The Day I Gave God's Secret Handshake at a Campaign Rally.

Back when I was a young buck private, I worked on Rep. Gunn McKay's campaign to retake the seat he lost to Jim Hansen. Now, I know what you're thinking: Gunn was a Demislamunistofascist. I guess that's true in a technical sense, but he was a Utah Democrat--you know, in truth, his heart belonged to God's Own Party.

Heck, he always said the only reason he was a Democrat was because the Church divided up its membership between the parties when Utah was gunning for statehood. The Prophet commanded his branch of the McKays to be Demoncrats and David O. McKay's side of the family to be Republicans. (It was always good to sneak David O. McKay's name in because he was perhaps the most beloved prophet of all time--well, next to Joseph Smith).

And he proved his conservative credentials by his actions. I remember one day, we went to the local Mongolian barbecue joint to meet with leaders of Ogden's minority community. Pastor Coates, who led the city's largest black congregation had to leave early to catch a plane, so we spent the last part of the meeting speaking to a Latina who was running a voter registration project.

Gunn got immediately to the point, noting that he "really respected 'you Hispanics' because you save your money and start new businesses." "You're not like the Blacks," he continued, "the minute they get a little money, they pool it together a buy a new Cadillac." She excused herself right after that. I guess she had a plane to catch too.

So you see, he may have called himself a Democrat, but he was conservative to the core.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the time I accidentally slipped someone the "Sure Sign of the Nail" at a campaign event. For those of you who don't know what that is. It's the secret handshake you have to give to God before he'll let you into Heaven. It is taught to faithful Mormons during secret temple ceremonies. You can read more about it, here.

I was standing there with Gunn, looking for influential people I wanted him to meet, when a rather rotund, sweaty, middle-aged man came up, grabbed my hand, and introduced himself to me. I was caught a bit off guard and botched the handshake--the tip of my index finger landed on his wrist at the place one would take a pulse. It was the sure sign of the nail.

The man's face immediately lit up, and while nodding his head vigorously, he shifted the position of his index finger to match mine. As I looked into his eyes, I felt a connection. It was the kind of bond I suppose a french resistance fighter must have felt when his declaration of "the chair is against the wall" was met with "John has a long mustache." We were both Heavenly Father's secret agents, sent on a mission to infiltrate the gentile Democrats and turn their hearts against welfare and gun control.

I suspect that if you attend a Republican caucus in the coming months, you'll see people flashing Sure Signs of the Nail like gang signs at a Skrewdriver concert.