Sing along with me, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGE-BOB-SQUARE-PANTS! Who’s light in the loafers, and queer as can be? SPONGE-BOB-SQUARE-PANTS.”

Dr. James Dobson, one of the most—if not THE most—influential evangelical ministers in America today, is making the world a safer place for us, one animated pantywaist at a time. Who knew that PBS was such a dangerous place to hang out? Just in case SpongeBob is nothing more than a metrosexual (and if so, Bob, hie thee to the Queer Eye guys immediately! You need help! Those shorts are so OVER.), I thought I’d offer him some advice.

An Open Letter to SpongeBob—I am writing you this letter because I consider myself to be your friend. After all, you have given my children countless hours of entertainment, and allowed me some time to myself when it was absolutely vital. I do not believe the rumors that are circulating, but feel I must warn you, Mr. Squarepants, that your reputation—and your very career—are in danger. I implore you to put away that pink negligee and fuck-me-pumps, and dump the starfish—Dr. James Dobson is ONTO you.

They know about that weekend at Tinky’s you spent, watching old Judy Garland movies and listening to Cher albums, while comparing manicures and debating the merits of Bedhead Hair products vs. Bumble and Bumble. You are no longer safely in the closet.

NO more hanging out at nightclubs with Barney and Tinky Winky. Those two are walking advertisements for your, uh, alternate lifestyle. Everybody KNOWS the color purple means gay. Right? Oh, and Tinky Winky carries that purse. And he’s gentle. You also must consider Barney’s reputation. After all, he is the first to wear all purple. It’s his signature color. Tinky Winky is only emulating what Barney began. Gay pride!

Since Dr. Dobson is already eyeballing the regulars, I have a diversion tactic. I shall point him in the direction of Boobah. As Heather Armstrong pointed out in her before-Christmas blog, those creatures mightily resemble an uncircumcised penis. At least you don’t look like someone’s genitals. Once he gets a load of Boobah, we’ll have a lot of time to work.

Now, while Dobson’s attention is elsewhere, I suggest a makeover. It’s nothing that an AK-47 assault rifle, a friend named Bubba and a few dead game animals won’t fix. I realize that four to ten-year-old children don’t relate well to blood and guts and Bambis dying left and right (at least those children in this age range who have not yet decapitated or murdered their own small animal), but consider the alternatives—no SpongeBob on television at all.

This past weekend we watched a movie called The Forgotten. I’m still trying to figure out what it was about. It starred the lovely Julianne Moore, who was powerful and pale, as always. Gary Sinise was in it, although I still haven’t figured out what his role was. Perhaps he’ll write and let me know. Anyway, in this movie, people are suddenly randomly SUCKED up into the sky, with the force of one of the bank drive-thru thingamajigs. But faster. Really. Sucked up FAST.

Now, after we watched this movie, Cambre said to me, “Mom, I do know what this movie was about.”

“You do?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Now, at this point, she thinks I want her to prove to me that she understood the movie. She has no idea that I want her to explain it to me! We’ll leave it at that.

“It’s about the government.”

Hmmm. I was thinking six-headed space aliens, but I guess the government will do.

The most striking parts of this movie (read: the only things I can remember) are that whole vacuum/suction tube departure from earth.

Is this what the Rapture is like? People are suddenly sucked from the face of the earth and we are left wondering where the hell they went? “Hey, where did Bob go, I just ordered him another drink!”

I was raised Mormon. If you are the last person on the face of the earth, or are reading this blog for the first time, you don’t know this. Otherwise, you are well-informed.

Anyway, for that reason, the whole idea of the Rapture has always been rather foreign to me. Matter of fact, I’d never even HEARD of it up until about five years ago. But I’ve discovered, especially since I “came out” as a former Mormon, that I am ripe pickings for fundamentalist Christians. Having spent my whole life hearing religion at every turn, this truly does not bother me. I’m kinda used to it. I am happy to discuss the Bible, religion, the whole nine yards with you, provided you do not show up at my door handling rattlesnakes, telling me I cannot have a blood transfusion if I am at death’s door, or handing me funny underwear to wear under my clothing.

Nonetheless, growing up Mormon, there are a FEW things you miss out on. I spent a lot of time in my youth waiting for the angel Moroni to blow his horn and Jesus to reappear. I’m ashamed to admit I was not anxious for Jesus to show up again. I kind of liked being a kid, and the thought of living with my God (father) in the kingdom with all his wives and children didn’t sound that great. I was tired of sharing one bathroom with three sisters and a brother!

Anyway, I can’t see that this Rapture is all that different from the Second Coming, when Moroni blows his damn horn.

NOTE TO SELF: One LESS vodka tonic next family movie night…

My good friend, adopted father, and all-around-good-guy Richard Packham (despite the fact he is a recovering lawyer) has taken a LOT of his time to explain to those investigating Mormonism just exactly WHAT the missionaries will not tell you. He made a statement on his Web site, recently, that I found VERY relevant.

The majority of the reviews on Amazon.com about the trade edition of the Book of Mormon, available from Doubleday, are from Mormons (”It’s the best book ever! Even my DOG knows this book is true! You’re life will change!”). These reviews exhort the reader to ignore anything else they might hear, or read, and just pray about it. So what if the directions say NOT to stick your fingers in the blender. What do those guys know? Instead, just pray about it. Don’t read the directions. Blenders never bite back. Blenders NEVER accidentally get turned on, say, when you lean forward to look inside at the ice chip that is blocking the motion of the rotors, and accidentally hit the on button with ones, er, ah, never mind. Here’s what Richard said:

Hundreds of books have been written by Mormons to support the claims made in the Book of Mormon. Hundreds of others have been written to expose the book as a work of fiction. Interestingly, the defenders of the book’s claims generally urge readers of the book not to read anything about the book - especially anything negative - but rather they urge the reader simply to pray to God and ask whether its claims are true. Unfortunately, it seems that God occasionally tells readers that it is true, but apparently he tells many other readers that it is a hoax. Why else would one find dozens of copies in the ten-cent bin at every thrift store in the country? Or perhaps most people feel that they do not need God’s help in confirming that they are reading a fantasy tale - however religious it may sound - and not a description of real life or real events in a real place.

Well, Stormy the wonder dog, who weighs about eight pounds until we get him groomed and shaved, which lops about two pounds off, just got home from the beauty parlor. He has a big blue BOW on top of his head. Notice, I said HE has a big blue bow on his head. Cambre thinks it is darling. Carissa says that, as a boy, he is undoubtedly very upset at the threat to his man…er, doghood. My husband is absolutely appalled.

I wonder, is this why dogs resort to humping legs, posts, small children and, unfortunately, Pumpkin the cat, who is ALSO a boy. I’m kind of worried about that one. I don’t dare leave them alone in a room, in case they behave inappropriately. You have to carefully monitor these things, you know.

Back to Stormy’s bow: do we so confuse them, these animals, in their sexual identity that they simply have no idea who or what they are anymore? Furthermore, have I done infinite damage simply by naming him Stormy, which is NOT an entirely masculine name.

Years from now, when he comes home with a boyfriend–a rottweiler named Brutus, who wears a black-studded leather collar–will I look back and say, “oh, if only we hadn’t put that blue bow on Stormy when he was a puppy….”

Ya know…. it’s really annoying to have one’s parental authority usurped. This is commonplace in Mormonism, although I never realized it until I became a parent.

I never realized that my parents weren’t the ones calling the shots. They didn’t either. My dad, in all his priesthood fury and anger, might have thought he was the one in charge, but he was sadly mistaken. I think, if he realized how much authority he lost, and never had, he would be angry, because he put great stock in his ability to lead our family. He had the priesthood. He HAS the priesthood. He throws that around all the time, thinking it really means something, when it is nothing more than voodoo, misinformation, and misguided intention. Oh, and a strange addiction to anointing people with olive oil.

But the truth is, Mormonism is a religion that is led by those in authority, which, in our family’s case, meant anybody but my mom and dad. As a school teacher, my dad has never held a ward calling higher than that of ward clerk. Never mind teachers are the leaders of our next generation. They don’t make a lot of money. And if you AREN’T a successful businessman, you probably aren’t going much higher, in the ward hierarchy, then ward clerk.

Oops, I got sidetracked. But this does relate to my topic. Parents in Mormonism are NOT in charge of their children. They always have someone higher to consult. So, since I was going to write about the primary president showing up at my door, let’s do it. I don’t know this woman. She doesn’t know me. But she showed up at my door a few days ago. It went like this.

KNOCK ON DOOR.

Me: Yes?
Primary Prez: Hi, is Cambre here?

Now, we must stop here to consider something. I have NEVER met this woman in my life. Yet, she shows up at my door, does NOT introduce herself, and immediately asks for my daughter, who is 10. You do the math. What happens next? She could be a pedophile. Worse yet, she could be a magazine saleswoman, and left alone with a magazine saleswoman, my daughter could bankrupt me.

Me: Who are you?
PP: I am the Primary President. I just stopped by to invite…
Me: Whoa, wait a minute. First of all, what is your name?
PP: [tells me her name]
Me: Why are you here, asking for my daughter?
PP: I am here to invite Cambre to…
Me: Okay, stop right there. What makes you think you can come to my door with an invitation to Cambre to come to Primary, or whatever it is you have, and NOT tell me who you are or what you want? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?
PP: Well, I didn’t mean it that way. I just didn’t want her to feel left out.
Me: Left out of what?
PP: Left out of…. Well, hey, I made a mistake, I think. I’m sorry.
Me: Look, I am not trying to be rude, but have you even THOUGHT once about what you are doing? How would you feel if I showed up at your house and invited your daughter to MY church? All the while smiling nicely at the mother? What would you do?
PP: Well. Hmppph.I’ll tell the bishop you want no contact.
Me: Good.

That’ll last about ten minutes…..They’ll be BAAAACKKKKKKKKK. (To those of you who wrote me hate mail, claiming that I can’t possibly be BACK on the records under two names, will have to explain to CAMBRE how she keeps getting invited to these things. Well, explain later. She’s in bed right now. Leave her alone…. Don’t come knocking….)