Ambush

I've just come back from a whirlwind trip to the US. I was deep in the South – you can still smell the gunpowder lingering in the air from the Civil War and garden trees are often decorated with lynch rope. It's a great place to be. A great place to spin your missionary tales to a really gullible bunch of God-fearing, communist-hating, patriot-flag-waving people.

I was spending the weekend with a group of saintly aged folk who are more than happy to part with their dollars to aid my cause of converting the heathen masses to the Christian way of dress, sex and general behaviour. And to replenish my supply of paintballs.

But I was ambushed. It was a lot like having your nads bitten by a baby croc hiding in your toilet bowl while you're attending to your morning ablutions.

I've mentioned those pesky documents doing their rounds, accusing me of all sorts of evil behaviour, like embellishing details of my military history and sexually harassing a few women. So what if I exaggerate a little about my military accomplishments ... I mean, it's not like Jesus didn't use hyperbole to great effect. Have you actually seen Christians lop off their hands after they pinched the waitress on her cheeky bottom ... or pluck their eyes out after they snuck a peek of a bare boob? But please understand, I'm not saying that evangelical leader who opposed gay marriage but was buying drugs from a male prostitute should be let off the hook ... if it was a female prostitute, I'd have more sympathy for the guy.

So there I am, addressing a group of retired Christian folk, using my tried-and-tested but often challenged stories of gung-ho military adventures, when this wrinkled prune of a woman stands up in the middle of my presentation, and calls me a liar. She also has the audacity to call me a child abuser – all because I paintballed a few kids on Halloween. Like I said, it felt like a baby croc was hanging onto my genitalia.

But I have not likened myself to Chuck Norris in previous blogs for nothing. Just like I could shake my balls loose from the grip of a croc without much damage to my manhood, I easily shook myself loose from this geriatric's absurd rant about my supposedly fictitious and abusive missionary work. I quoted a tirade of biblical verses about not challenging the anointed servants of God. It also helped to have the pastor on my side – I had given him a special custom-made paintball gun before the meeting, engraved with the words I Aim to Please Jesus. The ranting old duck was swiftly ushered outside and I completed my presentation without further rude interruptions. The offering was especially rewarding after that visual demonstration of how God's faithful soldiers are persecuted, even by so-called Christian folk.

Fight the good fight.