BYU

Recently I have been receiving many, many emails about this. Take it in. It’s real (in the sense that it’s a real publicity stunt for the company he works for and that he’s 31 years old and still single, scandalous!). In fact, here’s the billboard along I-15 in Utah County. Beth happened to be driving past it when she got my frantic voicemail that went something like this: SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUP.

When I first saw this I thought, “15,000 BYU coeds just came in their panties.” Returned missionary? Harvard grad? Perfect white teeth with which to tear the head off wild boar? It’s as if he has, “I will fuck you so hard on our wedding night that you will bear four blonde children within the year,” written all over him, and believe me, that is every BYU coed’s ambition. To get them one of those.

It wasn’t until someone sent me a link to this CNN article when I realized that I have met Lance on more than one occasion. His older brother, Jason, was roommates with my boyfriend at BYU, or should I say, Jason housed my boyfriend because my boyfriend never paid rent or bought his own food or contributed to the economic machine of society. That would have violated his right as a grad student to be a total prick.

I used to mountain bike regularly when I attended BYU, and once I went on this horrible ride with Jason that kicked my ass and required Jason to stop every three minutes so I could puke in the bushes. I think that it was upon return from this ride that I met Lance for the first time. He would have been 23 years old then, pure and virginal and ripe for the plucking. I remember thinking that he would SO be married within the next six months because Mormon meat like that doesn’t last very long among ravenous, flesh-eating coeds who will tell you on the first date that God himself has revealed that YOU ARE THE ONE, but please, you can kiss me with tongue and rub up against me, just don’t ask me to assume any horizontal positions. That would be wrong.

I have to respect Lance for lasting so long in a society that regularly discards older single men and women, “older” of course being outrageously relative. One of my roommates from college stopped talking to me when she found out that I was still single on my 25th birthday. I didn’t have time for marriage what with having to apply for social security and playing bingo every Tuesday night with the ladies from my knitting group. Thank God Jon took pity on me, a saggy-bottomed, wrinkled excuse for a baby-maker. Otherwise I might be plastered on some billboard right now with this next to my face:

Returned Missionary? Um, no.
ex-BYU Basketball Player? Again, no.
Harvard MBA? Not even close.
Loves kids? Depends.
Sense of humor? THERE IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT A COLOSTOMY BAG.