The time my neighbor Jeff Pettit came br outside when I was ten and – I can’t br remember why – shot staples at me from br his stapler, my esteem for him plummeted br with the impotent trajectory of the staples. br br I already held him in declining regard for br recruiting me to experience the stepford br smiles of his mormon congregation. br His parents kept glancing over to see how br my face was responding to all the singing br and PR. br br Years later, appalled by the church’s br excommunication of dissenting women, br my colleague Julie wrote and asked to be br excommunicated herself. br br They sent back a letter expressing concern br about her soul and setting a trial date. br br No, you don’t understand, she wrote back, br I don’t want a trial, I just want to be br excommunicated. br br In a response noteworthy as much for its br anticlimactic brevity as for its utter resignation, br they wrote back and said ok done. br br Julie knew that hidden behind the terse br wording, they were busy blacking out her br name, de-listing her, purporting to speak br for God, firing blanks.