These women had the best of intentions, even if I didn't appreciate them. Without going into too much detail, I didn't want to piss them off because I didn't know who they were.

the road to annoying me can very well be paved with good intentions. ijs.

Anybody who asked me to pray would receive a request that they hand over their underwear forthwith. I have discovered, when trying to explain why religious intrusivism is so uncomfortable, that equating religion with underwear works very well.

Sure, you might let your best friend wear your bra. Your SO might like to see you in a particular thong. But if a total stranger walked up to you and started offering you his/her underpants, you would think that person was a frightening weirdo, and you would be right.

And that is why metaphors are good.

wha huh

I have discovered, when trying to explain why religious intrusivism is so uncomfortable, that equating religion with underwear works very well.

Between this and the underpants gnomes I think many of Nutty's metaphors start with underwear. IJS.

I once worked at a job in a Catholic hospital. When I handed in my two week notice (after the boss totally screwed me on vacation days she owed to me) a co-worker told me that the boss was holding prayer sessions during the days when I wasn't there to pray I would stay. When I said my final goodbye to her, and she admitted that she'd prayed I would change my mind, I told her, "God and I both say 'No.'"

I totally did not make up the underpants gnomes. You will have to blame someone else for that piece of brilliance that I just happened to glom onto.

I mean, I enjoy the word "underpants," the way I enjoy words like "bloviate" and "mendacity" and "illumination," but the coincidence of my own metaphor and the underpants gnomes is merely coincidence.

My metaphor does not make any sense unless it is about underwear; therefore, I propose that the underpants gnomes become sock gnomes.

None of my best friends get to wear my bra. I'm not sure if that affects the metaphor any, but I thought I should be clear.

The key to dealing with me when I'm crying is totally ignore it. Acknowledge, even after the fact, at your peril. Crying's about me. It's sheer miscalculation when anyone else witnesses it.

OK, I take it back then. The count is reset to one undergarment metaphor. However, I reserve the right to draw a connection between "underwear" and "cheesebutt" at a later date.

But asking me to pray? It's like touching a strange woman's pregnant belly; other people find it perfectly reasonable behavior, and I find it horribly invasive.

Ugh, I hated that. My worst YOU'RE-CROSSING-A-LINE-HERE incident though, didn't even involve me. Ben was a baby--probably about six months old. I know it was summer, and I remember the outfit he was wearing, which exposed nearly all of his wonderfully fat legs. We were out for a walk and stopped in the local bakery. An old man started praising him, but then he kept grabbing Ben's thighs. I gritted my teeth through the first one, telling myself to think of his reaction as the one I have to great art--that I have to touch it. But he did it repeatedly, and by the end, my adrenaline was pumping so strong it took all my strength not to deck him, as I was struggling for a graceful escape.

I was sobbing in a public bathroom one day and these two women came in and prayed INCREDIBLY LOUDLY for God to help me. After oh, 10-15 minutes of my inability to stop crying and their passionate entreaties in the Ladies' I had to come out and didn't know what the fuck to do so I prayed with them to GET THEM TO GO AWAY. That took another 10-15 minutes.

Oh my goodness.

Bon, that's happened to me twice...sucks, huh? ALWAYS on the worst day I've ever had.

TWICE?