Sonny Bill & The Mormons

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I was a Mormon.

Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.

Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.

I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.

It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.

On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.

Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.

Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.

Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.

Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.

But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.

They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.

This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.

Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.

But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.

God (Bill) Touched Me

Sometimes, just sometimes, I come across something that even makes me laugh with the absurdity of it all. Today it was the receipt of the flyer from Bill & Pat Subritzky who on the face of it are fucken miracle workers.

Bill is a NZ Evangelist and Pat, his bitch. She follows Bill around the world conducting evangelistic outreach meetings and teaching seminars for women on behalf of the Body of Christ. Or so says the blurb on their website but I reckon she follows him around for another reason; he loves laying his healing hands on women.

Take the testimonies on the flyer – all the standard chaff about healing cancer, arthritis and kidney failure etc and all made by women. “Jesus Christ Saves and Heals” reads the flyer, whilst Bill it seems, fingers the feeble. The proof of the pudding is on the back of the flyer where Pat promises that in her meeting for women, you will receive the touch from God. Or Bill.

Of course, having read all that, I felt compelled to visit the Dove Ministries website (www.biblicalbullshit.com) where I honestly expected to find them selling bottled miracles or at the very least, Bills man juice.

They’re not, but it sounds like they should be, especially with their extensive list of testimonials including the Gods work they did in Nigeria where they verified the work of a fellow bullshit artist who claims to have performed such miracles as:

1. Healing impotency.
2. Deliverance of witches.
3. Healing of breasts.
4. Healing people of HIV.
5. Women healed of barrenness.
6. Woman healed of Parkinson disease.
7. Paralysed young man with broken spinal cord is healed.
8. Deaf boy healed.
9. Healing of blindness, diabetes and heart problem.
10. Stillborn baby brought back to life when sermon notes laid on him.
11. Man locked in iron bars because of insanity is healed.
12. Dead Man for 90 minutes Raised At Church Of Synagogue
13. Healing of epilepsy.
14. English woman healed instantly from blindness.
15. American woman healed from bronchitis, breathing problems, heart problems, triple bypass, as well as emphysema.
16. South African woman with osteoporosis and fracture of the spine, chronic bladder infection and insomnia. Wears a jacket brace to hold back together. God touched her mightily.

Through the site you can book a trip for $270 a week plus another $200 for a visa. The Subritsky’s recommend you stay two weeks in order to get yourself touched mightily. Nothing is too difficult for God.

I don’t know about you lot but I am sold. I plan to go as soon as the nightmares from my last trip there cease. That was the time I got an email from my long lost uncle telling me he had a two million dollar inheritance for me but I’d have to send him some money because he could transfer it out.

Rather than transfer him the cash – far too risky I reckoned – I decided to hand deliver the cash. I emailed him to tell him I was on my way and enclosed a photo of me so he could pick me out at the airport.

Once I arrived I was beaten and taken to a small hotel room on the outskirts of town. I was stripped and kissed by dark and very hairy men. One of the men, named Carl, was very gentle and told me he loved me but the others were rough. So very rough.

I struggled and told them I was a friend of my uncle but they tied me up and took turns kissing my beautiful body, touching me and making me do things I had sometimes thought about and imagined, but had never expected to really happen because I am straight.

The fact that one of the men looked like a black version of my dad kind of freaked me out and Carl turned out to be huge but like I said, he was very gentle and we just took things really slow. He's cool, we have swapped emails since. Nothing gay though, because he knows I am straight.

On second thought, no thanks God, that was all the touching I need.

Is it just me or do Bill and Pat look a lot alike....?