Following Jesus Into Hell

I was patrolling the streets in search of sinners to save on Friday night, handing out tracts and warning night-clubbers of their impending doom in the fiery pits of hell, when I was confronted with a blasphemy of outrageous proportions. I was outside a club called Mercury – Lucifer’s Long Drop would be a better name. I was engaged in an intense defense of the Christian faith with a disturbed and inebriated young twerp who kept insisting that heaven is not hot enough for him, when the offending blasphemer pushed past me, loudly proclaiming that he was Jesus. I was mortified – it’s bad enough that the idiot I was preaching to would rather choose a hot place to spend eternity than the heavenly Jerusalem, but now someone was impersonating Jesus Christ.

I paid the fifty bucks to get in and followed the blaspheming heathen up the stairs into the foul-smelling bowels of Satan. The bouncer at the door should have done a better job of frisking me – he completely missed the gun holster strapped to my ankle. Good thing, as my mission could easily have required that I pumped some lead into “Jesus” to put an end to his blasphemy

The place was packed – apparently some band was playing. I pushed my way through the crowd, hot on the heels of “Jesus” and feeling like I was sinking further into the dark depths of hell with every step. I walked into the back of a long-haired bearded fella who looked more like Jesus than the imposter, but when he poured the remaining contents of his beer over my head, he morphed into a bearded demon instead. I was even more convinced I’d entered hell when I overheard a black guy calling the white fella next to him Buddha, who in turn called him The Teacher. And to add more wood to the fires of hell, another fella was addressed as Devil.

Hard to tell if I heard all this right over the deafening music, but I had to let it go – I had my sights on Jesus.

When I walked in I probably stuck out like a boil on a porn star’s backside, but being drenched in beer helped me blend in. This is the reason I didn’t give the Jesus look-alike a knee to the groin.

The band eventually came on … and I knew I’d descended five levels below Satan’s lavatory. It was Fokofpolisiekar – this was the third time I was face to face with these Satan worshippers! I had no time to scream godly curses at them before their loud guitars and foul lyrics hit me with the force of demonic flatulence. I was also hit in the left eye by a flying beer can and in the right eye by a flying ball of human spit. No matter how much my heart tried to tell my head that Jesus was also spat on and assaulted for the sake of righteousness, I just couldn’t take this abuse lying down. I can play the same game as pagans – I spat huge green slime balls and threw several beer bottles, hitting the Jesus look-alike in the back of the head, but narrowly missing the Jesus imposter. He proceeded to mosh his way to the stage and then prepared to stage-dive. I seized the heaven-sent opportunity and made sure I was beneath him when he leapt off the stage. I skillfully moved out the way and watched him hit the deck with as much force as the Indian mosher I saw collapse at the last gig. I know it’s not exactly fair play to kick a guy when he’s down, but if it’s a Jesus imposter eating broken glass, I have God’s full permission to make sure he never fathers another bastard son of Satan.

After stomping on Jesus a few times in the name of Christ, I decided to leave before more spit and beer cans hit me. He got off lightly – he can be thankful I never emptied my ammo into his sorry ass. I will be writing to the local papers about this evil den of iniquity, insisting that the authorities close it down on the grounds of allowing Jesus imposters to walk through their doors. Not to mention allowing a band on stage who tell the police to go fuck themselves. This would never have happened if we still had apartheid censorship. Or if I was President.

Fight the good fight.

Bring Back The Crusades

Many Christians don’t like the term crusade to describe their work of converting people to Christ. They think it's a negative term that associates the work of God with the slaughter of innocent, peace-loving Muslim folk a long time ago. They are concerned that the use of this word will throw additional jet fuel on the fire of Islamic fundamentalism.

I think such Christians are pussies. I think they are sell-outs. And I think they’re completely ignorant of history.

After Muhammed kicked the bucket, demon-possessed Muslims killed off about fifty percent of all Christians in the Middle East. So the Crusades were necessary. It was necessary to avenge these deaths and also to take back the real estate that Jesus paid for with his holy blood. Jerusalem does not belong to Muslims. Actually, they don’t own any land on the planet as it all belongs to the Christian God and his righteous followers.

I am determined to give the word back its rightful place in the Christian general vocabulary. I don’t care if people pussy-foot around the violent fundamentalist towelheads or pander to the satanic United Nations with their political correctness. I’ve never been politically correct ... I’m certainly not going to start now. There are a lot more Muslims today than there were when the Crusaders were hacking off towelhead heads, but if we all get behind GW Bush we could successfully wipe out at least fifty percent of Islam and use the rest as slave labourers to cart around our barrels of oil and work in our gardens.

Fight the good fight.

PS I encourage you to buy and proudly wear my new concept T-shirt: a Crusader cross on the front and the words Crusader for Christ – Towelheads Kiss My Ass on the back.

Forked Tongue

I dropped into another church service this past Sunday to keep the pastor on his toes. The usher gave me a hairy eyeball, as if to say, I'm on to you buddy; try something in my holy sanctuary and I'll knee you in the nads and deck you with a hefty King James Version Bible. He didn't know it, but if he tried to get me in one of those fancy neck locks that bouncers like to use on rowdy pub crawlers who've had ten too many, I'd show him a thing or two about why me and Chuck Norris are the only blokes alive who could take Bruce Lee.

So after staring down the usher, I took my place in the back of the church. The service was nothing exceptional – the usual greetings in Jesus' name, announcements about weekly meetings and then a few hymns and up-beat choruses. My favourite Onward Christian Soldiers was missing in action, but I was feeling unusually forgiving.

My perception that this was a middle-of-the-road Baptist church vanished as soon as someone started praying loudly in tongues. The pastor stopped the singing and asked if someone had an interpretation of this morning's encoded word from heaven.

The bloke sitting in front of me leapt up faster than Liberty when my youngest son shot him in the buttocks with a sharpened arrow during a game of cowboys and Indians – I have no idea why my kid was playing the part of a pagan, but his good aim more than makes up for impersonating the baddies.

The tongue interpreter gave the obligatory God loves us and wants us to wade deeper into the spiritual ocean where we can swim with the spiritual fish prophecy, but then seemed to change gears and went off about a bloke in the back row who has a porn addiction, has an unhealthy obsession with guns and has spread copious lies about his fictional military adventures ... I was taking it all in with great interest, when I suddenly twigged that I was the chap in his spiritual crosshairs.

Before he could spin more lies from the pit of hell, I grabbed one of the pressure points near his neck that literally paralysed him. Thankfully, no one was the wiser as these good Christian folk were all in deep prayer for the sinner in question ... I continued the prophecy for the now paralysed interpreter. I knew exactly where the usher was sitting, so he became the scapegoat. Just like Jesus, except this usher bloke was guilty as sin even if he didn't know it. When I was finished with the impromptu prophecy, more than half the congregation had surrounded him and were praying loudly for Jesus to loose the evil spirits that had taken up residence in their fallen-from-grace usher.

I made a hasty retreat before the real tongue interpreter could wake up and redirect the heavenly word.

How do I justify such deception?

Firstly, I'm sure the usher sneaks a few peeks at naked bums and boobies when no one's looking, so he could do with a firm spiritual spanking for his behaviour. His unfriendly demeanour when I walked into the church was also uncalled for and deserved an act of vengeance.

Secondly, I have no doubt the so-called tongue interpreter made it all up. He's obviously got his hands on a document that's been widely circulated about my supposedly fictional military history and embellished accomplishments for the Lord. He spotted me slip into the back row (I need to be more careful in future) and used the tongue opportunity to single me out on God's behalf. He's lucky he was only temporarily paralysed.

So I don't count this as deception, but the spiritual equivalent of counter-terrorism.

Fight the good fight. And please ignore all those slanderous documents about my anti-social, near-psychotic behaviour. Nothing but lies.

Donkey Tales

You may recall from an earlier blog that I mentioned once being assaulted outside an Adult World by a leggy blonde woman brandishing a potentially lethal and very large dildo. I easily wrestled her to the pavement, which she seemed to enjoy – as did I for undisclosed reasons.

This same woman supposedly read one of the many gospel tracts I always leave after a protest outside a sex shop – the one about how porn is a terrible evil that degrades women and tempts Christian men to try sexual positions that are totally unchristian and only applicable for dogs. She has begun to read the Bible, she tells me in an email, in order to find out more about the judgment that awaits sinners who love porn, but she's perturbed by a number of disturbing portions of the Holy Book ... in particular, this verse:

There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses. – Ezekiel 23:20

She sent me a host of attachments with her email – apparently, she knows many men in her industry who would put donkeys and horses to shame. I was mesmerised for a while, but regained my self-righteous composure and indignant attitude.

Firstly, I'm sure those images where photoshopped – no one could possibly have such a large male member to compete with the wild donkeys (and African men) I've seen roaming around Africa. Not even Liberty, my Sudanese convert garden boy, is that well hung.

Secondly, I don't appreciate her insinuation that the Bible is full of porn. This is God's Word we're talking about. God is not a pornographer. He is holy. He intended sex to be enjoyed in a heterosexual lifetime Christian marriage. And only one position is permissible.

And thirdly, I strongly object to the indecent proposal that I should have a threesome with her and her pet donkey. I guess she's never read this Bible verse:

And if a woman approach unto any beast, and lie down thereto, thou shalt kill the woman, and the beast: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. – Leviticus 20:16

This woman has violated every sacred norm by sending me such lewd pictures and totally distorting the Bible. I know I'm accused of doing exactly the same things .... some people still think I posted porn on my missionary website, when it was in fact the work of satanic hackers. She's the one who'll be violated in hell by unrelenting horny demons who look like donkeys. Problem is, hell will be like a home away from home for people like this.

Fight the good fight. And stay away from donkeys.

Coming To A Church Near You

I've begun dropping into different church services unannounced. I slip in quietly in the back row while the congregation are singing or whatever they do before the preaching gets under way. I feel I need to do this to keep up with what is going down on the Lord's Day...someone needs to keep tabs on what is being proclaimed from pulpits, just like the biblical prophets walked around naked and in a trance and warned God's people about impending judgment. But unless I hear an audible voice from God – quite likely – I'm going to keep my kit on. If I do hear an audible instruction to strip, I'm going to assume the Lord does not mean I should discard the weapon strapped to my ankle. Armed and ready for a fight at all times is a non-negotiable, whether I'm naked or fully clothed. I'm as good as Chuck Norris at unarmed combat, but nothing beats the sheer thrill of blasting away with one of my many guns.

This past Sunday I made an impromptu, fully clothed visit to a local Baptist church. I'm not a big fan of the flashy charismatic groups with their flamboyant preachers in expensive suits, but I'll pay them a visit as well. The Baptists are a good bunch – conservative, righteous, separatist, Bible-believing ... they could do a lot worse.

Like I said, I snuck into the back row, fully clothed and in my right mind. I almost slipped into a trance-like state when the saints broke into Onward Christian Soldiers, but I held it together as the preacher got up and let rip with a homily about how this world is going to hell in a handbasket. Just the kind of sermon I like to hear to get my spiritual juices going on a Sunday morning. He spat out seemingly endless verses about hell and damnation and the devil and sin and temptation and lust and more about temptation ... I could feel more than just my spiritual juices going.

Then the well-meaning but idiotic, incompetent semi-demon possessed moron slipped up big time. He was preaching hellfire and brimstone one minute, then shifted gears and began to explain how God-fearing folk are supposed to safeguard themselves against all the evil in the world. He told us that Jesus and the Bible are our only weapons ... then he added ... literal weapons are useless against the powers of darkness lurking behind every shady bush.

I would have been unable to leap out of my pew faster if an army of giant killer ants had invaded my rectum at the speed of light! I sprang up, spitting verses back at him faster than one of those black rappers on speed. We have a right and a duty to protect ourselves against evildoers – no amount of prayer and good Christian deeds will help when you're staring down the barrel of a stolen firearm. Your only hope is to be pointing a bigger gun back at your enemy, and get him to pray his final prayer to Jesus as you blow his pagan head clean off his shoulders.

The congregation was stunned. The preacher looked like he had just seen a demonic entity breathing dragon fire materialise in his church and call his wife a whore.

I took advantage of the stunned silence and the shell-shocked preacher's complete loss of words by spitting out several more Bible verses about cursing God's enemies. Then I informed the good folk who had given up a nice Sunday stroll on the beach to listen to this misguided sermon, that I would be leaving a pile of tracts at the back of the church. These would more clearly explain my position about just how Christians should be fighting the good fight. Then I excused myself – I promised my kids that I'd take them to the beach, followed by a game of paintball.

Fight the good fight.

Friday 13

Superstitious beliefs are ridiculous. I do not fear this day like the morons who refuse to leave their homes for fear that bad karma will overtake them. What is bad karma anyway? There is only the right way to live (the fundamentalist Christian way) and the wrong way to live (every other way). One leads to heaven with God, Jesus, the angels and the saints. The other leads to hell with the devil, the demons, the liberal politicians, the pornographers, the abortionists, the evolutionists, the satanists and absolutely everyone else who refuses to follow Jesus the way I do. Heaven will have lots of room and hell is definitely going to be overcrowded.

At first I was sure some demon-worshiping punks who have still not realised they're going to spend eternity in hell were behind this morning's unfortunate series of events ... but it appears I was mistaken ... or was I?

I walked out my front door to take a leisurely stroll around the garden, meditate on God's Word and check that Liberty had pulled up all the weeds in the south quadrant. Without thinking, I walked under the step ladder neatly placed in the doorway. I stopped dead in my tracks, not because I was worried a stray meteor would fall from the sky and obliterate my entire homestead. A black cat was crossing my path, obviously making straight for my rose bushes. I've recently discovered the neighbourhood cats have taken to using this section of my garden as their ablution facility.

I sprang into action. I respect God's creatures -- not the human ones, the animals. But if this black cat thought he was going to crap all over my rose bushes, he had another thing coming. I launched myself toward the creature, unawares that some diabolical, mischievous satanist had scattered marbles on the pathway. The laws of motion and gravity were too much for my Chuck Norris-like reflexes.

I lay motionless on the path in serious pain for at least fifteen minutes before Liberty found me and dutifully helped me up.

He apologised profusely for leaving the step ladder in the wrong place and for not picking up the marbles my kids had been playing with yesterday afternoon. But he could not account for the black cat.

So it may look like I am one of those morons who are afraid to leave his home for fear of being snuffed out by a falling meteor, but I'm simply recovering from my fall. However, if I lay eyes on that black cat again, some satanic coven is going to be missing its mascot.

Fight the good fight.

I'm Not A Racist

I received a cyberstorm of emails, obviously from Manu's countless relatives in Chatsworth and Lenasia, accusing me of racist stereotyping of Indian folk. The one fella who claims to actually be a bona fide distant relative of the skinny peaceloving guy in a white sheet, even had the audacity to quote me a Gandhian phrase ... namely, that he would be a follower of Christ if it were not for those who claim to follow Christ. In other words, he'd be a Christian, except there are Christians like me in the world, so he'd prefer to worship Satan instead.

Before I sign off with my obligatory burn in hell curse, let me state that I am not racist. Sure, I vociferously opposed the anti-Apartheid struggle, but that's not because I hated blacks. I just hated blacks who were commies ... and in the 80s they accounted for most of the population, thanks to all the terrorists running around with petrol bombs and burning tyres who made life difficult for the police. I have also stated in other very long essays that I believe Apartheid was being systematically dismantled for twenty years before Mandela was irresponsibly let out of prison. So there was no need for blacks to protest like wild savages about repressive laws ... they just needed to be patient. All good things come to those who wait. That's a Christian virtue, by the way, which black atheist commies failed to grasp because they weren't Christian.

I don't really care if Manu's relatives would rather worship their countless gods than follow Jesus, just because they don't like the fact that I shoved a bunny chow in his face and chased his booze-selling business out of my God-fearing community. So what if I think most Indians are crooks? Because the truth hurts does not make me a racist. I happen to like curry. People who say I am guilty of racist stereotyping are the real bigots. Would I have spent my entire adult life going on countless missions in Africa if I didn't feel some sort of compassion for blacks? Sure, there is the whole thing about Jesus commanding me to make disciples of all heathens – put clothes on them, teach them to read the Bible, put them to work in my garden pruning rose bushes. I spell that l-o-v-e.

Fight the good fight ... or burn in hell.

PS Whoever left the poisoned bunny chow on my front doorstep last night, the last part of the above statement is particularly aimed at you.

Mission Bunny Chow

Liberty, my Sudanese garden boy, failed miserably on his covert mission to the shebeen, which I recently discovered is trading down the road from my home. If you read my blog a few days ago, you'll know that the sorry bastard got drunk on the devil's spirit instead of finding out who is behind this evil liquor trade in my sacred homeland. So I went to the shebeen myself over the weekend.

Before you think I've also been filled with some unholy spirit, let me quickly add that I did not simply walk into the place dressed in my usual attire. This was a covert mission. No matter what, I will never dress up like a black commie atheist bastard, so I had to find some other clever disguise. I eventually decided to go Indian. For my American friends, I'm not talking about looking like Chief Sitting Bull. I'm talking about those dark-skinned fellas who worship a million gods. A Muslim disguise would not do, as they don't drink alcohol – their only good doctrine. I had to look more like a used car dealer, with greasy hair, loads of bling, silver shoes, and bunny chow stains on my chin.

No need to remind me that I was blessed with a pale complexion like all God's favoured. So how in God's righteous name was I supposed to pass as a dark-skinned fella distantly related to that skinny peaceloving guy who dressed in a white sheet?

Instant deep-tanning lotion bought from a Nigerian Internet conman called Prince Joseph Abdul, including a free tube of black hair dye.

The thug who answered the front door let me in as soon as he saw the fake gold caps in my teeth and heard my slick Chatsworth accent I'd practised for days. He ushered me to the back of the house. There were plenty of drunks of all colours lurking around, including a hefty Indian bloke dressed in a gay pink shirt. Loud techno music was pumping out of the very music centre of hell ... and there he was sitting at a table with piles of cash around him, a half-eaten bunny chow at his elbow and empty bottles of booze scattered around him like spent cartridges at a shooting range – the guy behind the new evil in my community.

His name is Manu. I'm not sure if this irony is something the devil dreamed up the day God threw him out of heaven, but Manu is an Indian guy from Chatsworth. He looked like he could have been my brother from another mother, or my cousin from another vagina, to use his words.

Unless he was motherlessly drunk on his own devil juice, I had no doubt he'd figure out I was an imposter as soon as I opened my mouth ... you can't fool an Indian crook who has spent his whole life conning people out of their hard-earned cash and eating curry for breakfast, lunch and supper.

Turns out I didn't need to utter a word ... I caught my reflection in Manu's mirror lens sunglasses. That's the last time I buy anything from a Nigerian ... my instant deep tan was fading in patches that left me looking like a leper, or worse, a mad half-Indian, half-albino.

This called for drastic measures. I grabbed the half-munched bunny chow, shoved it in Manu's face, and then thumped the nearest bouncer with an empty bottle of vodka. I had no time to take photos of the illegal liquor trade with my hidden camera. But before I made my hasty retreat from the den of Satan, I left my signature card – a stack of gospel tracts denouncing the sale and consumption of alcohol in a God-fearing Christian community.

I have no doubt Manu will pack up his liquor trade and move to another part of the country – or better, push off back to Bombay where he belongs. I've said it before – don't mess with Paintball Pete. You'll taste bunny chow all the way to hell.

Fight the good fight.

Shooting Kids

By now you've probably heard about the Amish school shootings. Shame. Terrible. But it need not have happened. I've been saying the same thing for what feels like an eternity, but still people will not listen to reason. Here's what I've been saying – the bit that people just don't seem to hear:

Kids should be trained to use guns.

There, I've said it (again). If that moron had to walk into my homeschool and tried to murder my kids, he'd be met by a volley of bullets that would blow most of his extremities clean off his body, including his head. He wouldn't need to turn his gun on himself – my offspring would put him out of his misery with pleasure. In fact, they'd relish the target practice.

Toy guns just don't cut it. Kids need to practice with the real thing. And then these school shootings would not happen. But come to think of it, Christians should homeschool their kids anyway. Much safer – no secular humanist influence, no evolution lies, just fundamentalist Christian values.

I've got to go ... my kids are waiting for me to take them through their gun-safety class, which is always a Friday highlight.

Fight the good fight.

The Unholy Spirit

One of the many reasons I love my leafy suburb is that we don't have the vices that plague many other communities. You will not find a single Adult World in these parts, although I did find a discarded dildo in the street the other day. And you definitely will not find a liquor store, although I have spotted a few drunken teenagers around the mall. Angry protests have ensured that every application for a booze-selling license has been dis-allowed. You guessed it -- yours truly was at the helm of these protests.

But I've kept my ear to the ground to find out if any bootlegging is taking place, and sure as hell is real, I've discovered a shebeen operating from a home just walking distance from my fortress. If you visit a black township (not that I would), shebeens are common dens of iniquity. One does not expect such heathen behaviour in my neck of the woods. But with the dismantling of apartheid, blacks can now live anywhere they damn well please. They don't need to be indentured servants to live on a white man's property -- in fact, they can own the property if they have the money, and believe me, these commie politicians have the money. And now they've brought their evil watering holes into my homeland.

I do not permit Liberty, my Sudanese convert garden boy, to leave our property. But since his last attempted escape, I've embedded a tracking device in his body. This has enabled me to use him as an undercover agent to case the shebeen. I sent him there last night with a hidden camera. Sure as Jesus is the saviour, he let me down. Badly. He was given one hour to pull off the mission, but three hours later there was still no sign of the heathen convert.

I used my sophisticated tracking device to locate him -- five hundred metres from the shebeen, I found him. Drunk as a skunk, stinking like he'd been marinated in cheap vodka for ten days, he was passed out on the pavement. No amount of slapping and kicking would revive him.

I'll have to figure out another way to infiltrate the shebeen without being recognised -- it could negatively impact my reputation as a righteous warrior for Jesus to be seen going into such a den of iniquity. I may have to disguise myself as a fat cat commie politician.

I'm off to check up on Liberty. He was complaining of a killer hangover this morning. Can't let him loose on my precious rose bushes if he can't see straight ... the bastard has got what he deserves for being filled with the unholy spirit. Hope his head hurts like hell.

Fight the good fight.

Commies Are Not Cool

Commies are definitely not cool. In fact, they are dirty, smelly, evil bastards who kill millions in their failed attempt to rule the world. That's exactly what Che Guevara, the Cuban revolutionary, was and did. But now I see that he's appearing on T-shirts and other fashion accessories like G-strings. Disgusting! I'm talking about the image of a commie bastard and those stringy undergarments. Christian women should not wear pieces of string like the heathens in the Amazon rainforest. It excites Christian men and may lead them to sin. I'm speaking from experience.

Back to the unwashed commie killer who has become a fashion icon. I am appalled at such glamourising of a wickedly evil tyrant who persecuted the church and got what he deserved when the CIA-backed Bolivian army took him out in the jungle. Dirty pig is now having his bacon fried in hell for eternity. I'm determined to launch a counter-protest -- I've already approached Fundamentalist Clothing Co to manufacture a series of alternative T-shirts for exclusive distribution through my righteous missionary organisation.

The first will have a picture of Che with the words: Fight Oppression -- murder innocent civilians.

The second is a picture of the filthy Guevara morphing into a skull to symbolise both his demise and his murderous ways.

The third has his image and the words Commies Don't Bath, Don't Believe in Jesus and Are Going to Hell superimposed in large Gothic print over his dirty mug. I recommend this one to all who oppose commie tyranny.

I've asked them to make a T-shirt especially for me to wear when I protest outside leading clothing retailers. On the back will be the image of Guevara with the words Commie Killers Are Not Cool. On the front will be an image of GW Bush and the words Convert Or Die. If we're going to kill civilians, we should be doing it for a Christian cause, not for a God-hating, commie utopia.

Fight the good fight.

Halloween Kids Beware

Yes, I know it's Halloween at the end of the month. Stop sending me copious reminders.

Of course I'm planning a similar counter-Halloween protest like last year.

No, I'm not stupid enough to involve my kids again.

I'm not sure whether I'll use live ammo this time or go with the paintball option like last year. I like to be spontaneous.

Thanks for the suggestion that I use Liberty this time and make him the fall guy. I'm still contemplating this option, but he's really doing a great job on my roses. I'd hate to lose his gardening services. I'd have to go on a new mission to Sudan, make another convert and bring him back to replace Liberty who'd by then be rotting away in Pollsmoor. It's doable, but what a schlep. The new guy could totally ruin my rose bushes and I'd have to take serious disciplinary measures. Perhaps even break Liberty out of prison to come and revive my roses. It's all starting to sound like a bad idea.

But believe me, whatever goes down, young demon worshipers are going to be sorry they celebrated the Devil's birthday.

Fight the good fight.

No Diabolical Unions

I've been asked by a nice old Christian gentleman (not the cantankerous old bugger who accused me of hypocrisy a few blogs ago) to share my views about so-called gay marriage. Here goes ...

I don't believe anything else threatens the Christian family unit as much as this sweeping global tyranny of homosexuals who want to force their perversion on God-fearing people like me. I mean, can you imagine me sitting in a church service and the pastor stands up to announce that Steve and Larry have announced their engagement and will be married in a public ceremony next week? All are invited.

If your answer is that Paintball Pete would never be found alive in a liberal, apostate church like this, you're one hundred percent correct.

If you answered that Paintball Pete would show up at the disgraceful public perversion ceremony in full military kit and execute the minister, the homos and their guests, you'd probably be correct but I can't commit to such violence until we take over the world for Jesus. But I would definitely do something to make sure these homos remember the day as the worst in their lives rather than the best. I'd make sure their wedding cake -- with two moffies on top instead of a man and a woman -- explodes in a display of God's fierce displeasure, showering all their guests with smoldering pieces of wedding cake. Like I said, they'd have no doubt that God was utterly pissed off with their diabolical union.

If your answer was that I would interrupt the minister in mid-sentence and then launch into an aggressive recital of endless verses from Leviticus denouncing homosexuality as an abomination from the pit of hell, again, a good character assessment of yours truly. I'd then leave this church in a fit of righteous rage, cursing the pastor and his offspring to an eternity in hell to be sodomised by the very homos he was about to marry.

I guess I don't have to conclude that I am utterly and completely and eternally opposed to gay people marrying, let alone stepping foot in the Lord's house in the first place. When Christians like me take over the world, we'll rid humanity of this scourge once and for all by stoning gays to death. Then we won't have to waste time debating whether the church should be compassionate (never) or completely intolerant (hell yes) when it comes to gays. Instead, we can spend our thousand year reign on the earth playing paintball, having missionary-position heterosexual sex and singing Onward Christian Soldiers.

Fight the good fight.