Reverend Moon: Loony Tune
“He’s baaack!” That madcap, marriage-maniacal, matchmaking Moon is at it, again. This week in South Korea (nu, you were expecting maybe Las Vegas?!), Reverend Moon joined 45,000 couples in conjugal bliss. Oy. Although I can’t speak from experience, having never been married, I’d imagine that one wedding is stressful enough – let alone 45,000. That’s a lot of hora dancing, if you’re Jewish. I shudder to think of the catering costs; Ixnay the shrimp and spread the Spam.
To research this post I went online, and discovered that Koreans don’t throw rice, even though it grows in abundance there. Instead it’s a tradition, to wallop the bride with red dates in order to encourage fertility. So much for the white wedding gown. And wouldn’t it make more sense to throw Viagra? Additionally, some Koreans like to “incorporate either ducks or geese into the wedding ceremoney.” I feel sorry for the schmucks who have to clean up the fowl (foul) crap. Especially after Moon’s massive nuptials. Do you suppose that Moon will foot the fat bill for 45,000 honeymooners?
While I bear no ill will towards any of his happy newlyweds, I do harbor a personal resentment for the Moonies. Decades ago, they attempted to recruit and ensnare me in their infamous cult. I was in my twenties and visiting a friend in San Francisco. He invited me to a Moonie potluck, and I had nothing better to do, so I accepted his invite. Time has blurred most of the depressing details, but I still recall their magnificent mansion. We were greeted by the kind of ecstatic welcome, usually reserved for sports’ stars.
That made me slightly suspicious. Why were these strangers acting like I was the Messiah? Or at least an Avon rep. But I didn’t have any miracles to perform, nor possess any beauty potions and lotions. I was overwhelmed by all of the hugging and attention. I’m a friendly person, but this was weird. It was like having a Welcome Wagon posse attack you, with no gifts to give.
Jack and I tried valiantly to join in their Moonie merriment, but it was a stretch. For both my smile and stamina. We were relieved when it was finally time for dinner. But not for long. They served us some kind of Hare Krishna-ish food, but without the orange robes and tambourines. Everything tasted the same: bland and boring. When I asked one of the ever-grimacing greeters if I could have some salt, she reacted like I was asking for speed. “We never use any kinds of spices,” she smugly said, “that would be too stimulating.” I later surmised that when you’re basically brain-dead, almost anything can be considered “stimulating.” Including “Mr. Ed” re-runs.
The highlight of this “enchanting evening,” culminated with the singalong. We all stood in a straggly circle, holding hands, and gazing meaningfully into each other’s eyes. Although I didn’t know any of the words, I tried to go with the flow and quietly hum. I couldn’t wait for the singing to end, and for us to flee the place. But they had other plans for us. Jack grabbed his coat and threw me mine. Suddenly, however, our garments were gripped by our now serious hosts. “It’s too late for you to drive,” one of the moronic Moonies menacingly whispered to us, “far too late.” He had a good point; we should’ve ran, right before the nasty meal.
Despite all of their enticing offers (like an autographed photo of their nefarious leader), we gently but firmly said “No thanks!” Literally. We were only grateful once we were freed from their clutches, and back in Jack’s battered old Bug. When we returned to his home, I promptly puked up my dinner; it was a symbolic rejection of their rigid religion.
So when I read the story about the Moonies mass marriages, I silent said a prayer of thanks. I narrowly averted being one of those 45,000 clueless couples.
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