The Day Liberty Escaped

Ironic, isn't it? Tomorrow is Freedom Day in South Africa, the annual celebration of the (tragic) day that power was given from whites to blacks. It's the day people like me commiserate about the loss of freedom, rather than celebrating some [word deleted] up idea of liberation. Blacks have stuffed up the country ever since. Now we have abortion on demand, no capital punishment, gun control, corrupt officials stealing tax payer's money, a new constitution that refuses to honour God Almighty, and I can't even get away with a little harmless fun like paintballing demonic devil worshippers on Halloween. That's not freedom, that's diabolical satanic rule!

It's also ironic because I've received word from my submissive warrior wife that Liberty, my Sudanese convert garden boy, has escaped. The little bastard must have discovered my secret tunnel while pruning the rose bushes on the North side of the garden and made a run for it. The tracking device I embedded in his right forearm will help me find him as soon as I get home. I've been hiding out at Frik's farm ever since making it across the border in the early hours of this morning. As soon as it gets dark, I'll make my way back home, surprising my family with a few souvenirs from my travels -- a small rock for each of them, with their biblical names engraved on them and a Bible reference to remind them where their holy names can be found in the Word.

Then I'll begin my electronic tracking of that little [words deleted] heathen. His punishment will be swift and brutal. I can't go into it now, but if you're thinking I've grown a little more aggressive since going underground . . . well, you'd probably be right on the money. But as soon as I've had some missionary-position sex with my submissive and willing wife, sung Onward Christian Soldiers a few times and inspected the stock in my secret bunker, I'll be able to treat the little [words deleted] heathen more justly. Don't worry, it will still be swift and brutal.

Fight the good fight. Freedom is our right.

Blitzkrieg

I've been making my way stealthily back to my home fortress. Have been unable to contact Frik the Fundamentalist Farmer, or FFF as his close friends call him. So I don't have the luxury of being flown back home under the cover of darkness in a small plane. No matter. I'm what they call a Bush Baptist -- I am more at home in the jungles, deserts and hell holes of Africa than the darkest, blackest terrorist.

Anyway, just a few more days and I'll be over the border and back home with my loved ones, my fierce killer dogs, my Sudanese convert servants and my beloved paintballs and wide array of guns. I've really missed making my colourful mark on this world, but as you already know from previous blogs, I had no choice but to go underground, quite literally.

I finally rhymed Pete's Imprecatory Psalm #234 late last night while hiding out in a rat infested, flea bitten, African hut in the middle of nowhere (read "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" blog if you need a context for my vagueness). So that means as soon as I can get to a post office, I'm going to post the whole lot to Jack Chick. If anyone can do justice to them, he can. I'm hoping he will be willing to convert the lot to comic tract form so I can literally blitz my enemies with depictions of them being thrown headlong into the Lake of Fire. That should put the fire of God under their asses so they will at least pause before uttering the next blasphemous, untrue lie about yours truly and consider their eternal damnation if they continue.

Fight the good fight. The Lake of Fire awaits all reprobates and those who oppose Paintball Pete.

Bash Their Skulls In

I have not seen daylight for several days. I come out of my secret hiding hole at night. I am a child of the light, so I'm not afraid of the darkness. I also have a neat pair of night-vision goggles, so I can see any rebel insurgent coming a mile off. And pity the fool if he thinks he can sneak up on Paintball Pete!

As I said in a recent blog, I have had lots of time to kill waiting for things to settle back home. Actually, I received an encrypted email late last night from my always submissive and very courageous warrior wife to inform me that the cops have arrested a suspect. I guess it paid to leave all the remote control equipment used to detonate the bunnies in the boot of the car I stole to make my getaway. An anonymous tip-off and some poor unsuspecting idiot is going to be doing some jail time for a crime he never committed. Better him than me, I always say.

So in a few days time I'll be making my way back home from my "mission trip to the Sudan" where I "successfully rescued hundreds of captive men, women and children in a daring raid that compares to the very best military maneuvers by the crack Recce troops of Rhodesia when whites still ruled that once civilised land".

As I was saying, I've had time to kill. So I've polished up some of my imprecatory psalms. Here's one example -- if you're unsure what these are, the simple explanation is cursing God's enemies. I have plenty of these curses seen as I have so many enemies in the form of communists, Muslim terrorists, left wing media people, secular humanist school teachers, God-hating devil worshipping Halloween New Age revellers, etc etc.

Pete's Imprecatory Psalm #234

My enemies surround me
Hurling their fiery insults
Evil lies like tiny fleas
Burrow deep into my gut

Poison arrows stab my noble back

Crush them, O Lord of War
Beat them to a pulp
Master whom I adore
Punish them till their final gulp

Plunge your divine sword . . .

That's as far as I've got. I still need to rhyme the last line. Maybe something like, "Plunge your divine sword into their nacks..." or "Begin your heavenly attack...". I need to throw a lot more godly curses at those wicked evildoers, so Psalm #234 will be much longer and more brutal when I've done with it. Any reprobate reading it literally needs to kak their pants and surrender their lives to Christ before wrath sweeps them into the Lake of Fire to be sodomised eternally by Satan's demon hordes.

Fight the good fight.

Soils of War

I'm still hiding in my hole like Saddam, but unlike that idiot, I'll never be found by crack troops even if they turn over every rock in sub-Saharan Africa.

Hiding underground is a lot like prison -- you have time to kill. And insects. So I've been doing a lot of thinking about my past, the great adventure that has brought me to this hole in the ground. You may have asked yourself, How did this heroic missionary become so mercenary in his ways? Well, allow me to share a story from my past that will put it all into perspective.

It was late one night in Hillbrow. I was prowling the streets for potential pagans who needed to hear about their eternal destiny if they failed to surrender to Christ. Some Christians call this evangelism or witnessing, I simply call it Pete's Crusade. Anyway, back then I'm ashamed to say I was unarmed. Can you believe it? Unarmed except for the Sword of the Spirit and a heap of Jack Chick cartoon tracts (if you've never seen these animated depictions of hell, the conspiracies of the evil Catholic church, and the wicked ways of atheists and homosexuals, do yourself a favour and check them out).

So there I am wandering around the streets, handing out Chick tracts to whores and druggies, when I hear a woman screaming. I run in the direction of the screams, down a deserted side street where I saw the crime in progress. This large guy was attempting to rape a defenseless woman while holding a huge knife to her throat. I mean huge -- he could have passed for Crocodile Dundee or if he was Japanese, a samurai!

Like I said, I was unarmed, except for my Bible. So I threw it at him -- hit him square on the back of the head. He let go of the woman, who promptly ran away with her torn dress flapping in the cold wind. He turned and snarled with a crazed demonic look in his eyes that made my insides turn to water. I soiled my underpants. This guy was going to kill me. He came running at me with his gleaming knife slashing the air above his head and screaming profanity that sounded a lot like "I'm gonna cut your balls off and feed them to my pet rat you muthafukka!!!!" or could just have been "diemuthafukkaaaaaaahhh!!!" I may have soiled my pants again at that moment, but there was no time to stop and check just how bad the damage was while this crazed lunatic sliced me into little bits.

I ran. I ran for my life.

He chased me for several blocks, waving his huge knife in the air and shouting the most evil curses I'd ever heard, but he was no match for my swift legs.

If I had been properly armed it would have been a totally different scenario. He'd be stone cold dead for starters. And Hillbrow would be minus one godless criminal. And I would have been recognised for the hero I am, instead of simply referred to as a gun-toting, right wing fundamentalist like I have been ever since.

The next day I went straight to the gun shop and bought my first of many firearms. And then I tattooed 'Never Again' on my right shoulder beneath a smoking gun. (I've since had the tattoo surgically removed by laser. It was a lapse in judgment and I'd forgotten what the Bible says about tattoos -- "Thou shalt not tattoo thyself as the pagan devil worshippers," Leviticus 19:28.)

I also bought new underwear.

Fight the good fight, and always carry a spare pair of undies in case of an embarrassing incident.

If I Told You, I'd Have to Kill You

You've probably heard some twit say, If I told you, I'd have to kill you. But sometimes you just have to take this kind of advice seriously. Like when I tell you I'm writing this from an undisclosed location somewhere between the southern tip of Africa and the northern tip of the Sudan -- and like when I say if I told you where I am exactly at this moment, well you know the rest!

So I've had to go underground since the exploding Easter bunny saga. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. No ways I'm ever going to do time in a prison where I can be sodomised by blacks for blowing up some demonic bunnies. I'd rather eat my own offspring . . . uncooked!

But I can let a few things slip about my underground survival tactics . . .

I escaped from my impenetrable home fortress by means of an underground tunnel -- the Sudanese indentured servants know nothing of this tunnel, thank God. So you see, it's literally and figuratively an underground thing. I then hotwire a vehicle in the neighbourhood, which I use to drive to a farm outside the city. This farmer is a deaf mute, so there is no way he can be tortured into giving me away. But he has a long and eventful history in mercenary activities, so he's a professional. It would not be beyond him to ingest cyanide if the black communists or homo liberals tried to get any information out of him that could incriminate me. He's also a pilot.

So that's how I get out the country. My movements beyond the borders of our country are no one's business. Suffice to say that I am well protected -- and they're not paintballs. Not even frozen ones.

You'll be hearing from me again. Tell anyone, I mean anyone, what you have just read, and something more terrible than the divine hatred for gays, pagans, lesbos and humanist secularist evolutionist pansies will come crashing down on your head when you least suspect it. Be warned. Silence is your friend, so cut your tongue out if you don't trust your blabber mouth.

Fight the good fight, on the ground or underground.

Die Bunny Die

I hate Easter. Not the Christian celebration of Jesus dying on the cross for our sins and descending into hell to kick the living [word deleted] out of the devil, then rising again from the dead on the third day to show the whole world that He is Lord and His followers will rule the universe . . . not that Easter. The pagan Easter, the stupid little chocolate bunnies and the eggs hidden in the garden to lead our children astray from the Truth. I hate that Easter almost as much as Halloween!

So this year I decided to do something about it. We turned the whole event into a shooting extravaganza! I ordered plenty of demonic looking chocolate bunnies and their evil eggs (there's the obvious lie -- rabbits don't lay eggs), which were then hidden in strategic places around the yard. This was a real Easter hunt: a search and destroy mission that both Rambo and Chuck would be proud of. My little warrior brood loved it. We dispensed with the paintball weapons and used airguns instead. I have adapted the pellets -- they are soft-nosed pellets that explode on impact. What a frenzy! Exploding chocolate bunnies, their shattered shells falling like brown snow all over the lawn and bushes. The funniest part was finding the decapitated head of a bunny five metres up in a tree -- impaled on a branch, it was a wonderful pictorial sermonette to my family of how Jesus has conquered evil once and for all on the Cross. And also a prophetic image of what is going to happen to all those African dictators who persecute white missionaries like me!

This was all just a warm-up. We had to take our Christian witness to the streets this Easter to teach all those pagan bunny worshippers that King Jesus and His warriors mean business. It was quite delicate work, but I managed to boobytrap a whole brood of Easter bunnies. The explosive devise I hid inside the hollow centre of each bunny was detonated by remote control. I'm no suicide bomber -- terror is best managed from a distance!

It was heavenly to see the little pagans scream in absolute terror when the bunnies exploded in their hands. I left each bunny in a strategic spot around shopping centres, parks, even outside a Muslim school.

I have to go. I've planned a very spontaneous mission trip to the Sudan today. I have to get out the country as soon as possible before they lay the blame at my door . . . I like Paintball Pastor as a nickname; I don't think I could handle Bunny Killer.

Fight the good fight in my absence -- I'll be back as soon as the dust and the exploding chocolate have settled.

Happy Birthday Little Warrior

It was my youngest son's birthday yesterday. I had been customizing his gift in my secret bunker for a whole year, and so yesterday was possibly more momentous for me than it was for him. He was thrilled . . . the early development of bloodlust was almost tangible . . . perhaps it was the taste of blood in my own mouth as I subconsciously bit deep into my lip. Sheer anxiety as he tore off the wrapper with the masculine aggression I've been beating into him for six years -- leopard crawling over thorns in the backyard, late night mock terror attacks in his bedroom, and countless hours of violent playstation games to enhance his reflexes have paid off nicely by the look of the shredded paper that flew all over the place.

It felt like time was standing still when he held up his special, custom-designed new paintball gun for the whole family to behold. I will remember that moment until I die on the battlefield or Jesus returns.

I spent ages altering the original weapon so that it now rivals anything I would take into an African war zone. This beauty has the capacity no other paintball gun in history has had -- a rapid fire paintball stun gun is what I would call it! Pity the fool who gets in the way of the little guy when this baby is spitting out huge volumes of paintballs.

We couldn't wait to try it out in our miniature paintball range in the backyard. I have also custom-designed a camouflaged uniform to wear that is a lot more paint (and pain) resistant than the ones you can buy at conventional paintball outlets. So I quickly dressed for the occasion and spent a whole hour ducking and diving as the little warrior literally sent a hurricane of paintballs my way. By the end of it I looked like the poster boy for the homo rainbow people . . . but it was well worth it!

When I'm finished with the customization of my own paintball weapon, we're going to have a father-son play-off with another fundamentalist pastor and his son. It's going to be sheer terror and painful agony for them, and absolute gleeful giddy victory for us.

Fight the good fight, using whatever you can, including customized paintball weapons.

No Surrender

I can't believe that people can't forget the past. I mean, why can't blacks just forget about the Group Areas Act, the State of Emergency, Bantu Education, Whites Only beaches, detention without trial, torture, murder, being called kaffirs, all that harmless stuff from the past? Instead they bring it up to excuse their incompetence, like turning off the lights when I was in my secret bunker doing another 'stock take' the other night. It was blacker than the darkest man in the township down there. I almost released a flare by accident that would have lit the place up but incinerated me in the process. In the blackness I thought it was my torch!

And if people could just forget all that bad press about me -- the harmless Halloween paintball fun, gun-running to the Sudan, being thrown out of several churches over the years for being such a militant fundamentalist, all that harmless, misunderstood, inaccurate stuff. I'm not saying I'm ever going to forget the accusations and the persecution. I'll get my own back one day. When they're least expecting it, I'll come up on them like a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the head! But for the sake of my crucial missionary work in Africa, I really wish everyone would just ignore the negative stuff. Focus on the good work I've done, like saving penguins from oil spills, taking Bibles and much-needed military supplies into war zones, and fighting the communists and their secular humanist left wing friends in the media.

And I have one wife. Doesn't that count for something when every second person is aborting their offspring and having wild sex with everything that moves, including cowboys in the mountains and woolly New Zealand sheep?! I know there are rumours about me behaving like the ex-deputy president or perhaps like that Clinton guy in the White House. I'm not going to comment, other than to say that I never had sexual relations with those so-called Christian women who have accused me of impropriety. I may have helped a few whores undress and wash off the red paint I shot them with -- to warn them of the coming wrath of God for their sinful ways. And while doing so I may have touched them inappropriately by accident, but it wasn't in the missionary position. That's my position on the subject.

I'm not going to buckle under the persecution, if that's what you're thinking. No ways I'm going to be a pussy who flies the white flag when the gunfire gets a bit intense. Jesus was no pacifist and neither am I. He was a warrior, fighting off the demon hordes of darkness, just like I have to here among all the ancestor worshiping blacks! I know some leftist twit is going to accuse me of hate speech and racism, but I was brought up to call a spade a spade, to see the world in black and white instead of a homo New Age rainbow!

Fight to the end.

Gay Penguins My Ass

It's bad enough those homo cowboys got awarded a prize from the liberal secular humanist Hollywood God-haters for breaking their backs in the mountain (code for homosexual sex acts), but I recently read more lies from the liberal etc media. It seems they won't stop at anything to promote their perverted sicko homo agenda down our throats. Now they've turned their evil, diabolical (I know I'm repeating myself, but this message has got to be heard) apostate ways to the animal kingdom. I'm not talking about those New Zealanders having their way with sheep, but those unbelievable lies about homosexual penguins.

What God-fearing man, woman or child could think of such a perversion? Is it because these birds look a bit silly in their tuxedo-design? Is that why this ridiculous story has been dreamt up . . . to discredit the sacred created order? In Genesis it makes it clear that God has made them male and female -- Adam and Eve. Nowhere do we read that God made Adam and Steve, alright. The plumbing just doesn't work. I've tried it that way with my wife, and believe me, it's just not the way it should be.

Now if God made humans with such clear distinctions, telling them in no uncertain terms that they would suffer eternal hellfire if they had homo sex, why on earth would he let penguins shack up together? Come on! The story says these male penguins from South Africa in some animal enclosure in America have made a nest together, when there are all sorts of randy female penguins around to get it on with. Now, that is another problematic bit of info -- I always thought that penguins were the epitome of good traditional Christian values. One penguin husband, one penguin wife. Now I'm supposed to believe that these penguins are defying the created order by acting like cheap whores? And worse, that two male penguins are living together and probably watching re-runs of Will and Grace!

After reading these lies, I went into my backyard shooting range and went ballistic. I shot off so many rounds that half my ammo supplies have been depleted. I felt a little better. Until I turned on my new TV (a few faithful sponsors bought the story about me needing additional funds to purchase a new rocket launcher for my Sudanese mercenary army). It was a documentary about those penguins . . .

Jesus is Not a Pacifist

I had another flashback last night while trying to clean the paint off my TV -- it's bad enough trying to understand the black news reader's pronunciation of the English language, but trying to see the news clips through the streaks of green paint is nauseating. I only watch the news on TV to stay on top of the government's propaganda lies and to make sure my righteous anger remains at boiling point.

So, as I was scraping away at streaks of toxic green, a sudden vivid image invaded my mind that was beginning to fill with images of half naked flesh -- those sms ads that are flighted late at night on TV have got to go. Even through all the paint I could see her wiggling her G-string ass and flashing her voluptuous breasts at me . . . I'm not sure if my anti-porno campaign can be as successful against these equally disgusting ads, but nothing ventured nothing gained, as they say.

As I was saying, the flashback I had was of the time when military service made men out of white boys. Back in the good old godly days, when our nation upheld the righteous standards the godly settlers brought from Christian Europe, military service was a Christian duty for white males like me who fought the atheist communists. But there were a few pansies who refused to serve in the military. Some of them were just white terrorists who should have been born black and deserved their six years in prison, but others were actually misguided twits who thought that Jesus was into non-violence. I've never heard such utter [word deleted], other than the more ridiculous statement that blacks should have equal opportunities to white people.

I'm going to say it again, like I did to all those pussy conscientious objectors: Jesus is not a pacifist! (He wasn't black either.)

This is my argument in a nutshell. Jesus is God's Son. He is God, in other words. The Bible says that God is unchanging. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever," Hebrews 13:8. The Old Testament is full of bloodshed and holy war -- God commanded His people to slaughter heathen men, women and children -- even livestock. So if that God is the same God today (which He is, so argument closed), that means Jesus could never be a pacifist. I know He said stuff about being a peacemaker and loving your enemies and turning the other cheek, but that has absolutely nothing to do with non-violence. That's sissy homo talk. Jesus was no homo, before you start putting words in my mouth!

The only way we have to love our enemies is to arrange for a meeting with them and Jesus. I don't know a better way than a bullet to the head, do you?

Fight the good fight with all your might! (I've recently started writing my own imprecatory psalms.)

Make My Day

I am more blessed than most missionaries. Most of my kind are out there in the bush or the forgotten, farflung corners of the globe spreading the Good News about Jesus Christ. They live in tiny huts among the natives, eat the same crap food and hardly ever see a white person like themselves. Not me. I go on a few adventures into the Dark Continent every year, but as I've said before, this is much more of a Missionary Meets Rambo kind of thing than the traditional, waste of time Christian stuff these other okes are doing.

As I was saying, I'm blessed to live in a really nice house in a relatively safe community. Crime is a great scourge in our land ever since the blacks took over. But my home is impenetrable, unless you fly overhead by helicopter, but there are big enough trees all over the property to prevent anyone landing there. But if some crazed gunmen high on dagga did manage to break in, there are fierce dogs to contend with, and every member of the family, including crippled grandma, the two maids and garden boy, are armed and trained to kill. The two maids and garden boy are converts of mine from the Sudan. They never leave the premises so I don't have to worry about them defecting or being influenced by the lazy local blacks. If they ever try to escape . . . well, let's just say, vengeance will not only be the Lord's if they are stupid enough to jump ship.

Where was I . . . ? Yes, I remember now, my nice comfortable, secure fort in a leafy suburb. The other day I decided that I had to expand the shooting range in our back garden to include a paintball section. I can't go around with this snappy new nickname and risk another incident like Halloween last year. When the Devil's Birthday rolls around again, my kids are going to be well trained. Those little demon-pranksters are going to taste the wrath of Pete's Paintballs, fired from a moving car with tinted windows and stolen number plates. No ways I'm going down again . . . bad enough I still have to face the music when the judge decides what the hell to do with me because of last year. Probably have to do some community service in a black township -- although I'm looking forward to it as it will keep me on my toes. I actually hope some dagga-smoking black tries to hijack me. Bring it on! Like that movie hero of mine once said, 'Make my day, punk!'

Remember, always be prepared. Fight the good fight.

Shooting Mandela

I was tempted to revise my views on gun control this afternoon. I was relaxing in the lounge watching the cricket after my afternoon nap -- missionary work takes it out of you, so I need to recharge every now and again. Well, during a break in the cricket I decided to replay a video of the 1994 election euphoria. I don't call it euphoria in my house -- I call it the day God was evicted. I mean, we had a Christian nation one day that acknowledged God and kept blacks in their place, then the next day we have this convicted terrorist as our president and we have no mention of God at all. Ok, I agree, the new national anthem does mention God, but you have to speak a black language to realise that.

I watch this taped recording of the inauguration of the new former president, that Mandela fella who says he went to a missionary school when he was a kid -- well, I don't know what those missionaries taught him, but they should be executed for doing such a kak job.

Anyway, I watch it just to remind myself of the Great Darkness that flooded our land. I usually clean one of my many guns while I'm sitting in front of the TV, but this morning I had taken two of my five kids to play paintball -- a fellow missionary who lives on a small holding has built his own paintball course that is killer fun. Booby traps, the works. Anyway, I'm sitting in front of the TV with my paintball gun on my lap, and all of a sudden this Mandela guy comes on the screen with his insane, demonic smile. I can't believe so many white people think he's just a gentle old man who has forgiveness in his heart. Forgiveness for what? He was and always will be a terrorist and should still be on that little prison island today! So I aimed my paintball at his big grinning face and pulled the trigger. Damnation! I had forgotten to unload and now my TV is splattered in paint!

Good thing I didn't use one of those frozen paint pellets today. I usually keep those for days when we invite a potential sell-out pastor to the course for a bit of fun and pull a Dick Cheney stunt and pop him "by accident" right where it hurts. A missing testicle will teach the twit to watch his back when he's fooling around with Paintball Pete, and will hopefully scare him enough to get back to the basics of teaching the Bible to pagans instead of doing all that phoney community work.

I'd better go. I have to write another letter to my donors. I need a new TV.

Fight the good fight. And please, people, remember to unload your weapons. TVs cost money.

Those Filthy Disgusting Magazines

I've been having all sorts of flashbacks since starting this blog . . . I think this must be what drug addicts who have almost overdosed must feel like. Or perhaps an analogy closer to home, a soldier who has had one-too-many mortars explode around him. Actually, I can almost feel the bits of shrapnel lodged in my mind as I write . . .

One such vivid piece of shrapnel-memory that dislodged itself from my illustrious past as I was reading my Bible from cover to cover this weekend, is my hugely successful campaign against pornography. When the current evil black regime succeeded in what is arguably the greatest political tragedy and took power from the God-ordained white leaders of this country, the floodgates of filth were thrown wide open. Our kids used to be able to go to the local cafe and buy comics and sweets, but suddenly after 1994 they were confronted by the likes of Playboy and Hustler. Filth from the pit of hell! Disgusting evil naked cavorting men and women.

The churches did nothing. But I sprang into action. I raised a lot of cash from my Right Wing friends in America -- I will simply refer to them as The Righteous Brothers -- I used some of the money to buy a nice new car. And I thought my wife would look pretty good in those sexy lingeries, so I bought her a few on mailorder (I spotted the ad in Playboy, I think). What I wanted to work out is if you could achieve the same levels of titillation that I experienced when I page through those dirty magazines displayed in full view of our innocent children. I used the rest of the money to buy up as many copies of porno I could find in shops. In the interests of research, I filed several copies in the secret bunker beneath my garage, and I burned the rest in a public bonfire while preaching hellfire. A very symbolic act. I have a few friends in the police force, so they never arrested me, even though I almost set fire to the park where I held the protest.

I am ashamed to admit that watching my wife parade around in those naughty bits of lace after the kids went to sleep did not come near to the excitement I felt when I read the porn in my now not-so-secret bunker. (I can survive a nuclear fallout for up to six months down there, by the way.) I have held onto those very worn copies of Playboy and Hustler, despite the fact that our protests against porn crippled those magazines so badly that they either closed shop or went underground -- not far enough, because they should never have stopped digging until they reached the fiery pits of hell where they came from in the first place!

Every now and again, when I'm bored having sex with my only wife in the missionary position, I make an excuse after family devotions of checking on supplies in our nuclear hideout. After touching myself inappropriately while re-examining those perverted magazines, I retire to my study to pray against the evil influences of porn all over the world.

I just want to tell all those pastors out there who are addicted to porn, I know how difficult it is to stand up for righteousness and be tempted at the same time. I mean, once I even tried to have sex with my always willing wife in a different position after doing a stock-take in my bunker. I stopped just in time before perverting myself and turning her into a cheap whore! It's tough, but remember, it would not be a real fight unless there were casualties and fatalities. Just don't let it be you!

Fight the good fight.