Crapping my sacred underwear

I just had a new essay published:

Most adult Mormons who have been deemed worthy to enter the temple wear sacred underwear called “garments”: white, two-piece fabric hugging the body from mid-arm to kneecaps. (Imagine a white fitted t-shirt and cycling shorts.) The garments represent the coat of skins God gave Adam and Eve after they ate the forbidden fruit and realized they were naked. Mormons wear the garments day and night, removing them only for bathing, exercise, or sex.

Urban legends run through Mormon circles about the faithful who were dramatically saved by the holy fabric, by deflecting a bullet or shielding the skin from raging fire. I have the opposite tale: when I was a 19-year-old Mormon missionary in Peru, I crapped my sacred garments.

Read it here.

To the guy ranting in line at the airport the other day

Dear Old Dude Ranting in Line at the Airport,

Shut the fuck up. There was no reason for you to complain about the security line the other day. In airports — like Disneyland, banks, and buffets — lines are guaranteed. Lines are part of the system. That’s how airports work. If you want to ride in an airplane, first you have to stand in line.

“Can you believe this?” you huffed as the line snaked its way towards the checkpoint.

Yes. I can believe it: Thousands of people moving in and out of that airport without incident every fucking day, and still an asshole like you has to complain that it’s just not going fast enough.

I fly a lot. And the people at SEATAC are fucking great at getting people through very long lines. That day the line took 20 minutes. You spend more time waiting for delivery pizza.

“We shouldn’t have to be here,” you whined.

No, you shouldn’t. In  fact, your didn’t have to be there at all. There are plenty of ways to get from one place to another.

A hundred-something years ago, when your mother was born, it took months to cross the continent by covered wagon. Imagine how much insulin you’d have to pack for that trip. Now, thanks to thousands of brilliant and nameless engineers, it takes mere hours. And you get to sit down, watch a movie, order a drink, and pump french fry farts into your padded seat. And the seat reclines.

Yes, airport security takes a little while. It’s always taken a while. Even before 9/11, all people still had to stand in line so trained people could make sure stupid people didn’t bring flammable liquids or reactive chemicals onto a giant metal tube jetting past the troposphere.

Look, If you have a problem with security theater — and I’m guessing that’s not your real concern — join a protest. Write to your local representatives. Occupy Pizza Hut. Otherwise, sip your venti mocha, shut the fuck up, and be happy that resting your dimpled ass on a plane is a privilege that the vast majority of humans today will not experience.



P.S. Sorry about the earlier comment about your mother. She was probably a wonderful woman who spent her dying years wondering why her son turned out be such a miserable cunt.

The 40 Days for Life story idea is dead

Earlier this year I excitedly embarked on a new writing project: covering the national 40 Days for Life campaign, a prayer vigil taking place in front of abortion providers.

The plan was to write a diary-style piece featuring interviews from 40 Days leaders, as well as from advocates for women’s heath care. Unfortunately, after about two weeks, it became harder and harder to find people willing to be interviewed. Phone calls and emails — both to pro-life and pro-choice advocates — went unanswered. One man who agreed to be interviewed said he had been disturbed by what he found on my website. I took it as a compliment.

Oh, well. These things happen. On to the next project.