Mo-Mo

Fuzzy and I met his parents for dinner this week. This is of course a normal part of being a man-friend but the whole “having dinner with the in-laws” thing is still a little new to me. I wouldn’t wish my freaky ass kin-folk on my worst enemy, well maybe “W.” I honestly would rather shove a incensed squirrel down my pants then spend time with any of them. So when I hear that others actually like to meet for dinner I’m a little skeptical.
Since I come from a long line of Mormons that can be traced back to Mr. Josef Smith let’s just say they are not the most fun at parties. The whole “dead end to a family tree” is documented painfully in our Family lineage book somewhere in Utah. Every couple of years someone somewhere, meaning my Mom sends the boys on bicycles after me to track me down and ask me once again about my “wife and kids” so it can be documented for the temple.

Why you ask am I bringing this shit up? It’s Colton Ford’s fault.
Yesterday I was on the treadmill. Bouncing along to Colton (That’s what I call him, along with My Colton) as in “Leave my Colton alone” when yet another friend says “He’s hot and all but Stevie He can’t sing his way out of a paper bag!” Yesterday I’m on the treadmill and I got a little carried away with my Colton by pulling back on the headphones while dancing. This dropped my IPod onto the Jetsons’ like spinning surface shooting it at the woman behind me. The woman wearing the BYU shirt.
Damn! I expelled in a deep and manly voice. She quickly helped me up as I had jumped doing some-sort of half pike mid-air twist to matrix my IPod. At this point she sniffed me out as a Mo. That’s a Mormon, opposed to being a Mo as in “homo” which yes, makes me a Mo – Mo. She then threw her talons into me. I quickly stammered about cutting off my toe off and having my shoe fill up with blood then hobbled off. I’m sorry but I’m not going to “out” myself as a Mo (not a mo) to the Mo-girl I just launched my IPod at. Seriously!