Free Write - March 2

Once, on my mission, I was kissed by a man. A large, drunk, Russian man. While walking down the street in a town in Latvia, my companion and I happened across a very large Russian. Picture, if you will, the weird white guy from "Daddy Day-Care" (yes, regrettably, I did see that movie). Now put a "Newsies" style hat on him, inebriate him with large quantities of vodka, and lather him up with some Eau D'SweatyNonBathingMan, and you've got the guy that approached us. Seeing that we were missionaries, he stopped us and began asking us some interesting questions, which we attempted to answer. He asked if we believed in reincarnation, if Mary really was the mother of God, etc., etc. He then posed us the question “Where did God come from?” We tried to skirt around the question by saying that God’s origins were not important in this life, and that we should try to live good lives, yadda yadda yadda. “Wait. Where are YOU from?”, he asked (I should preface this by saying that he phrased the question to mean “From whom did you come?”). So, I replied that I was from my mother. He then asked “Well, then, from whom does God come?” I realized that I had better give him an answer that would end this line of questioning. So, I said that God came from His father. The man asked who God’s father was. I said “I don’t know. Ask His mother.” This made the man think for a moment, then laugh that big-bellied sardine-scented laugh that only a drunk Russian can laugh. He said “I like you, American.” And then he kissed me (“A-doo-ron-ron-ron, a-doo-ron-ron…”). Not on the mouth, mind you. Just on the cheek. So, there you have it. As a parting note, I will say that I was kissed by more drunk men on my mission than I have ever been kissed by sober women OFF my mission. Fellas, take note – when with Russian men, look out for the drunk kiss. Beware.