home is burning

It was a year ago that my sister, Michelle, and her soccer coach decided to unite as a married couple so they could stand on the field sidelines, each with a whistle in their mouths. Since the decision, Michelle has dropped out of school, had a child named Luke, and converted to Mormonism.

None of the decisions she has made have gained my approval or absolute understanding. Sure, her Father was dying and maybe she saw this 37-year old soccer coach as a replacement father-figure. Or maybe her vulnerabilities were taken advantage of by a sick and twisted, closeted-homosexual man from a Mormon family that stressed the importance of not being a fag, and the importance of starting a big family.

And sure, school isn’t for everyone and maybe Michelle was tired of feeling stupid and incapable at school all day every day while her Father laid hopeless and immobile just down the hall from her messy room covered in teen boy model pinups and cat shit.

And sure, the decision to have a baby was made when she made the decision to marry a sick and twisted, closeted-homosexual man from a Mormon family that stressed the importance of not being a fag, and the importance of starting a big family.

Those decisions fell from her initial decision to marry, but I never thought she would sell-out and buy into Mormonism. I contemplated and puzzled over it, thinking, “Well, it makes sense. She’s clearly brainwashed by his soccer balls. Why wouldn’t she be Mormon?” But yesterday Michelle finally showed her hand and gave a little insight to why she converted.

Me: [Walking through door and noticing Mitch standing in the kitchen rocking her baby Luke in her arms] Hey Mitch. What’s going on?

Mitch: Not much.

Me: That sounds exciting.

Mitch: Yeah. You want to hold Luke?

Me: Don’t try to pass your mothering duties off to me.

Mitch: So, you don’t want to hold him?

Me: I would drop him and then everyone would blame me for his slow thinking and lisp later in life.

Mitch: Okay, he’s pretty cute though.

Me: [Picking up cat] So is this cat. [Rocking cat in arms, jokingly pressing its mouth to my nipple to mock breastfeeding, one of several times a day I try to poke fun at it] So, you still doing the whole Mormon thing?

Mitch: Yeah.

Me: Really? You haven’t gotten the whiff of bullshit yet?

Mitch: No.

Me: That’s good. No one likes the smell of bullshit, except for maybe a bull that likes the smell of his own farts.

Mitch: Yep

Me: You been to the Temple yet?

Mitch: No.

Me: I went to the Temple just the other day.

Mitch: Really? Which one? Downtown?

Me: [Lying because I had been to the one in Draper because they opened it up to everyone before closing it down to all us hethan non-believers] Yep.

Mitch: How’d you get in?

Me: Snuck passed Jesus disguised as God.

Mitch: Did you know that I always thought the Temple downtown was Disneyland?

Me: I didn’t know that.

Mitch: Yeah, I thought it was Disneyland and I really wanted to go down to it and get into it so I could get into Disneyland and ride the rides.

Me: [Didn’t really say] Man, you’re a fucking retard.

Me: [Really said] One might argue that connecting your soul to your loved ones for eternity is actually better than Disneyland.

So, that to me explains it. Michelle is Mormon because she always thought it would increase her chances of getting into Disneyland. Makes sense. 

Little Chelsea, the most premature of all us premature and immature Marshalls, had her first relationship come to an end. Poor girl. She was dating a Mormon boy, a sophomore at Skyline. I asked her how it ended.

Me: So, how did this shit end?

Chelsea: Well, his parent’s just told him that he couldn’t talk to me any more.

Me: Really? Who the fuck are his parents? Do you want me to go over there, my fists raised and wrapped in tape covered with glass shards, and fuck them up a touch, maybe take a brick to a car window or a knife to a tire.

Chelsea: No.

Me: Thank God. I probably would have pussied out of doing that anyways.

Chelsea: Yeah. I just don’t know what his parents have against me. It’s a mystery.

Me: Did you cross the line with this kid?

Chelsea: What does that mean?

Me: Did you fuck him?

Chelsea: [Laughing] Ew, gross. No way.

Me: Thank God.

Chelsea: God, you’re disgusting.

Me: Thank you. This kid’s Mormon right?

Chelsea: Yeah.

Me: And you didn’t fuck his innocence away, or give him drugs, or physically hurt him?

Chelsea: No. I just text him every now and then and we played board games a couple of times.

Me: Well, I think it’s clear now. His parents are Mormon and found out that you don’t believe in the same set of fantasies that they believe in so they no longer see you as an acceptable fit for their son, who their souls are united with for eternity. This is for the best, though I would like to call them and talk about how Christian it is of them to judge and destroy a relationship based on a different set of beliefs. Can I have their number?

Chelsea: [Protecting phone] No.

Me: [Not fighting for it] It’s okay. I’ll find it later.

As Chelsea and I discussed the persecution we as “Non-believers” sometimes feel in this the Mormon Mecca of the universe, our cleaning lady, Stana, decided to chime in. She isn’t much of a fan of Mormonism, and often announces this disapproval by saying things like:

“Mormon is, how called, stupid.”

Or

“Mormon is, how called, wash brain.” 

Or

“Joseph Smith havin’ 27 wives. He is, how called, total pervert.”

Or

“Mormon is no religion. Mormon is business.”

Or

“Joesph Smith is seein’, how called, book, that angel is bringin’, but Stana is seeing bull shit.”

Stana looked at Chelsea, clearly emotionally effected by this mini tragedy, and said, “Chelsea you is no more datin’ this bullshit kid. He is wash your brain and makin’ you believe in his bullshit. This is, how called, best thing that be happenin’ to you in long time.” 

I have sort of a demented sense of humor that allows me to cope with the tragic parts of life. Sometimes others are appalled and disturbed by this approach. They say things like, “Oh come on,” or, “Jesus, Dan. Have a heart,” or, “That’s not the right way to look at things,” or, “I hope you like warm weather because you’re going to hell. I would add the ‘in a hand basket’ part, but you’re clearly too fat to fit in a hand basket.”

I have applied my approach to coping to practical jokes. For example, on his deathbed, my Dad mentioned to my Mom that if she finds a penny, that it was placed there by him. So, I will place pennies in weird places throughout the house that I know my Mom will find, like a top a yogurt package, or in her shower near the drain, or in her coat pockets, or at the bottom of her coffee. Fucked up, I know, but I also think it’s fucked up to think about a dead person wandering around your house placing pennies everywhere.

Another prank I like to play is executed on Chelsea. Anytime she’s on the popular social networking site, Facebook, I chat her up, claiming that, in some weird, Whoopie-Goldberg-in-Ghost way, my Dad was able to take over my Facebook account so he could keep up with others from heaven. This usually freaks Chelsea out, but she often plays along. Here is our latest conversation: 

Chelsea: Hi.

Daniel: Hi, Chelsea Marshall. It’s your father, Robert Marshall. I’m fucking around on Dan’s facebook account again.

Chelsea: Hi.

Daniel: How are you?

Chelsea: Good. U?

Daniel: Good, I’m just running in heaven, watching Dan and Greg masturbate.

Chelsea: Nice. That’s always fun.

Daniel: Oh thanks. It gets boring up here.

Chelsea: I bet.

Daniel: How’s school going?

Chelsea: Do u ever catch god masturbating? Hahaha. School is good.

Daniel: God is always masturbating. To him it’s like breathing.

Chelsea: Lol. Well, c ya Dan.

Daniel: Dad you mean. I worked hard to be your Father.

Chelsea:  See you soon Dan. 

My Mom is much better at describing people that I. During a casual conversation, she described a bagger as, “Emerging from his mother’s vagina hands first.” Well done, well done I must say.