The Offended Blogger

You can call me paranoid if it makes you feel better, but I know for a fact that “they” are trying to kill me.

I take that back, they aren’t trying, they are succeeding.

Soon I shall be dead.

Finitio.

Kaput.

Moi.

Sigh.

Not only that, but those evil bastards are reveling in the fact that it is a slooooooooooooow, painful death and that I am quite cognizant of it and can do nothing to avert the inevitable due to the fact that my own sinful inclinations are responsible for leading me down the path which leads right to the Grim Reaper’s doorstep.

Ugh.

OK, I know what you’re thinking and no, it isn’t the Google gestapo or rogue CIA agents who are on Mike Holmes’ payroll who are out to get me.

Well, they probably are, but that’s not who I’m talking about. I’m talking about the almighty Temple police who decide which of us can practice dentistry successfully, and who can wed a child bride or three, and more importantly, who faces a well dressed firing squad for failure to pay their required 10% (gross wages, not net, mind you!) around here.

They are also the ultimate authority on who can have fun on any given Sunday as well:

I know!!

Who the hell wants beer or wine or premixed margaritas on a Sunday??!

Plus, those signs are on every single Mormon church in my neighborhood and let me tell you, I can’t even drive the 1.25 miles to the Idaho Fish & Game & State Sanctioned Liquor Store without seeing at least 127 of them.

Bastards.

Oh, believe me, it used to piss me off soooo much that I couldn’t go down to my local Applebee’s and get all liquored up on tequila shooters and Goldschlager at 9am on Sunday morning that I’d stay home and get all liquored up on state sanctioned tequila shooters and Goldschlager.

Hooyah!!

Then, since tequila makes me want to get naked, I’d spend alllllllll day protesting in front of the Temple on behalf of all of my unfairly oppressed heathen bretheren:

So what if I had no intention of putting my clothes on, especially if I did get a tequila shooter out of the deal.

Hey, I’ll have you know that I sacrificed many a Sunday trying to make a difference in the lives of us non-believers but do you think those frigid Temple goers even noticed me, even when it was 30 below out and my nipples had icicles hanging from them??!!!!!!!

No they did not.

Welllllll, OK, so there was that one perverted dentist who noticed and stared and drooled and took pictures and flashed me back and offered me 10% of his and his children’s and grandchildren’s and great-grandchildren’s future earnings to sleep with him, but still. I mean, he was flattering and all but he had no pull in the Temple whatsoever. Not unless you count extracting the abscessed teeth of those wrinkled, old, ‘no fun on Sundays even if you stand outside in -30 degree weather and flash us your nipplecicles Chelle B.!’ rulemakers at the top of the Mormon foodchain!!

To top it off, there aren’t even any coffee stands in my area, either.

(to be continued… after I get back from the Idaho Fish & Game & State Sanctioned Liquor Store…)