My bestest friend since third grade is Derek Wilson. I was as godless heathen and he was salvation incarnate, a true Mormon spawn and the bestest friend I’ve ever had. Really. He’s the bestest.

Often, Derek would sneak me through the doors of some teenage social bandied up and courted out for the Mormon teens looking for gittin’ jiggy with Erasure, Oingo Boingo, Madness, Soft Cell, Thomas Dolby, Duran Duran, Joy Division, REM, New Order, and everything 80s New Wave. Mormons listen to good music when they’re not jamming Donnie and Marie.

So I like dancing. Dancing is fun. Sex dwarf, isn’t it nice, luring disco dollies to a life of vice. Or, The Sun drips down very heavy behind the front of your dress so heavenly lined and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart. I liked the sexy songs a lot more, and Mormon girls wiggle nicely to sexy new wave songs.

It wasn’t tough getting a girl to git jiggy with me, although the conversation nearly always lasered right in on “So where are you going on your mission?” My reply was, “Uh, I’m not Mormon.” Bam, that girl vectored straight away from me. Dang. I wanted to tongue kiss with her.

Another dance date, another hasty exit. Another dance date, another immediate “he’s not Mormon” exodus. Another dance date, we both loved Erasure, and then, “Where are you going on your mission.” Grrrrrrr. I’m going on a Mission to Mars (great ride at Disneyland with Mr. Johnson at Mission Control. And that lass was off on a safari from someone more Mormon than me.

Finally fed up, and without any thought occurring that there was a kinder way to integrate myself into this less polo field sturdy dance floor and more shifting sands dance floor than blurting out:


Every seen the Disneyland Police appear from nowhere to escort you out for placing half-eaten pickles on top of kid’s Mickey Mouse ears? It’s like that. The Mormon Police quickly escorted me out the front doors of the church, which I felt was very dignified. They could have easily locked me in the temple dungeon with the debtor Mormons who don’t tithe the full 155% of their yearly income. Very classy.

Magic Underwear. Go nowhere without them. It’s not just Mormon Police who will be held at bay. Bullets, missiles, ebola, body-odor, and itchy fungal growths in the crotch of the magic underwear (that’s kind of the Achille’s Heel of Mormon Magic Underwear).

I didn’t go to too many Mormon Sadie’s Hawkins dances after this event. I’ve got myself some pimped out Magic Underwear in my Toyota glove box, all glitter-balls and Disneyland Main Street Electrical Light Parade. Mormon girls will not be able to get their training bras off fast enough.