After I offered the boys they sent me gin rickeys, and when the boys refused, promised not to spike their cocktails with tea or coffee; and after I told the girls they sent me that believing in a god (any god) was delusional, you’d think the Mormons would stop visiting me.   Honestly, if they put down 1% of the money they spend on buying temple underwear and baptizing dead Jews, on some basic market research, they might get a better ROI.

I was just about to go down to the basement to rub my Taleggio (not a euphemism) when the knock came.   Quick check – white-shirted, ties, 7 p.m., probably not here to give me a roof replacement estimate.

“Hello, I’m Elder XXX and this is Elder YYY.  How are you this evening?”

I’d like to say that I’ve replaced their names with capital letters to protect their identities, but as soon as the word “Elder” came out, I sort of stopped paying attention.

“I’m fine, you’re Mormons, and I’m not interested.”

They just said “Thank you, have a good evening,” and went away, which is pretty amazing for Mormons, who tend to be persistent.

There’s a Mormon temple in MD, just outside DC:

You can’t get in unless you’re a Mormon, so most people see it from the Beltway (with a clever and contentious former railroad bridge graffito):

-R