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.