The road to the Mormon Tabernacle is fraught with danger and excitement.
This may come as a shock to most of you, but when I am not engaged in the fondling of bingo balls at Third Friday Bingo with Ruby Ridge and the Matrons of Mayhem, I sing with the Salt Lake Men’s Choir. We just finished performing our 29th annual Christmas concert.
Dressing up in a tuxedo and singing my heart out brings back some fond memories of my younger days during the Paleolithic Era when I used to be a member of a concert choir in Logan. That choir was scheduled to perform the Brahms Requiem in the Mormon Tabernacle on Temple Square. I was so excited because, as everyone knows, the concert ain’t over until a fat lady sings. So, in preparation, I bedazzled my best hoop skirt with sparkles, shellacked my tallest beehive hairdo, and donned my glitter shoes. Sadly, I was informed that I must wear a tuxedo inside the tabernacle, because my beehive hairdo would outshine the beehives carved by the pioneers into the woodwork of the building, thus causing someone’s testimony to waver.
Fearing there would not be a place to change clothes, I wore my tuxedo from Logan to the dress rehearsal at noon. In great awe, I entered the tabernacle and sat in the choir seats beneath its massive organ. I almost swooned from lust when the director placed me between two absolutely hunky returned missionaries from the university. For lack of room, they were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder with me and read off of my music. I held the music folder, and as they would reach in and turn each page, they would brush up against my arms and shoulders causing me to “gain a testimony.” We were packed tight enough that our thighs were even rubbing against each other. I could definitely feel the “power of the priesthood.” By the end of rehearsal, I was near to “exceeding myself” and needed to bear my testimony. We had a four-hour break before we had to line up for the concert in the evening. The clueless brethren tripped off happily to get dinner, totally unaware that they had kindled an unquenchable fire in my burning bosom.
I removed myself from the other choir members and avoided the missionaries quoting scriptures on Temple Square. I went to the nearby magazine shop so that I could procure some “inspirational literature” of my own. I proceeded to buy a “triple combination” consisting of The Book of More-Man: Another Testament of Vice (Raging Stallion), The Doctrine of Covetousness (Rump Riders), and the Pervert of Great Vice (Butt Pirates of the Caribbean).
I drove to Memory Grove for some personal “scripture study.” I sat alone in my car, quietly pondering the things I had read. I decided that I would skip dinner in order to “fastly prey” for a companion to play “scripture chase.” Lo and behold, I observed that many men were wandering aimlessly about, to and fro along the path, apparently engaging in “Man’s Search For Happiness.” And it came to pass, that I also joined the throng, gaining many a stare, for I was still wearing the tuxedo. Sticking to the straight and narrow path and taking great care so as not to soil the tux, I did gain favor with a gorgeous jogger wearing tight little short-shorts who was way out of my league in splendor. Apparently, a tuxedo can make even a plus-size, geriatric queen look enticing. He silently motioned with a subtle nod of his head for me to join him behind some trees. Reverently and quietly I joined him in the privacy of this “sacred grove” and with breathless trepidation, I proceeded to “hold his priesthood.” Sensing my fashion limitations, he took charge and kneeled before me. Using my cummerbund as a cradle for my urim and thummim, he quickly went to work administering his affections. For some strange reason, the old British saying came to mind: “Nothing sucks like Electrolux.” I softly began to sing the song by Ian from Latter-Day Lampoon;
“Hold to my rod, my iron rod,
`Tis stiff, and straight and true.
My iron rod is a gift from God
To place inside of you.”
And so it was accomplished, after a frenzied time, that his tonsils were baptized with “the fruit of my loins,” and he did swallow, lest the “seed” be spilled upon the ground and wasted.
With a newly found love of life, and an obvious spring in my step, I raced back to the tabernacle, with my “triple combination” secretly stowed inside my music bag, arriving barely in time. I was nervous that the ushers would notice the literature in my bag. As we stood in line in the basement, waiting to enter the choir seats, my missionary studs asked me where I had disappeared. I told them I had gone to a quiet place for some personal study and self-improvement. They seemed to buy that. Just as we started walking upstairs, the stud behind me, with a bewildered look on his face, reached up and picked a twig and leaf out of my hair. Luckily, there was no time left for further inquiry. I sang as I had never sung before. It was surely my best concert performance ever.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Should I name my beehive hairdo ‘Deseret?’
2. Do they make tuxedos with knee pads?
3. Do they make tuxedos out of camouflage material?
4. Does the jogger need to present his temple recommend to me before his tonsils get baptized?
5. Do they make music folders with secret porn compartments?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.