I found this on the Salt Lake Tribune website,
so that's who I'm giving the photo credit to.
Dear Robert Kirby,
First, I forgive you for ignoring my e-mail invitation to go to lunch. I went by myself, and that pork salad just wasn't the same without you. But I understand your reticence. I am, after all, a beautiful, exotic stranger, full of mystery and intrigue, and it would be reasonable to assume that were we to meet, I would probably smear lipstick on your collar, pass you a manila envelope with a cryptic message and a wad of money -- Monopoly money; I'm trying to sell a house in Las Vegas -- then saunter sexily away just as the table we were sitting at began to smoke and the restaurant erupted in a hail of gunfire and you and your secret mission barely escaped with your lives.
Believe me, that has cost me more lunch dates than I can even count.
But ever since I moved back to Utah and discovered that the laws had changed regarding Church membership and newspaper preferences -- namely, that Mormons could now openly subscribe to the Salt Lake Tribune and still qualify for a temple recommend under the 'don't ask, don't tell, don't bear your testimony of the occasional truthfulness of the Salt Lake Tribune' exemption -- I have really wanted to meet you.
Because dude, you're my kinda Mormon.
It's not that you shoot potato guns inside city limits and then have to go on the lam, escaping to New Mexico and living off road kill 'til the heat's off back home. It's not that you use incendiary devices to entertain your 5-year old granddaughters, or show them how to use a razor blade to peek at unopened Christmas presents. I mean, heck, that describes every single member of my family back to the Mayflower.
No, I became a true believer when I read this column, which was written in response to this editorial, which I presume was written in response to a perceived mandate from Robert Jeffress -- who in turn answers to aliens -- that some God-fearing, true Christian finally draw the line at Mormons' hubris.
I love it when someone tells me that my desire to define my own beliefs and relationship with God is evidence of 'hubris.' Hubris, of course, means 'arrogance before the gods,' and it's the reason it took Odysseus twenty years to get home from the Trojan wars only to find his wife dating every carbon-based life form in Ithaca. Oh, and that part about his entire crew being turned into pigs was kinda sucky, too.
But Odysseus had mouthed off to Poseidon, aggravated Calypso, frosted Athena, and seriously annoyed half a dozen other part-time deities. So yeah, he had to take the long way home.
It happened to George Clooney, too. Poor guy went months without Dapper Dan hair grease.
Anyway, I hope that someday you'll take me up on that offer for lunch. I don't saunter all that sexily, if that makes a difference.
And in the meantime, I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Kirby, for what you said back there in that linked column, before I went all Greeky on you.
When I grow a little more up, and I finally let my mustache go rogue, I want to be you.