Survivor

We’ve spent all weekend in the bush with no clothes on. The ambush went down as planned. Masked gunmen leapt out from behind a cluster of trees, held us up at gunpoint and made us strip down to our underwear. That’s when I saw how badly my young apprentice had soiled himself!

We were then chased into the bush with vulgar threats that we’d be castrated if we tried to get back to our vehicle. I had to bitchslap my young wannabe missionary several times before he would stop screaming hysterically. Do you want to die, I asked him. He said no in a high-pitched, effeminate manner, which was answered by another tight slap to the back of the head. I then asked him if he trusted me almost as much as Jesus to protect him, to which he said yes, but it was more of an unconvincing sob than the banshee warcry I’d hoped for.

As soon as we found a small stream, I made him clean himself. I certainly wasn’t going to spend the whole weekend with that foul smell around us. We then spent the rest of the weekend living off the land—he was being prepared for Armageddon and I was simply honing my Rambo-like survival skills.

When we finally made it back to our abandoned vehicle, I had to slap him several more times to get him to unclutch his genitals. I’d forgotten about the threats of castration!

We’re back on the road, fully clothed like good Christians, singing Onward Christian Soldiers with gusto, munching on an army-supply ration pack ... and I have not heard the words dude or radical since the ambush. It’s awesome what a little basic army training will do for a man's missionary calling.

Fight the good fight.