the subject of exmormon karaoke parties. This all leaves me to conclude:

The Book of Mormon is true

and

Saturday's Warrior is a load of crap
(in the name of cheese and rice amen)

The Book Of Mormon Is True!

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: I witnessed the Book of Mormon!

Way back in January a group of Post-Mormons I met on Facebook decided to see The Book of Mormon on Broadway. Mark and I figured why not join them? After all, those South Park guys write pretty good stuff. It was a safe bet they'd deliver again. But even if the show turned out to be a dog we'd still enjoy it. (It couldn't be any worse than the work it was based on.)

So I, along with several others, sent checks to a woman we'd never met, who had charged tickets to her credit card for people she had never met. Meanwhile, David, a NYC resident, made reservations at two different restaurants for large parties of people he had never met. (But none of us worried because everyone was Ex-Mormon!)

Then on March 24 I opened up my New York Times and read this rave review by Ben Brantley.

Immediately I was gripped by a dread that worsened as the days progressed. Did we really have tickets to The Book of Mormon? What if something went wrong? Like we missed the plane, or the box office screwed up, or the entire production got taken back up to heaven? Oh my god!

I WANT MY BOOK OF MORMON!

Mark was trapped in an all together different gulag, by a co-worker who repeatedly warned him of the musical's potentially offensive material. "Mr. Banta, that show has lots of swear words." "Mr. Banta, have you ever watched South Park? It's pretty irreverent." Things came to a head early last week with the following exchange: "Mr. Banta, my friend told me they say the 'c' word in that play at least fifty times!" "Exactly what do you mean by the 'c' word?" The young man shut Mark's office door, swung around, and whispered, "cunt."

Crowd clamors for a free "Book of Mormon"

Finally, on the afternoon of Saturday, April 16, we arrived at the Eugene O'Neill Theater one hour before the performance. People swarmed the entrance of the sold-out show in hopes of winning tickets in a free give-away. I pulled out my phone to call Olivia to ask if she'd picked up our tickets. But before I could dial, she was standing in front of me, tickets in hand. (My heroine.)

Olivia, me, and Mark

The Book of Mormon -- rated R

I wonder what the playwright O'Neill
would have thought.

Some thirty minutes later we were joined by more wonderful Ex-Mormons and also my cousin and his son, who have never been Mormon, but are really really good sports. We filed into the theater past an eager scalper who shouted in a thick Brooklyn accent, "Mormon? Anyone got Mormon?"

Five minutes into the performance I thanked god for the Book of Mormon.

Because the show begins with the premise that all Mormon boys are expected to go on missions, the audience immediately sympathizes with the two main characters in spite of their foibles. Elder Price is a self-righteous pretty boy goody two-shoes, and Elder Cunningham is a pudgy self-conscious schlub who tells lies to win people's approval. (Think of Nephi and Lemuel as mission companions. Or for those who haven't read the sacred text, Wally Cleaver and Lumpy.)

The missionaries' interaction with each other, as well as their efforts to convert a small tribe in Uganda provide the set up for some hilarious dialog and show-stopping numbers that rival the great musicals of the previous century. My favorite was "Turn it Off." -- Imagine an all male chorus line of tap dancing Mormon missionaries. The lights go down, then come up, and they're still singing and dancing, only faster. The lights go down, then come up again, only now they're singing, dancing, and wearing HOT PINK VESTS. It was a miracle. Another winner was "Spooky Mormon Hell Dream," where poor Elder Price is terrorized by Genghis Khan, Hitler, Johnny Cochran, and a duo of dancing Starbucks' cups. But perhaps the biggest miracle came at the curtain call, when the mostly young and unknown cast received a rousing standing ovation. What a moment for them! And deservedly so. They had served with honor, and the spirit was never stronger.

Afterward there was the party David arranged at Nocello with the usual loud laughter, light-mindedness, evil speaking of the Lord's anointed, and in my case, martinis. We even have the t-shirts to remember it by.

Jenny arranged for the shirts!
This is the back, the front says "Ban Mormon Marriage."

When Mark got back to the work today, his co-worker rushed into his office, shut the door and asked, "Mr. Banta, how many times did they say "cunt?" "None that I can recall," Mark replied. The young man slumped his shoulders and looked dejected. Mark smiled to himself.

NorCal Ex-Mormon Testimony Meeting

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: We would indeed be remiss if  . . .

My dear friends from the Abbottsville Fourth Ward,

Just because we're ex-Mormons doesn't mean we don't have testimonies. After all, it takes a village/ward to raise an ex-Mormon. In that spirit, we gather every first Sunday to express our gratitude for the people and circumstances that helped us to see the light.

This month our thanks went out to:



The San Francisco Ferry Building and its myriad venues for breaking the fast, the Sabbath, and the Word of Wisdom.

Brigham Young University, and its penchant for humiliating its students.

Our individual and collective role models such as:

1. The highly respected and well educated Southern California attorney who spends his free time computing the diameter of the planet Kolob.
2. The older sibling who was expected to be President of the United States, but ended up becoming a polygamist who makes his living filling gumball machines.
3. The TBM dad who told his inactive daughter that he would receive her in his home if she promised not to criticize or question the church, voice an opinion, or discuss her life in general.
4. The TBM ex-wife who tried to convince a Virginia judge that her children's father is unfit because he only spends one hour in church on Sunday.
5. A certain "Apostle of the Lord" who is terrified of feminists, gays, intellectuals, kittens, and little factories that produce too much product.
6. The balding Seattle Stake President who referred to himself as a Solar Powered Sex Machine during a Stake High Council Meeting.

Oxymora such as Young Women's Personal Progress, BYU Education Week, Relief Society Personal Enrichment, and Court of Love.  

The Book of Abraham

Thank god for anti-Mormon
literature!

Wedding receptions where both the bride and the mother of the bride are pregnant.

Greg Dodge

Martinis

The countless Sacrament Meeting talks about tithing, temple work, and moral ambiguities such as hot chocolate and coffee cake.

and

The shear joy of saying FUCK.

The spirit was sooo strong!

If we have offended any of you -- or have forgotten to thank someone, kindly share your testimony in the comment field.

Also read about NorCal exmos in the news here!

Angels In America With The Ex-Mormons

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: The Angels in America exhibit

A little over a week ago I rode the train into San Francisco to join the Post-Mormons for the Angels in America exhibit at the Museum of Performance and Design. I got off at the Civic Center BART station and walked past San Francisco's magnificent City Hall, the place where Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio were famously wed, and George Moscone and Harvey Milk were notoriously murdered. On this particular Saturday, Egyptians were protesting Mubarak. But a howling wind dulled the sound of their chants, and gunmetal grey clouds curtained the afternoon in a macabre gloom.

I climbed the steps of the old Veteran's and War Memorial. On an occasion when the Herbst Theater is holding an event, the War Memorial is teeming with people. But on this day the cavernous lobby was empty, save for a mirthless security guard who eyed me from behind his circular desk. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the marble lobby. I stepped inside the elevator and pushed "two." The doors slid shut, but the lift stayed still. I pushed "two" again. Nothing happened. I pushed the "open" button. Nothing happened. Again. Nothing happened. I rang the alarm.

The doors opened and I was met by the startled security guard.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

"Trying to go to the second floor."

"Nobody ever uses this elevator."

I muttered "sorry," followed him to an adjacent lift, and looked up to watch the antique brass arrow travel from "four" to "one." This time when I pushed "two" the car engaged. I chuckled to myself as I rode. It's no wonder that San Francisco has been the chosen setting for the noir works of great artists like Hammett and Hitchcock.

Sketch of "heaven" for the HBO
movie. (Sorry for poor quality) 

Then the "noir" evaporated when I greeted the sunny faces of the ex-Mormons who waited for me at the entrance to the exhibit. Together we went in to view the work of another great artist, Tony Kushner, who also used San Francisco as a setting. -- In his case, for heaven.

Kushner was inspired to write Angels in America: a Gay Fantasia on National Themes after he was approached by Mormon missionaries on a NYC subway. He was taken with the missionaries' sincerity and devotion to the faith, and also fascinated by the notion of an American religion.

He began by composing long-hand notes in a series of lined journals with one of his many fountain pens (for which he had an admitted fetish.)

On this page of his journal, Tony Kushner wrote:

There are some lovely things about Mormons.They believe everyone eventually gets into heaven. You can pray a dead person into heaven if you're a Mormon and you believe.

Of course Joseph Smith was crazy.

But he was crazy like Walt Whitman. Crazy in a Big American way. If P.T. Barnum had written the Holy Scriptures while ingesting great quantities of opium, it would be the Book of Mormon.

Only in America does an Angel of the Lord appear dispensing eyeglasses.

It is wonderful to believe that an Angel appeared in upstate N.Y.

I have waited all my life for an Angel.

An American Angel.

Joseph Smith and millions like him believe that there are Angels in America. Or were, anyway.

An American Angel would have rawhide tassels, tangled hair, buckskin wings, coon tail hat, eyes like the Great Lakes, skin like bark and a pine tree smell. It would live in the sunset in Yosemite National Park.

The journals evolved into a seven hour play in two parts, Millennium Approaches and Perestroika. Angels in America, Part One: Millennium Approaches received its world premiere in 1991 in San Francisco. From there it went to London, then to Broadway. Part Two: Perestroika followed in 1992. In 2003, the two parts were adapted as the HBO mini-series, Angels in America. The work received the Pulitzer Prize and numerous other awards, including the Tony, Golden Globe, and Emmy.

As I toured the exhibit with the ex-Mormons, I couldn't help but feel sad that so few believing Mormons have seen the plays. Three of the main characters are LDS: Joe Pitt, a closeted gay man, Harper Pitt, his mentally fragile wife, and Hannah Pitt, his stoical, pioneer-stock mother. They are well-drawn and accurate reflections of real Mormons, and Kushner treats them with the compassion and dignity they deserve. However, because the play pokes a little fun at Mormonism, and depicts its followers as imperfect, it was deemed inappropriate by the authorities in Salt Lake.

For the life of me, I can not understand why The Brethren are not thrilled that our church inspired one of the greatest works of American theater.

Ironically, the play's central premise is that God abandoned His angels for the more interesting company of His less perfect human creations who are capable of change. The angels become jealous of mankind, and try to halt our progress, much like the current LDS authorities.

But old-school Mormon that I am, I still consider "eternal progression" and "free agency" to be primary elements of my faith. And as a retired Institute Director, I am no longer bound by The Brethen's opinions. In other words, I do what I damn well please.

After the exhibit I climbed into the back of Steve and Sarah's Prius, and was chauffered downtown to a lovely meal at Le Central on Bush Street. We enjoyed great food, lively conversation, and, of course, loud laughter. And I personally savored another rare opportunity to discuss science, art, and ancient American history.


After dinner I walked alone down Powell past packed restaurants, bars, and clanging cable cars. What started as a drizzle turned quickly to a downpour. But the weather did not dampen spirits. It takes more than a little rain to keep San Franciscans from enjoying their free agency.


This month a new musical is opening on Broadway entitled, The Book of Mormon. In a recent interview in Vogue, Trey Parker (the show's co-creator with Matt Stone) said the following:

We love musicals, and we love Mormons. I think if any Mormons come and stay all the way through, they'll end up liking the show. I mean, it rips on them a lot, but in the end their spirit of wanting to help wins the day.

Not only are The Brethren in Salt Lake not staying to the end of the show, they are not even waiting for it to begin. Last Monday LDS Public Affairs issued the following statement:

The production may attempt to entertain audiences for an evening, but the Book of Mormon as a volume of scripture will change people's lives forever by bringing them closer to Christ.

Beneath the statement is a link to a March 2009 article entitled The Publicity Dilemma, a tiresome screed that denigrates any person, film, or TV show that has recently criticized the Mormons, then goes on to boast of the LDS Church's powerful influence (with the use of inflated numbers.)

Again I am saddened that many of my fellow believers will miss out on another celebration of their faith. But I am glad that as an old school Mormon, and retired LDS Institute Director, I am at liberty to do as I please.

. . . and have already bought my ticket to New York. 

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, check this box.

Post-Mormon "Conference" at the San Francisco Ferry Building -- Visitors Welcome

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: Psst! Abbottsville Fourth Ward, are you bored with General Conference yet?

Think how you'll feel this time tomorrow. Turn off your TV sets and come to the Post-Mormon "conference" instead.

You know you want to.

There will be a resurrection reenactment as promised, and we need more women to play Joseph Smith's wives.

See you there!

At 53 He's Still Happy, Healthy, and Ex-Mormon -- Don't You Hate That?

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: Happy Birthday, Honey!

Mark Steven Banta was born March 22, 1957 in San Jose, California, where he was raised Mormon in a loving home. The son of a school teacher, every summer he and his sisters were treated to camping trips across the U.S. and Canada. Mark's family also attended an LDS ward that provided him with a comfort zone of good friends and exemplary role models. He worked hard, excelling in school, sports and church, where he was the president of all three of his Aaronic Priesthood Quorums. At 18 he opted to attend BYU on an academic scholarship. It was the only school he applied to. Then, at 19, he agreed to serve an LDS mission. The Church sent him across the globe to Indonesia, to what would be a transformational event in his life.

Many LDS returned missionaries recall negative experiences. Doors slammed in their faces, guilt over lack of converts, pressure to convert everyone, strange companions, illness, filthy living conditions, etc. Mark had none of this. His was the "dream mission." It began in the Missionary Training Center when in a general meeting, President Max "The Ax" Pinegar pointed to the seven Indonesian missionaries, ordered them to stand, then to the other Elders' envy and disgust declared, "These are the only missionaries allowed out without suit coats." (This announcement was followed by a commotion of scared boys putting on their jackets.) Mark later learned that Indonesian law did not permit him to tract door to door. Also he was required to take two week-long trips to Singapore to renew his visa, where his only requirement was to "stay out of trouble." His housing included a housekeeper and cook, and he had a laid back mission president who didn't care about statistics. Basically Mark spent his mission sight-seeing, chatting people up, bashing around Singapore, and committing various missionary faux-pas such as flirting with the local girls, ogling a smuggled copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, and wading in the Indian Ocean. (Satan rules the waters, you know.) Once he and a companion sat behind the gamelan during a performance of The Ramayana, an experience he insists everyone should have. In retrospect, Mark wishes that he'd gone to Indonesia to study Javanese culture rather than to teach people about Joseph Smith. He also wishes he could have dressed more appropriately (no suit coats notwithstanding), and that he hadn't spent 3+ hours in church every Sunday. Nevertheless, Mark's mission, coupled with his childhood travels, left him with a hunger to see and experience a world far beyond the confines of Mormonism.

After Indonesia, he returned to BYU, and all of its scintillating social venues. For a couple of years, he bore down on his accounting books and generally avoided the dating scene. Finally his father sent him a check, along with the instruction to spend it on a date with a nice girl. The "nice girl" he selected happened to be me, a sarcastic convert from Southern California with a growing disenchantment with Mormonism and religion in general. We married in the Oakland Temple on December 27, 1980. Mark's little sister waited outside, along with my mother and my close friends, as they were not deemed worthy to witness the secret ceremony. Then we started a family, and did our best to "stay close to the church."

Mark had long been concerned with my complaints about the faith. But as our children began to come of age, he grew more aware of the patriarchal nature of Mormonism, its innate racism and homophobia, and the anti-intellectual message it conveyed. Also the personal demands seemed unreasonable. He wasn't sure he wanted his daughter marrying at 18, or his son serving a mission at 19. (Not everyone gets to go without a suit coat.) Like many who have posted on Recovery from Mormonism, Mark's dissatisfaction with Mormon culture led him to a deeper study of its doctrine and origins, and finally to the conclusion that it was not the right place for him and his family. Losing one's faith is never easy, particularly within a system like Mormonism, where those who leave are often shunned by family and friends. Mark was disappointed by many he admired, pleasantly surprised by a few.

Since then Mark has spent his Sundays enjoying family and friends, going to a movie or the beach, sitting in a cafe in Paris, exploring Manhattan's Central Park, drinking a pint in a London pub, or hanging out with Post-Mormons at the San Francisco Ferry Building. He swelled with pride when he watched his son and daughter receive their college diplomas, something he feared might not happen had they been raised as Mormons. Then he shed a tear at the wedding of our son, which he attended along with me, his little sister, and all the family and close friends who could be there. -- Something he's fairly certain would not have occurred had we remained in Mormonism.

My dear friends from the Abbottsville Fourth Ward, please do not drop by with cakes, casseroles and a birthday message from The Ensign. As always, I am serving his requested dinner, this year Boeuf Bourguignon, and a good bottle of wine. That is, unless you have a nice tawny port -- his favorite pairing with The Ensign.

Happy Birthday Honey!

Mormons Party on Sunday!

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: What Sister Loomis missed at the Ex-Mormon Superbowl Party

Our gathering was indeed in full swing when the ex-Mormon who called herself  "Lily Moomis" sauntered up my steps in her thigh high boots, zebra skirt and feather boa. Fortunately, we saw her coming in time for the guests from the Abbottsville Fourth Ward to hide in my basement. Hate to say it but Millie's disguise needed a little work. So did her presentation. Right off we noticed the following red flags:

Ex-Mormons don't have garments peeking through the black mesh of our fishnet tights.

We don't all want to "shake it like a Polaroid picture."

Our tattoos don't smear.

An ex-Mormon probably wouldn't have asked Tanya if she was a "real Jew."

We honestly do have more than "one thing" on our minds.

And for the gazillionth time no, we're not going to make you play Twister in the nude, or force you into any other kind of sexual performance. (By the way, it's Kama Sutra not Cacca Putrid.)

While Millie certainly contributed to the festivities, for the sake our guests from the Abbottsville Fourth, we quickly frightened her away so that everybody could come back upstairs and watch the Superbowl. And what a game it was, thanks to good food, good company, and a healthy dose of free agency.

Afterward, Jerry took the priesthood holders up to the "man den," offered them their choice of beverage, turned on the post game, and taught them to repeat, "Life is good." Andrew and Tanya led the Stake Single Adults into my living room, where they sang them through an "R" rated version of The Hokey Pokey. And the Relief Society went downstairs and watched Big Love. We concluded the following: 1. Bill is much sexier now that he's morphed into Mitt Romney. 2. We love Margene for alerting people to the needs of nymphomaniacs. 3. We suspect that Tommy might be a vampire. That scene in the sweat lodge -- you could tell he wanted to suck Barb's blood. 4. Teeny is headed for a break down.

Eventually we closed without a prayer and without any regrets over missing Fast and Testimony Meeting. Do remember, my dear friends from the Abbottsville Fourth, that we get together every month. I will send a reminder. Oh! I will also send a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade to Millie Loomis. Lord knows it can only do her good.

Mormon Spy Bravely Infiltrates the Ex-Mormon Superbowl Party

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Millie Loomis, self appointed ward media critic
Subject: Ex-Mormon Superbowl Party

Having finally recovered from my traumatizing Julie and Julia experience, and upon hearing the buzz about the Superbowl party at the Bantas, I decided it was time for me to return to duty as your media watchdog. I armed myself with my temple garments and the Holy Ghost, disguised myself as an ex-Mormon, and infiltrated enemy lines. I had no trouble locating the target, as this poster-sized sacrilege hung by the entrance:

I activated my hidden camera, stormed up the stairs and pushed through the door. The party was already in full swing. I paused in the entryway and scouted the territory, then moved into the living room, where a seemingly charming couple invited me to sit. Their charm quickly evaporated, however, when they launched into a tirade over polygamy, temple blood oaths, the Lamanite Placement Program, and Prop. 8. The usual blather. Typical ex-Mormons. Exaggerating a few personal slights, then drowning their sorrows in copious amounts of Diet Dr. Pepper. Sad.


I relocated to the kitchen, where more of the enemy were encamped. I struggled to maintain my cover while they drank, caroused and blasphemed the Lord's anointed without apology. It was a scene too vile and gluttonous to describe. Fortunately I captured some of it on film. (Extreme caution advised.)

A quick perusal of the ice bucket proved what I already suspected. There were no Mormon-friendly beverages. I headed downstairs to the den. Finally, some red-blooded American males watching football. Steve offered me something called a Mike's Lemonade. Had to admit it was quite tasty. Jerry and Larry seemed amused when I took a second, then a third gulp. Meanwhile, Mark gave me the once over. No doubt undressing me with his eyes. After all, what could I expect at a thing like this. I found a chair across the room and turned my attention to the game. My late husband, Bishop Loomis, used to cheer for the BYU, and he liked a good tart lemonade as well. But before I could begin enjoying myself, an obscene Dockers ad startled me back to duty, and I retreated up the stairs.

Bleary-eyed Sarah sat on a bar stool throwing back shots of Gatorade. I left her to her private gulag.

Instead, I joined Donna and Cheryl who were deciding on which chick flick to watch on the kitchen TV. Wholesome movie buff that I am, I immediately suggested Beauty and the Beast. They shot it down. I compromised with something edgier, The Princess Diaries. But . . . no. That was not in their plans. Cheryl popped in Julie and Julia, and flipped ahead to where Julia Child compares a piece of tubular pasta to a man's -- you know.

"It's my favorite part," said Cheryl. "I like to look at it over and over again."

My cheeks burned as I watched the revolting scene play, rewind, then play again.

"Hey Cheryl," Donna called. She pulled a box of manicotti from her cupboard. "Let's see if she's right."

I walked out.

Thankfully, there were no other active members of the Abbottsville Fourth Ward present at last evening's party/kitchen orgy. Nor should any of us attend these soirees in the future. (Except to gather further ammunition against the enemy, and maybe drink some more of that super yummy lemonade.)



If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, we'll send you Sister Loomis's reimbursement request along with her receipt from the Abbottsville Leather, Latex and Fetish Factory, where she purchased her ex-Mormon disguise.

Ex-Mormon Superbowl Party -- Visitors Welcome

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Donna Banta
Subject: Superbowl Party

My dear friends in the Abbottsville Fourth Ward, since you are kind enough to include me on your e-mail list, I've decided to include you in the following:

Postmormon Superbowl Party

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Hey Abbottsville Fourth Ward!

Tired of sitting through mind-numbing meetings while the game records on DVD? Don't want to wait until 12:01 AM Monday for the kick-off? Then hang at my house with actual fun people, watch the game in real time, throw back a cold one, and root for some real Saints for a change. Be prepared for light-mindedness, loud laughter, and a helluva lot of evil speaking of the Lord's anointed. 

You want to. You know you do.

Please do NOT bring:

Your scriptures

The missionaries

Lesson #5

Scrapbooking paraphernalia 

Your testimony

Neckties and pantyhose

Nu Skin samples

Your righteous indignation

Sister Loomis's gallon sized jar of peaches (I'm still working on the last one.)

A message from The Ensign

Violators will be dealt with by our bouncer, Mark Crawford. Trust me, your garments will not protect you.

Please do bring:

A sense of humor (It's there, you'll find it.)

An open mind (Likewise.)

If possible, some of those super yummy Mormon Funeral Potatoes

No Nursery Provided

See you Sunday!

http://www.postmormon.org/exp_e/index.php/chapters/ch_home/811