Orthographically legal and graphophonically constant

I am at war with my bed sheets. This is a nasty war. It makes Verdun look like a dabble in the mud. Even now, the lines are drawn in my faux-shag carpet. It glares at me and occasionally, when I'm not cowering near my computer; I turn head and frown slightly at it. I don't think it's proper to be at war, or at anything, with bed sheets, and in doing so; I'm bound to lose in a very embarrassing fashion. It's not that I feel any particular hatred towards my bed sheets, which I honestly don't, but there comes a time when a man has to assert his rightful dominion over his bed. As long as the bed sheets wish to remain on my property (IE, my bed), they must comply with my wishes. My wishes are just. They are simple. They are easy to follow. I simply demand that once stretched across the mattress, the bed sheets stay the fuck put.

The bed sheets don't stay the fuck put. They come off the mattress. They curl in the center and mock me with abject and naked elastic bands. When I can't stand the constant stares emanating from their curled lips, I simply go and yank them back over the mattress. It stays, for a few minutes, then with a resounding laugh it springs back towards the center and back into my seething rage. Sometimes the bed sheets are content to hug the mattress until I lie on it and fall asleep. It then slowly springs from its resting place and wraps my limbs. I awake in a pile of green and elastic.

I've threatened it with scissors and fire. The bed sheets do not reply. I even cut a hole in it to show that I am, in fact, the boss of everything in Jon's Room. The bed sheets only sit silently. I'm pretty sure they're coherent and quite conscious of every action taken. It's the only explanation I have for why the bed sheets simply will not behave as bed sheets should.

So, I'm at war with my bed sheets, and I don't think I'm winning. It would be quite embarrassing to lose a fight to bed sheets. I don't think the world would let me live it down. I envision heading to work, only to find my motorcycle draped in bed sheets. I was born free, but I shall soon be in bed sheets if I don't watch myself. Maybe I should try nailing it to the mattress?

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R. and I were, earlier, talking about the Mormons which haunt his apartment floor. They rise in the early din of morning, arm themselves with bibles and other dangerous devices, and attend to their mighty steed of tube frame and chain. Once properly outfitted, they mount and ride into the thick of the December snow. Occasionally they accost people and ask them if they have found proper, American Jesus. Other times they are pelted with snow inlayed with various hard and shiny objects.

Once the night has come, the Mormons return to R.'s floor and set upon hall stragglers with the vigor of people who have peddled through rejection and corked snowballs. The screams of temptation and transfiguration resonate through R.'s apartment. Apparently, the Mormons are something to fear and behold.

Another friend enjoys telling me how the Mormons are going to take over the world. They own all the important businesses, such as Jewel. I'm not quite sure how owning Jewel is making significant headway into world domination, but I suppose someone has to start somewhere. It makes me question, though, if Bill Gates is really Mormon. I always pegged him for a protestant, but possibly, deep beneath that WASP-y sweater and geeky facade, beats a very lusty Mormon heart that contains the secrets to all the blood rituals glossed over my this same friend.

In the western Deserts of Arizona, a Mormon cult wanders the sand much like my very lost ancestors. They wish to reserve the right to marry as many ugly women as they'd like. Also, virgin, teenage brides are quite prized. See, I don't understand the appeal of virgin, teenage brides. Not only haven't the women fully developed, which deprives me of my favored ass, but they don't know how to fuck. Fucking a virgin is, in my opinion, much like laying a log. They just kind of lay there and hope that, at some point, something good happens. I suppose if they want teenage poontang, that's their prerogative, but lord, must they choose such ugly people?

I don't mean to infer that Mormons are interesting people that should be gathered into small spaces and poked by small children with sticks. I do respect them. One of my best friends growing up was Mormon. A. is/was relatively normal, for someone who actually wanted to spend time with me. He didn't act any stranger than the rest of us, although I think he would argue that he was a bit more mature. I'm not quite so sure about that, but I have no evidence to propose otherwise. For time being, it would be best to accept his assertion that he was, in fact, and still is, more mature than the rest of us.

The only thing different about him was that every Sunday, his parents would hold him hostage, and with him, conduct unspeakable rituals. From what I'm told, these rituals mostly involved going to church, and then lounging around the home while reading a book or watching T.V.. I can still remember the unearthly silent pouring from his home one Sunday afternoon. I was outside riding my bicycle. I think he was inside, presumably doing something productive, like reading a book. Really, it's quite frightening what the Mormons do to their children. I bet he was reading a book on the Jewel Empire and how it's slowly taking over the world with relatively cheap foodstuff, and an abundance of kosher Passover food in Jewish areas.

That is not to say that I wasn't inquisitive. I'd ask him about his religion. Our conversations usually went like this:

Me: So, I hear that the Mormon religion says that once you die, you become the God of your own planet.
A: Jon?
Me: Yeah?
A: Shut up.
Me: Have you ever been in a blood ritual?
A: Jon?
Me: Yeah?
A: You're stupid. Shut up.

I know I'm guilty of embellishing sometimes, when I tell stories, but I believe the conversation listed above is quite spot on. I'll tell you, though, one of these days I'll get to the bottom of this Mormon thing.

Once, though, A. brought me into this Mormon enclave. We played basketball. I got beat. Badly. And, yeah, that's about it. I didn't see a bunch of ugly women herded for shipment to the western Arizona deserts, and I didn't see any brochures about the mighty Jewel Empire. One of these days, though, I'll find out the truth about the Mormons and their Jesus-fish bicycle gangs.

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I am philosophically and anatomically correct.