Mormons, robot hands, and ass tattoos. Nobody has ever written that title, EVER.

During my exodus from campus this afternoon I was driving down Main St. in Monmouth and saw that a pub & eatery had replaced the crappy trendy coffee shack that had been there for the last two years. Because I wanted to show my support for the eradication of designer coffee, I stopped in and ordered a beer and did my homework. (They had Guinness!)

I was doing the required reading for my Introduction to Mysticism class. I was reading about how the roots to Mysticism date back to the time of Paul (in fact, his convert, Dionysus, is thought to be one of the founders of Mysticism) and how Mysticism is founded on the unknowable, that which is beyond our grasp, how God in his fullness is incomprehensible for humans, how many theologians believe that Mysticism is at the heart of every religious experience, and how the nature of a religious experience greatly expands beyond that which modern language can convey.

I finished the beer and grabbed a Vitamin Water for the road. As I was walking out the door, I got that strange feeling you get in your pit whenever you suddenly see a cop pass you on the highway. You know, that brief moment of manic panic when you sense an inevitable, patronizing, convicting confrontation.

I knew by their black pants and short-sleeve white button-up shirts that the cut-and-paste figures that stood like statues around my car were Mormons.

I tried to fake them out by walking a wide pattern initially in a different direction and then swoop in from behind, hop in my car, and take off, but with the tenacity of a pan-handling street-juggler one of them popped up in my face and cut me off in my path.

"Excuse me sir, I know you're on your way to your car..."(HOW THE HELL DID HE KNOW THAT!?!) "but can I ask you a question real fast?"

Of course the bastards hang outside of bars. To them, it seems like a great place to pick up "lost souls." I was hoping that my Vitamin Water would cause them to give me a break and distinguish me as Not A Typical Bar Patron.

If they had asked me, I would've suggested they try my Intro to Creative Writing class. They would have made a killing there this morning, what with all the Lost Souls in attendance. The professor read a quote by Ernst Hemingway that went, "For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn." He explained how Hemingway called it his "six word autobiography." Then he uttered the famous last words, "but what does it mean?"

Instantly, an athlete from the back row said, "He's got small feet." Then a cute blonde marketing major on my right said, "He's trying to appeal to the new-parent demographic." Then the first guy tried again, "He's got baby feet... um, he's taking baby steps." When the guy to my left finally spoke up and said, "He was deprived of his childhood and forced to grow up to soon," it was too late as everyone else had put on their caps and gowns and were on their way to shaking hands with the Dean and walking away with their liberal arts diplomas.

So the Mormons.

He offered a handshake, but when I accepted, my palm was met with a cold, black glove. It reminded me of Terminator 2 when Arnold dissected his left hand to prove to an unbeliever that he was actually a robot, and how he had to wear a glove for the rest of the film because CGI was a bitch back then and they would've gone waaay overbudget to animate in a robot hand for the rest of the film.

Because I had just moved from academic-mode and was still pondering, with an open mind, the perplexities of a deity so great that it eclipses our ability to grasp it, I felt I would be taking a big step back if I stonewalled the guy after he said, "Do you know anything about the Mormon church?"

"I do."

I've gotten a lot better at pulling my punches since I quit going to church. I figure he has a lot more to gain by me letting him finish his spiel than I would by being an asshole. By the way, it's not so much that I Quit Going To Church in the formal sense. It was more a passive move. One day I went, and when it was over I bought a bucket of chicken and went home, and the next Sunday I just didn't show up. And the same thing happen the next Sunday. And the next, and the next, and the next.

"How about the Book of Mormon?"

"I do know a few things about it."

"Do you know anyone who is Mormon?"

The truth is, I did, but he died last week as his parents walked in on him committing suicide by stuffing his head in a plastic bag filled with household intoxicants. That wasn't a joke. And I didn't put parenthesis around that part because I didn't say it to him, because I couldn't disrespect my former friend and classmate by allowing this fool to strain bad parenting and dangerous occultism through his theology-filter in a desperate attempt to make his quota.

Finally I said, "Can I just have a book of Mormon."

He winced and said, "Well I just have my personal one that I carry with me." Then as he pulled it out of his pocket and gave it one long, last Old-Yeller goodbye stare, his parter said, "No bro, the car's parked just around the corner. We got tons more."

I yanked it out of his hands but he held on to it, saying, "It is a holy scripture, you know."

I didn't mean to but I ended up saying, "Even this one-- the paperback version?"

Then he said, "You know, there's a verse in there that explains that if you pray to God and ask him if the Book of Mormon is real, he will tell you that it is."

This is a total 180 from the God-is-beyond-comprehension stuff I was formerly digesting. I wanted to tell him that just because it's written in his paperback doesn't make it any more true than it would by tattooing it across my ass cheeks.

I nodded and said, "Indeed."

He let it go, and as I turned to my car and began walking away, he said, "Do you have any friends who might be interested?"

I started to say, "No, so you can keep your stuffed pony," but instead I chose, "Yeah, and I'm sure you'll make it there soon enough."