Playelder: Letterman
(crossposted to exmormon)
Here, after a long hiatus, is another story by the ex-Mormon funny guy Playelder. A long while back I posted his first story, and it was a cracker. None of his others reach quite the same level of hilarious blasphemy, but there are quite a few really good ones.
In this tale, Playelder recounts his brief term of study at BYU Idaho Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho, then a junior college. As before, I’ve cleaned up the punctuation and formatting a little from how it first appeared on Usenet, but have not changed any of the content. Footnotes explain some of the terms that may not be familiar to non-Mormons or non-Utahns.
I’d like a P, Bob
by Playelder
I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
I had the privilege of attending Ricks College 1 in 1985. ’Twas rather easy to get in. I was a member in good standing and it was to be little more than a pit stop before heading out for the mission, so it was a rather uneventful accomplishment. Just pass the worthiness interviews and you are now admitted the wonderful world of higher academia, LDS style. My grades in high school were less than magnificent. I’d flunked geometry 3 years in a row. It had something to do with using theorems and proofs in order to prove the trapezoid in question actually was a square. Being of the TBM 2 frame of mind where personal worthiness and obedience were the highest priorities in life, and all success in life was directly predicated upon how worthy and obedient I was, the rules of reality that others adhered to did not apply to me. I knew it was a square because I prayed about it and it was revealed unto me from on high that it was truly a square. Plus the fact that the brethren had already conferred about the topic and testified unto the fold that it was truly a square. No need to get bogged down with details like logic and reason. That would be foolish. Theorems and proofs are for the hard of heart who have sinned and now are past all feeling. The brethren have declared it to be a square, I prayed and it was revealed unto me that it was a square, therefore, I’d like to bear my testimony that this trapezoid is truly a square, and I know it to be true with all my heart. Inthenameofjeezuschristamen. No, there was absolutely no need to concern myself with grades in high school. Just be worthy, and if BYU 3 doesn’t have room for you (translation: won’t accept you), Ricks will.
Note to future employers: I mite not bee ejukated enuff for this job, butt i’m werthy enuff for it.
So I was now accepted, admitted, matriculated, registered, and all those other fancy-schmancy words used to attest to the level of my intelligence by claiming my proper place within the realm of Ricks. Kind of anticlimactic. The next question was whether or not my future roommate was as righteous as I was. He’d better not be some kind of ruckus raiser that would chase the spirit out of my room. I’ll take this up with the dorm mom and dad lickety-split!!!!! I’ll get him sent home if I have to! I won’t tolerate this! It then occurred to me that I hadn’t even met this bloke yet and I was already casting judgment about his degree of righteousness and drawing conclusions as to how it should be dealt with because there was no possible way he could be as righteous as I was. Looking back, this would prove to be the least of my worries.
I handled the new independence well. I went to class. I said my personal prayers as well as joined in the nightly floor prayer on our floor in Ensign Hall. I even made new friends with people from such far reached exotic places as California and Wyoming. One thing was odd, though. We were all just kind of biding our time until we went on our missions. We weren’t really here to study. Maybe find a girl from Kentucky up in Kennel #5 we could get serious about and tell the parents back at home about before she could ditch us while we were on our missions. (Sorry about that, sisters. It was just too much fun calling the girls dorms up on the hill “kennels,” just because the reaction we got was so good.) Maybe we got sent here in order to get reformed by the spiritual atmosphere and follow the good examples of the many RMs who so proudly flaunted their studly and available ways before us as they stole the prime women from the kennels and left us to chose from their scraps.
And then the thing that serves as a final testimony of my own personal ignorance was the fact that my major in communications had absolutely nothing to do with what I wanted to do. The program at Ricks was geared toward radio and it was my calling in life to be a cameraman. Technically, they both fall under “communications” but had I actually looked at the program at Ricks before I bothered to show up, this would have been revealed unto me. Those stupid little facts! They just get in the way! “Why bother to even read this literature? This was the Lord’s school and surely they will help me in my quest to be a cameraman. I’ll just sign up for this communications program and then show up because I’m worthy and righteous and all will be well.” Thus was my first lesson in the importance of facts.
So having reached the conclusion that I was not heading in the proper direction while I was at Ricks, I decided to just have some fun while I was biding my time. Even though I was an obedient little dung beetle and rolled my ball of dung about diligently, I thought it might be best if I knew where I was rolling my ball of dung to, and for what purpose. Mindless dung beetles who roll their balls of dung around for no purpose other than to lengthen their stride while rolling began to bother me. Dung beetles who had no idea why they rolled their dung, but just rolled it because they were told to really started to bother me. Was my mind finally beginning to open and question the ball of dung I had so diligently rolled my entire life? Was there more to life than rolling my ball of dung? I would find out. I boldly walked away from my ball of dung. I looked that ball of dung in the eye and said, “No more! I will go forth and see what Rexburg has to offer a delinquent dung beetle!”
And it came to pass I went forth, yea, even unto the city of Rexburg. Or Babylon as those clever RMs referred to it as. I found other dung beetles who’d also left behind their great balls o’ dung. We rejoiced at having left behind our great balls o’ dung, yea, and having hands and feet that smelled good for a change. The world and its possibilities were endless.
I had always had a problem with the dress code at Ricks. I was still a righteous little dung beetle, but I also had gained some common sense after taking time to look at those silly little things the world called facts. It was my opinion that just because this is a church college doesn’t mean every day is Sunday around here. What’s wrong with sisters who don’t wear dresses? What bearing does that have on getting an education, should they actually choose to get one in their husband hunt? Why do I have to dress like Richie Cunningham? What’s wrong with just relaxing a bit and wearing some nice comfortable sweats to the cafeteria for dinner on Thursday night?
Oh, those sweats. While I was in high school I’d amassed myself quite a collection. I NEVER wore jeans, 501s, or slacks. I had over 50 pairs of Nike, Adidas, Filas, and all that stuff. I had a pair of white nylon see-through sweats that I would wear with my red boxer shorts and show the world I was a free hangin’ man. No grade-schooler briefs for me! My dad would say, “Playson, I don’t think its appropriate for a priesthood holder to wear those sweats.”
But wear them I did, and proudly, too. Who else in the world had a pair of white nylon see-through sweats? Just me. And they left nothing to the imagination. My sweats caused me a great amount of grief at Ricks. I was regularly refused entrance to the cafeteria because of them. “You would deprive me food because of my pants? What is this travesty?”
They told me, “Sweats aren’t allowed in the cafeteria,” as they handed me back my meal card.
“But it’s all I have. The bus lost my luggage and all I have are my casual clothes.”
“Well, I’ll let you in this once, but you have to buy some pants.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you…sucker. That’s right, keep rolling that ball of dung. See where it will get ya.”
On and on it went. I managed to flaunt my sweats to class, to the cafeteria, and I even had the gall to wear them in the library one evening. I had just taken a test and walked out in my Air Jordan blue and red harlequin looking sweats. Hey, this was 1985! They were cool back then! I heard many whispered sneers and comments of “Just look at that! How dare he defile our holy library by wearing such clothing?!”
The atmosphere was somewhat similar to when the ward sinner gives the invocation and there’s this sense of righteous indignation in the air. “I can’t believe they actually let HIM say the opening prayer! HMPH!”
A day later I got a letter in the mail from Student Life, i.e., the bad kid department. It informed me of an urgent meeting which I must attend and was signed by a man named Bob. In blue ink, even. “Whoa! Bob wants to see me. I wonder what for?”
My question was soon answered as I arrived in Bob’s office. He met me at the door and invited me to sit down. He was a rather unsophisticated looking fellow, resembling that short grouchy guy on NYPD Blue. I think his name is Sipowitz. I don’t watch it, but that’s who he looked like anyway. Bob Sipowitz proceeded to give me the Honor Code violation lecture about wearing my sweats all over campus. He even pointed out the fact that I was in violation even as I came to seek his counsel. This saddened me as I had worn a rather regal pair of black Filas for this special occasion. In his best RICKS PD Blue tone of voice, he told me my violations would no longer be tolerated and dismissed me. Bob had rather gruffly forced my ball of dung back upon me and told me to get to rollin’. I did have one pair of jeans that my mom bought me. I wore those in the library and the cafeteria. Everywhere else I wore my beloved sweats.
My battle with Bob continued. I was called in several more times about various things such as putting straws in urinals so when you flush them, a stream of water shoots out on your pants and you walk out looking like you never actually went inside to go to the peepee. Or putting shaving cream in those hot air hand dryers so they splooched out all over the place when you hit the button. My standard statement to Bob was that I felt he had better things to do with his position. There were students whose honor code violations were far worse than mine. They were fornicating, drinking, and committing all manner of iniquities. (Yeah, they drink Smirnoff and screw even at Ricks.) Their very eternal futures were at stake here! I was being hauled in for far less serious things. I pointed out the irony of the situation and Bob was not amused. He told me my enrollment at Ricks was in jeopardy and sent me on my way. I was sad as it appeared I’d have to go back to my ball of dung.
That night a friend of mine and I went to a movie. It was “White Nights.” He told me it was good and that it was about all this cool stuff, but when I saw it, I knew he lied to me. Now I was really pissed. As we were walking back up to Ensign Hall, we passed this car dealer with all these letters up on a board. One letter stood out from the rest. It was a big letter P. Oh, that P! That wonderful, beautiful, P! I had plans for this P. Does anyone remember that Sesame Street ripoff show called “Electric Company?” The coolest thing was “The Adventures of Letterman.” He was a good guy who was always fighting the bad guy, The Spell Binder. The Spell Binder was cool because he’d go around changing the spelling of things and turn them into something else. And it was always bad. For example, some kids are at the park feeding the ducks. The Spell Binder shows up and changes the ducks into dicks. The dicks then proceed to terrify the children who scream for Letterman.
“Oh, No! Help us, Letterman!”
Except for one kid. He’s just kind of looking at all the dicks and says, “This is pretty cool!”
Letterman shows up and tears the “U” off of his varsity sweater and changes the dicks back into ducks. The children rejoice, the Spell Binder curses, and that one kid says, “Hey! What’s the big idea?” I was always that one kid.
A health spa by our house had a letterboard out front that advertised “MASSAGE THERAPIST.”
Using what I had learned from the Spell Binder, I moved a few things so it now said to the world that they were offering you a chance to MASSAGE THE RAPIST. What a bargain! How much? Evidently no one ever took them up on this offer as it was eventually just taken down. So when I saw the P on the sign, my Spell Binder instincts kicked in and told me to kiss that ball of dung good-bye and take the P. I took the P and went back to my dorm. The next morning, it was a Sunday, we went to the front of the campus to the big old sign that declared to the world
RICKS COLLEGE
Taking the P and some duct tape from my jacket, I changed Ricks College into
PRICKS COLLEGE
Oh No!!!! Help us, Brother Letterman!!!! My friend pulled out his camera and took my picture standing by the sign. I looked much like a big game hunter standing over his trophy kill. My heart swelled with pride. I climbed down and then took his picture. A car drove by and pulled over. It was filled with college guys who were laughing. They got out and had a look and it happened one of them had a camera. They set aside their balls of dung and one by one they took pictures, too. I took a group photo of all these guys in suits standing in front of PRICKS COLLEGE.
Other dung beetles came by, and they too set aside their balls of dung. Some went back up to get cameras, others just went back to their balls of dung and went on to church. The sisters in these groups were all less than amused, whereas the brothers laughed, leaving the sisters to wonder if this irreverent man truly was the one to spend eternity with. After spending a whole lot more time there than we expected to, we left. We left the P there, of course. Some dung beetle would eventually roll by and remove the P and reap the blessings for it.
Later that week, I got another call to see Bob. I went in and he told me that I was to be expelled for my Spell Binder stunt. Once again, I pointed out that no permanent harm was done, and there were far greater sinners out there than myself. He seemed to agree to an extent, but offered me the plea bargain to withdraw voluntarily and receive any refunds that I may have coming, rather than await the imminent decision of my expulsion. Great. Not only was I going to be burned at the stake, but they were going to let me light the first match myself. I took the plea bargain and left without incident.
I asked him how they knew I did it and it turned out the tell tale Air Jordan Harlequins I was wearing did me in. I fit the description that was given. Upon arriving home in disgrace I told some people that I was never going to be a cameraman by going there and it was time to go on a mission. Others I told the truth. They laughed at me and said, “No, really, why did you leave?”
Some of my less than flattering commentary made its way back to Bish. He told me to cease speaking evil of The Lord’s School. I told him, “If I said the same things about Oregon State, you wouldn’t care. If I say it about Ricks, then I have to shut up.”
He tried to explain that I might sway future students from going there and it was wrong to do so. OK, fine by me. Roll that ball of dung, bish.
To this day, people still laugh at me when I tell them about my adventures a Ricks. Especially, the heathens who went to a pagan school. “OOOOOOOOOHHH You hell raiser, you! You’re going to hell for sure!!!!”
This stupid story was brought to you by Air Jordan, Ricks PDBlue, and the letter P.
© circa 2000 Playelder Magazine
These stories were originally posted on the Recovery From Mormonism Message Board. They are the property of Playelder and others, but may be reproduced and shared without permission.
_________________________
1Ricks, a two-year college at the epicenter of east-Idaho Mormondom, has since been rechristened “BYU Idaho.” Whether its academic standards have been tightened up accordingly, or whether it’s still basically a place to mark time until one’s mission (or, for women, to use as a steppingstone to a real college) is unknown to the author.
2True Believing Mormon, also known in some circles as a Molly Mormon.
3BYU Provo, of course.
Here, after a long hiatus, is another story by the ex-Mormon funny guy Playelder. A long while back I posted his first story, and it was a cracker. None of his others reach quite the same level of hilarious blasphemy, but there are quite a few really good ones.
In this tale, Playelder recounts his brief term of study at BYU Idaho Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho, then a junior college. As before, I’ve cleaned up the punctuation and formatting a little from how it first appeared on Usenet, but have not changed any of the content. Footnotes explain some of the terms that may not be familiar to non-Mormons or non-Utahns.
I’d like a P, Bob
by Playelder
I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
I had the privilege of attending Ricks College 1 in 1985. ’Twas rather easy to get in. I was a member in good standing and it was to be little more than a pit stop before heading out for the mission, so it was a rather uneventful accomplishment. Just pass the worthiness interviews and you are now admitted the wonderful world of higher academia, LDS style. My grades in high school were less than magnificent. I’d flunked geometry 3 years in a row. It had something to do with using theorems and proofs in order to prove the trapezoid in question actually was a square. Being of the TBM 2 frame of mind where personal worthiness and obedience were the highest priorities in life, and all success in life was directly predicated upon how worthy and obedient I was, the rules of reality that others adhered to did not apply to me. I knew it was a square because I prayed about it and it was revealed unto me from on high that it was truly a square. Plus the fact that the brethren had already conferred about the topic and testified unto the fold that it was truly a square. No need to get bogged down with details like logic and reason. That would be foolish. Theorems and proofs are for the hard of heart who have sinned and now are past all feeling. The brethren have declared it to be a square, I prayed and it was revealed unto me that it was a square, therefore, I’d like to bear my testimony that this trapezoid is truly a square, and I know it to be true with all my heart. Inthenameofjeezuschristamen. No, there was absolutely no need to concern myself with grades in high school. Just be worthy, and if BYU 3 doesn’t have room for you (translation: won’t accept you), Ricks will.
Note to future employers: I mite not bee ejukated enuff for this job, butt i’m werthy enuff for it.
So I was now accepted, admitted, matriculated, registered, and all those other fancy-schmancy words used to attest to the level of my intelligence by claiming my proper place within the realm of Ricks. Kind of anticlimactic. The next question was whether or not my future roommate was as righteous as I was. He’d better not be some kind of ruckus raiser that would chase the spirit out of my room. I’ll take this up with the dorm mom and dad lickety-split!!!!! I’ll get him sent home if I have to! I won’t tolerate this! It then occurred to me that I hadn’t even met this bloke yet and I was already casting judgment about his degree of righteousness and drawing conclusions as to how it should be dealt with because there was no possible way he could be as righteous as I was. Looking back, this would prove to be the least of my worries.
I handled the new independence well. I went to class. I said my personal prayers as well as joined in the nightly floor prayer on our floor in Ensign Hall. I even made new friends with people from such far reached exotic places as California and Wyoming. One thing was odd, though. We were all just kind of biding our time until we went on our missions. We weren’t really here to study. Maybe find a girl from Kentucky up in Kennel #5 we could get serious about and tell the parents back at home about before she could ditch us while we were on our missions. (Sorry about that, sisters. It was just too much fun calling the girls dorms up on the hill “kennels,” just because the reaction we got was so good.) Maybe we got sent here in order to get reformed by the spiritual atmosphere and follow the good examples of the many RMs who so proudly flaunted their studly and available ways before us as they stole the prime women from the kennels and left us to chose from their scraps.
And then the thing that serves as a final testimony of my own personal ignorance was the fact that my major in communications had absolutely nothing to do with what I wanted to do. The program at Ricks was geared toward radio and it was my calling in life to be a cameraman. Technically, they both fall under “communications” but had I actually looked at the program at Ricks before I bothered to show up, this would have been revealed unto me. Those stupid little facts! They just get in the way! “Why bother to even read this literature? This was the Lord’s school and surely they will help me in my quest to be a cameraman. I’ll just sign up for this communications program and then show up because I’m worthy and righteous and all will be well.” Thus was my first lesson in the importance of facts.
So having reached the conclusion that I was not heading in the proper direction while I was at Ricks, I decided to just have some fun while I was biding my time. Even though I was an obedient little dung beetle and rolled my ball of dung about diligently, I thought it might be best if I knew where I was rolling my ball of dung to, and for what purpose. Mindless dung beetles who roll their balls of dung around for no purpose other than to lengthen their stride while rolling began to bother me. Dung beetles who had no idea why they rolled their dung, but just rolled it because they were told to really started to bother me. Was my mind finally beginning to open and question the ball of dung I had so diligently rolled my entire life? Was there more to life than rolling my ball of dung? I would find out. I boldly walked away from my ball of dung. I looked that ball of dung in the eye and said, “No more! I will go forth and see what Rexburg has to offer a delinquent dung beetle!”
And it came to pass I went forth, yea, even unto the city of Rexburg. Or Babylon as those clever RMs referred to it as. I found other dung beetles who’d also left behind their great balls o’ dung. We rejoiced at having left behind our great balls o’ dung, yea, and having hands and feet that smelled good for a change. The world and its possibilities were endless.
I had always had a problem with the dress code at Ricks. I was still a righteous little dung beetle, but I also had gained some common sense after taking time to look at those silly little things the world called facts. It was my opinion that just because this is a church college doesn’t mean every day is Sunday around here. What’s wrong with sisters who don’t wear dresses? What bearing does that have on getting an education, should they actually choose to get one in their husband hunt? Why do I have to dress like Richie Cunningham? What’s wrong with just relaxing a bit and wearing some nice comfortable sweats to the cafeteria for dinner on Thursday night?
Oh, those sweats. While I was in high school I’d amassed myself quite a collection. I NEVER wore jeans, 501s, or slacks. I had over 50 pairs of Nike, Adidas, Filas, and all that stuff. I had a pair of white nylon see-through sweats that I would wear with my red boxer shorts and show the world I was a free hangin’ man. No grade-schooler briefs for me! My dad would say, “Playson, I don’t think its appropriate for a priesthood holder to wear those sweats.”
But wear them I did, and proudly, too. Who else in the world had a pair of white nylon see-through sweats? Just me. And they left nothing to the imagination. My sweats caused me a great amount of grief at Ricks. I was regularly refused entrance to the cafeteria because of them. “You would deprive me food because of my pants? What is this travesty?”
They told me, “Sweats aren’t allowed in the cafeteria,” as they handed me back my meal card.
“But it’s all I have. The bus lost my luggage and all I have are my casual clothes.”
“Well, I’ll let you in this once, but you have to buy some pants.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you…sucker. That’s right, keep rolling that ball of dung. See where it will get ya.”
On and on it went. I managed to flaunt my sweats to class, to the cafeteria, and I even had the gall to wear them in the library one evening. I had just taken a test and walked out in my Air Jordan blue and red harlequin looking sweats. Hey, this was 1985! They were cool back then! I heard many whispered sneers and comments of “Just look at that! How dare he defile our holy library by wearing such clothing?!”
The atmosphere was somewhat similar to when the ward sinner gives the invocation and there’s this sense of righteous indignation in the air. “I can’t believe they actually let HIM say the opening prayer! HMPH!”
A day later I got a letter in the mail from Student Life, i.e., the bad kid department. It informed me of an urgent meeting which I must attend and was signed by a man named Bob. In blue ink, even. “Whoa! Bob wants to see me. I wonder what for?”
My question was soon answered as I arrived in Bob’s office. He met me at the door and invited me to sit down. He was a rather unsophisticated looking fellow, resembling that short grouchy guy on NYPD Blue. I think his name is Sipowitz. I don’t watch it, but that’s who he looked like anyway. Bob Sipowitz proceeded to give me the Honor Code violation lecture about wearing my sweats all over campus. He even pointed out the fact that I was in violation even as I came to seek his counsel. This saddened me as I had worn a rather regal pair of black Filas for this special occasion. In his best RICKS PD Blue tone of voice, he told me my violations would no longer be tolerated and dismissed me. Bob had rather gruffly forced my ball of dung back upon me and told me to get to rollin’. I did have one pair of jeans that my mom bought me. I wore those in the library and the cafeteria. Everywhere else I wore my beloved sweats.
My battle with Bob continued. I was called in several more times about various things such as putting straws in urinals so when you flush them, a stream of water shoots out on your pants and you walk out looking like you never actually went inside to go to the peepee. Or putting shaving cream in those hot air hand dryers so they splooched out all over the place when you hit the button. My standard statement to Bob was that I felt he had better things to do with his position. There were students whose honor code violations were far worse than mine. They were fornicating, drinking, and committing all manner of iniquities. (Yeah, they drink Smirnoff and screw even at Ricks.) Their very eternal futures were at stake here! I was being hauled in for far less serious things. I pointed out the irony of the situation and Bob was not amused. He told me my enrollment at Ricks was in jeopardy and sent me on my way. I was sad as it appeared I’d have to go back to my ball of dung.
That night a friend of mine and I went to a movie. It was “White Nights.” He told me it was good and that it was about all this cool stuff, but when I saw it, I knew he lied to me. Now I was really pissed. As we were walking back up to Ensign Hall, we passed this car dealer with all these letters up on a board. One letter stood out from the rest. It was a big letter P. Oh, that P! That wonderful, beautiful, P! I had plans for this P. Does anyone remember that Sesame Street ripoff show called “Electric Company?” The coolest thing was “The Adventures of Letterman.” He was a good guy who was always fighting the bad guy, The Spell Binder. The Spell Binder was cool because he’d go around changing the spelling of things and turn them into something else. And it was always bad. For example, some kids are at the park feeding the ducks. The Spell Binder shows up and changes the ducks into dicks. The dicks then proceed to terrify the children who scream for Letterman.
“Oh, No! Help us, Letterman!”
Except for one kid. He’s just kind of looking at all the dicks and says, “This is pretty cool!”
Letterman shows up and tears the “U” off of his varsity sweater and changes the dicks back into ducks. The children rejoice, the Spell Binder curses, and that one kid says, “Hey! What’s the big idea?” I was always that one kid.
A health spa by our house had a letterboard out front that advertised “MASSAGE THERAPIST.”
Using what I had learned from the Spell Binder, I moved a few things so it now said to the world that they were offering you a chance to MASSAGE THE RAPIST. What a bargain! How much? Evidently no one ever took them up on this offer as it was eventually just taken down. So when I saw the P on the sign, my Spell Binder instincts kicked in and told me to kiss that ball of dung good-bye and take the P. I took the P and went back to my dorm. The next morning, it was a Sunday, we went to the front of the campus to the big old sign that declared to the world
RICKS COLLEGE
Taking the P and some duct tape from my jacket, I changed Ricks College into
PRICKS COLLEGE
Oh No!!!! Help us, Brother Letterman!!!! My friend pulled out his camera and took my picture standing by the sign. I looked much like a big game hunter standing over his trophy kill. My heart swelled with pride. I climbed down and then took his picture. A car drove by and pulled over. It was filled with college guys who were laughing. They got out and had a look and it happened one of them had a camera. They set aside their balls of dung and one by one they took pictures, too. I took a group photo of all these guys in suits standing in front of PRICKS COLLEGE.
Other dung beetles came by, and they too set aside their balls of dung. Some went back up to get cameras, others just went back to their balls of dung and went on to church. The sisters in these groups were all less than amused, whereas the brothers laughed, leaving the sisters to wonder if this irreverent man truly was the one to spend eternity with. After spending a whole lot more time there than we expected to, we left. We left the P there, of course. Some dung beetle would eventually roll by and remove the P and reap the blessings for it.
Later that week, I got another call to see Bob. I went in and he told me that I was to be expelled for my Spell Binder stunt. Once again, I pointed out that no permanent harm was done, and there were far greater sinners out there than myself. He seemed to agree to an extent, but offered me the plea bargain to withdraw voluntarily and receive any refunds that I may have coming, rather than await the imminent decision of my expulsion. Great. Not only was I going to be burned at the stake, but they were going to let me light the first match myself. I took the plea bargain and left without incident.
I asked him how they knew I did it and it turned out the tell tale Air Jordan Harlequins I was wearing did me in. I fit the description that was given. Upon arriving home in disgrace I told some people that I was never going to be a cameraman by going there and it was time to go on a mission. Others I told the truth. They laughed at me and said, “No, really, why did you leave?”
Some of my less than flattering commentary made its way back to Bish. He told me to cease speaking evil of The Lord’s School. I told him, “If I said the same things about Oregon State, you wouldn’t care. If I say it about Ricks, then I have to shut up.”
He tried to explain that I might sway future students from going there and it was wrong to do so. OK, fine by me. Roll that ball of dung, bish.
To this day, people still laugh at me when I tell them about my adventures a Ricks. Especially, the heathens who went to a pagan school. “OOOOOOOOOHHH You hell raiser, you! You’re going to hell for sure!!!!”
This stupid story was brought to you by Air Jordan, Ricks PDBlue, and the letter P.
© circa 2000 Playelder Magazine
These stories were originally posted on the Recovery From Mormonism Message Board. They are the property of Playelder and others, but may be reproduced and shared without permission.
_________________________
1Ricks, a two-year college at the epicenter of east-Idaho Mormondom, has since been rechristened “BYU Idaho.” Whether its academic standards have been tightened up accordingly, or whether it’s still basically a place to mark time until one’s mission (or, for women, to use as a steppingstone to a real college) is unknown to the author.
2True Believing Mormon, also known in some circles as a Molly Mormon.
3BYU Provo, of course.