I took a piece of paper and a pen, and in my best penmanship, proceeded to write the following letter:ĭue to the primitive conditions that you may experience in your mission, it may become necessary from time to time to administer an enema to yourself in the event of severe constipation or other intestinal complications. What was a group of elders to do with 17 enemas? (I thought you’d never ask). One can build an enema-kit pyramid in one’s dormitory only so many times. This was all a big barrel of laughs, of course, but at the end of the week, we had grown tired of the antics, and we now owned an impressive collection of 17 enema kits, each of which lay prominently but uselessly on the window sill in our room. (Horribly immature, to be sure, but we were 19, so give us a break).
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Eventually, Elder K graduated to very blunt conversations concerning his purchases: “Excuse me, Ma’am, but if these don’t work, can I come back for a refund?” “Can you please explain to me how to work this? There are instructions here on the box, but I’m not sure I understand what these drawings mean…” Meanwhile, the cackling of elders around the corner proceeded unabated. (If you had listened closely, you would have heard some interminable giggling from a group of elders around the corner).Īfter a couple of sales, this routine became tiresome, so Elder K proceeded to buy 4 or 5 kits at one time, thereby raising even more disturbing questions for the cashier, as well as for any potential onlookers. Elder K would non-chalantly make his purchase, initiate some casual banter about his enema, and inevitably create horrible awkwardness for the cashier. But of course, he couldn’t just buy it as one of several miscellaneous items he was picking up he had to make it his sole purchase, so as to ensure that any conversation during the transaction would necessarily revolve around it. One day, while walking down the pharmaceutical aisle, we made an interesting discovery: There, among the toothpaste tubes, sticks of deodorant and shampoo, sat a handful of 99-cent, Fleet-brand “enema kits.” So Elder K’s idea of fun quickly became this: to pick the most uptight-looking of the cashiers, and then attempt to purchase an enema kit from her. It was also, curiously, staffed by the most innocent-looking and prudish-acting BYU co-eds you could possibly imagine. The heart of the MTC in many ways, the Bookstore contained almost everything a missionary could ever need to buy. As usual, Elder K came up with a plan to save us all from the crushing boredom. The rest of our district couldn’t take much more of us, what with my propensity to drone on and on about this or that controversy, Elder D’s self-inflicted mohawk (which strangely, he was never ordered to remove), and Elder K’s choreographing and performing yet another dance routine set to Mormon hymns (think “We Thank Thee Oh God for a Prophet” meets “Vogue”). But by week 6, we had become desperate for some new sources of entertainment. Shaving cream fights, posing as MTC staff out front for newly-arriving missionaries, phony “debates” in public places about preposterous “doctrinal” ideas to scare other elders, you name it. Our trio was adept at creating new and inventive diversions to pass the time.
This was a recipe for all sorts of inappropriate fun and games. We got along famously, possessed nearly identical senses of sarcasm and cynicism (both in short supply in the MTC), and we had very compatible senses of humor. If you’ve ever doubted the inspiration behind mission companionship selection, you need only to have met the three of us to know there is a God. We were truly a threesome made in Heaven (or Hell). I entered the MTC in late 1991, where I was assigned to a triple companionship with Elder “D” and Elder “K”. Oh, to finally get out into the real mission field! But in the meantime, you’re stuck “on campus” and you’ve got to find some way to keep yourself entertained. You spend 8 whole weeks doing “SYL”, attending class 27 hours a day, and eating the same soggy brussel sprouts over and over again. There comes a time in every missionary’s Mission Training Center (“MTC”) experience when he or she would prefer to be struck by lightning than spend another day cooped up in the “missionary gulag” (Or was it just me?). This post first appeared, in slightly modified form, at the now-defunct Sons of Mosiah blog on July 2, 2004.