We went to the CCC (Creepy Christian Compound) yesterday for my nephew's first birthday. There's just something not right about those people. It's not anything to call the cops about; it's just... icky. Something you just can't put your finger on, but they're just... creepy.

For an example, take the very first time I met these people. I was either engaged to or newly married to Dilf, and we were helping his sister move out of his mother's basement into an apartment. The Creepies were there, too. I bent over to pick up a box, and Mr. Creepie slapped me playfully on the bottom.

I knew my husband/fiancee/only-person-authorized-to-touch-my-bottom was upstairs, so I turned around in shock to see who would be slapping a grown woman on the butt. As I glared at the offending party, my eyes narrowing into enraged slits and the color rising to my cheeks (the ones on my face), Dilf's sister lept between us and began pleadingly placating me. "It's okay, it's just what we do in their house when someone bends over, it's okay..." (Dilf's sister had cared for the Creepie children for years, basically raising them, if you recall from previous blog posts.)

I let it go, with a warning glance over my shoulder. Dilf was outraged when I told him about it on the car ride home. Mostly, he was outraged at me for denying him the opportunity to give Mr. Creepie the upbraiding he'd been so wanting to give him for years upon years of intensely disliking the man.

Likewise, at the party yesterday, the family exhibited icky, yet unactionable, behavior. The Creepie children are now grown, and had dates with them. The daughter's date snuggled up to Mrs. Creepie, engaging in flirtatious behavior that I can't imagine in a thousand bazillion years either Dilf or my brothers-in-law repeating with my own mom.

The son, on the other hand, brought a very sweet, cute, engaging young girl to the party. She was like the one normal Munster niece. I found out later that she will be living with the Creepies.

On the face that might not seem all that odd, except that the Creepies ALWAYS have at least two young, unrelated, single women living with them at all times. That's why I call it a "compound."

But I'm sure it's all okay; Mr. Creepie was wearing this yesterday. So, just because he lives in a mansion with his wife and at least two other women at all times, he's no Hugh Hefner, right?

Hugh Hefner may have a saggy, leathery nutsack and be a doddering sexist jerk, but at least he's not a hypocrite.