Paintball Pete

Paintball Pete Is Dead

2007-08-22T02:11:00.000-07:00

It is my sad duty to inform those few people in the world who thought Paintball Pete was a cool guy, that he’s dead. Gone to receive his eternal reward at the right hand of God. More about that later. For those of you who are elated that he’s pushing up daisies, firstly, let me tell you that Pete is personally asking Jesus to curse you with intestinal worms the size of a large black man’s well-hung member. And secondly, allow me to tell you that those daisies are flourishing in rainbow colours brighter than any paintball Pete has ever shot at an ungodly reprobate child celebrating Halloween.

Right, more about the death of Paintball Pete – may he rest in peace. This is how it went down ...

As you know, Pete was pretty far-right of your average right-winger. And he was never in any doubt that Jesus justified this position. I mean, have you ever read a Bible verse that says Jesus is sitting on the left hand of God the Father? Hell no, not in my version of the Bible. The right hand of God the Father, you biblically illiterate son of Satan! The right-eous will rule the planet with King Jesus. So anything on the right has to be right, not wrong. Pete was a natural left-hander, but he trained himself to do everything right-handed, including shooting his beloved paintball gun, smacking his Sudanese garden boy across the back of the head, and stroking his ... wait, I digress.

Pete was always upset about the state of things since the blacks took over. He was always trying to get as close as possible to one of those filthy heathens responsible for stealing the Christian white man’s land and leading us down the same path to hell as Rhodesia (Pete refused to call it Zimbabwe). His plan, if he could get close enough, was to launch one of his paintball missiles from the toe-tip of his customised James Bond-style assassin shoe, up the ass of an unsuspecting corrupt politician. His right shoe, it goes without saying.

Pete got the chance to put his ass-shooting paintball skills to the test when he was checked into hospital for a routine procedure. He had shrapnel lodged up his ... let’s just say it was a very dark and private place ... from some or other bush war injury, but he was never specific. He was hardcore that way. There were rumours that it was a self-inflicted injury – that he'd accidentally impaled himself on a sharp object while he was spying on a liberal secular humanist communist politician who had moved in next door to him. But I’d rather think of Pete surviving an exploding rocket that detonated near him when he was bending over tying up his bootlaces on a mission to Sudan. It's just like those cowardly heathen terrorists to attack a white man when his back is turned and his ass is exposed.

So who should get checked into the ward alongside him? None other than the heavy boozing, garlic-chewing, potato-growing health minister. Pete wasted no time at all going on recce missions from his private ward to hers, late at night when she was more drunk than usual. It was during one of these recce missions – so those close to him suspect – that he accidentally slipped on a frozen paintball pellet, and as destiny would have it, he landed headfirst on a discarded scalpel, which pierced his right eye socket and plunged its hell-forged steel tip into his brain.

He was found dead by a male nurse (of all things – a goddam homosexual), who at first thought he had pinched the minister’s supply of expensive whiskey and had passed out in a drunken stupor. The queen nurse told the media that the wall opposite his fallen body was splattered with obscenities about the minister and her communist-loving regime. And that Pete was wearing nothing but his right shoe and was clutching the remains of a paintball pellet – possibly the very one that had brought him down – and with which he had scrawled his final words. This is where the media lies stem from about Pete trying to rape the minister in her sleep, or worse, having an extramarital affair with the minister, and being murdered by a jealous gay nurse who also had feelings for Pete.

I was able to take a photo of the offending graffiti with my cellphone camera just before secret service agents whitewashed the wall. It was nothing obscene. It was a biblical-style curse aimed at the unholy poopholes of the unrighteous, whom Pete had fought against his entire God-fearing, biblical-curse spewing adult life ... may we never forget him!

His message read:

"Thou art the mistress whore of the Devil and will be sodomised with more than a piece of shrapnel if you do not repaint ... re ... "

He must have died before he could scratch out 'repaint' and finish his final warning of eternal damnation.

And so fell one of the finest warriors of Jesus, pierced for the transgressions of our communist, land-grabbing, God-hating regime, just like Jesus for all our sins. I don't think he could have chosen a better way to die. Pierced through his right eye. Clutching a paintball pellet. The bit about being found butt-naked by a homosexual nurse will be denied by all God-fearing, gun-toting fundamentalist Christians until Jesus comes back.

To all those who remain, who love paintball, Jesus and the missionary position almost as much as Paintball Pete ...

Fight the good fight

PS Pete's secret horde of *research material* that he kept *for research purposes* in the not-so-secret bunker under his garage is being auctioned at the Jesus and His Saints Shall Rule The Heathens Bush Baptist Church in aid of the People Opposed to Reprehensible Pornography (PORN) ministry on Friday.

PPS Latest news reports about the health minister are that she has checked herself back into hospital for a routine cavity removal. I suspect that Pete must have fired off at least one of his frozen shoe pellets up her ass before his spirit left to be with the Lord. A warrior for Jesus right until the very end.

Borat Does It Backwards

2006-12-21T04:06:00.000-08:00

You may remember how Satan used to deceive masses of youth through backward masking – if you played a rock music record backwards, nasty lyrics like Satan is god would emerge from the distorted, demonic sounds. Today, it's not really necessary to play rock music backwards – if you play it normally, the messages are perverse enough. And who can play a CD backwards anyway?

But who would have thought that subliminal messages were still being used by the Dark Horny Beast to deceive the masses? The Borat movie was full of obscene perversions, so I wasn't expecting anything to bombard my subconscious, what with the full-frontal assault on my righteous mind all over the screen. But I've subsequently learned that the wicked actor speaks Hebrew – so when viewers think he was mumbling in Kazakh, he was actually speaking Hebrew. So I got my hands on a pirated copy of the movie – when it's holy research, I'm always happy to break the law – and carefully examined what Borat said, looking up the English in my Simple Hebrew Made Simple For Simple Fundamentalists dictionary.

This time around I made sure I did not eat popcorn while watching the movie – I've had enough near-death choking attacks to last me a lifetime of movies. But I couldn't help wetting myself again ... praise Jesus, in the privacy of my secret underground bunker, embarrassing leakages are no problem.

So, there I was, carefully trying to figure out what Borat is saying in fluent Hebrew that most people, including stupid Kazakhs, think is Kazakh. And then I hear it, clear as one of those distorted backward masking lyrics that could just as easily mean Santa is a cockroach as Satan is the one true master out to destroy your soul ... I hear Borat in Hebrew saying stuff like – Christians are to blame for all the world's problems ... they should be fed to the bears ... I like naked men ... I serve Satan ... I want have sexy intercourse with Pamela Anderson ... Niiiice.

This is further proof that you should not go and see the Borat movie, unless you want to be possessed by Satan in the cinema of your choice and most likely become a homosexual Satanist five minutes after the film ends.

God has given me special powers to resist all subliminal temptations, so please don't be concerned that my spending the entire night re-watching the Borat movie will adversely affect my spiritual state. But the wet pants are piling up in the laundry basket! If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel badly for the maid.

Fight the good fight.

PS tsinataS a si taroB

Borat Hates Christians

2006-12-19T23:32:00.000-08:00

I watched the Borat movie last night. I feel that I have an obligation to research potential threats to the only true gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, in order to let the faithful know what Satan's next movie is ... I mean, what his next move is. By the way, if you haven't already figured this out, the Dark One loves the movies. He hurls all the filth and smut of hell at audiences, corrupts minds and turns masses away from Jesus. The Borat movie must have been in production in the fiery dungeons of hell since Lucifer was cast out of heaven. Yes, it's that bad, my paintballing Bible-believing friends.

The offensive film is about a reporter from Kazakhstan who goes to US and A to learn from American culture and thereby benefit his glorious nation. From the outset, I almost choked on my popcorn as Borat introduces us to his sister, the fourth best prostitute in Kazakhstan. Then he arrives in New York and masturbates in public outside a lingerie store—I know how he feels as I've been tempted to do the same thing quite often, but I draw the line when this kind of perversion is displayed on the silver screen by a Jew impersonating a Kazakhi infidel. What would Jesus think?

I had just managed to dislodge the popcorn kernel stuck in my throat when a disgusting display of homosexual behaviour spilled off the screen and polluted the entire cinema. Borat engages his producer in a naked wrestling match, which must have excited the entire gay community but revolted my godly heterosexual eyes. Yes, I did laugh at the scene and urinated slightly in my pants in the process, but this does not mean I have homosexual tendencies and it does not justify this foul act. If true Christians like me ruled the world, sinners who ran around hotels butt-naked would be publicly stoned. And movies like this would never be produced.

The most offensive scene was yet to emerge from Lucifer's dark imagination ... Borat visits a fundamentalist Pentecostal church and takes the piss without these dear Christian brethren sniffing the sulphur. Jesus is not to be mocked, my friends. Borat clearly hates everything Christian—he has prostitute family members, engages in perverted homosexual acts and behaves like a demon-possessed fool in the Lord's house.

I left the cinema still coughing up pieces of popcorn, trying to hide a wet patch in my pants and vowing to let the world know that Borat hates Christians like me—and we should hate him back. How? By not going to see his movie. I know I can't actually not go and see his movie as I've already seen it, but I can warn you not to see it unless you want to offend God and also explain why you have wet pants when the video tape of your life is shown in heaven on Judgment Day.

Fight the good fight.

Crime Doesn't Pay But Guilt Manipulation Does

2006-12-18T23:14:00.000-08:00

Don't worry, friends, I'm not dead. Bad luck, enemies, I'm still alive and paintballing the world for Jesus! I've been fighting the good fight on a whirlwind worldwide tour, promoting paintballing as a mandatory church recreational activity, and re-emphasising the missionary-only position for all true fundamentalist Christians in this age of unbiblical kinky perversion. My laptop was stolen during my American-leg of the tour—hard to believe that I left crime-ridden South Africa to visit the greatest nation in the world, only to become a victim of crime. This is the reason I've not posted a blog for weeks.

But I'm back with a vengeance. I have a new laptop, thanks to a kind old donor who felt led by God—and possibly guilt-manipulated by me—to buy me a state-of-the-art replacement for my stolen laptop. What else was she going to do with twenty grand at her age? I must point out that the stolen laptop will be completely useless to the wretched criminal who nabbed it from me at the airport while I was trying to convince a Hare Krishna that he was going straight to hell when he dies and will be tormented by paintball-wielding demons chanting Hurry Curry Your Ass Is Mine for eternity. A dormant virus programmed into my laptop formats the entire laptop if an alien lifeforce tries to log on, and then a clever little piece of electronic engineering detonates a small explosive device in the machine, which would most likely result in permanent genital injury to a user stupid enough to have the laptop on his lap at the time.

This clever little act of counter-terrorism ensures that no-one can access my personal documents—I have all sorts of sensitive data on my laptop that I wouldn't even want my dear warrior wife to see, let alone a semi-literate criminal. You don't have to be able to read to know that porn is ... porn. Sure, idiot celebrities like Brittney Spears may be happy to flash their female parts to the paparazzi, but I am not willing to expose my naughty pics and give my enemies further ammunition to shoot my good reputation down.

I'm back. I have a new laptop. I have endless tales from my travels to further enhance my heroic image as a crusader for Jesus. This blog is going to ignite! I'm off to watch the new Borat movie. Don't miss my review of it in tomorrow's post.

Fight the good fight. And if you're the sorry bastard who stole my laptop, hope you're enjoying your new life without nads.

Ambush

2006-11-14T02:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Punk'd

2006-11-06T02:43:00.000-08:00

I was interviewed by a radio station long distance from the States over the weekend. Or so I thought ... turns out I was hoodwinked by a young punk impersonating a rightwing radio personality. I'm not proud of the fact that I was deceived by this infidel (who will be publicly executed when I become world ruler), but I've published a few extracts below to document how the righteous are mocked incessantly by infidels ...

Are you really a medical doctor? I see that you add this title before your name ...

No, I have a doctorate in missiology, but I know where to aim my paintballs to inflict the most possible pain in a human being. As you know, my brother, in America you can buy anything, including your educational qualifications. So I found one of the most fundamentalist Christian Bible colleges in the South to read my lengthy thesis on the work of white fundamentalist missionaries – conversion under threat of death, Western clothing to cover heathen nakedness, missionary position-only sex education, how to work in a white man's garden, that sort of thing. They gave me a doctorate in about as much time as it took to read my thesis.

This thesis must be fascinating ... does it include details of your gun running to the Sudan?

Umm, I'm not sure what you mean by gun running, my brother .... I have delivered millions of Bibles to persecuted Christians. And yes, I'm always armed to the teeth when I travel through Africa ... but that doesn't translate into gun running. If I've ever handed over a gun with a Bible (or buried beneath the cargo of Bibles and cheap genetically modified food dumped on Africa), it's been a gift out of the kindness of my heart. Missionaries often take gifts of Western clothing and medicine when spreading the gospel ... why not guns?

So you're not denying these claims of gun running ...?

I do not deny my love for guns and my reliance on them and my lobbying for the right of Christians to defend themselves against infidels by force of arms ... if I'm going to run around Africa, I'm going to carry a few guns with me. That's my definition of gun running ...

Fair enough ... So, Dr Pete, have you ever shot someone ...? I don't mean with a paintball. I mean with a real bullet ...

If you've ever taken a hit at close range with a frozen paintball dipped in battery acid, you'd not suggest that it were not a *real* bullet. My Sudanese convert garden boy will testify to this ... and so will those trick-or-treaters. But it's not really appropriate for me to disclose any military actions I've taken while doing missionary work ... but if I had to discharge a shotgun blast into some ungodly person's sorry ass, or even one of those liberal Christians, I'd happily do it.

You teach converts that God intends sex to —

Commands!

Sorry – commands – sex to be enjoyed within a committed heterosexual marriage only and that the only position permissable is the traditional missionary position. Have you tried any other positions with your wife ... or with anyone else, such as Liberty, for instance?

No ... WHAT??!! How dare you insinuate that I am homosexual, you little f**kwit .... I have only ever had sex with my virgin wife and I may have tried a few variations of the missionary position but only because those prostitutes were up for it and you are treading on thin ice, even if you are on the other side of the ocean .... homosexuality is an abomination in the sight of God .... I have fantasised about many, many different women and mentally explored every sexual position possible, but never in my wildest dreams would I ever – EVER – think of having disgusting anal sex with another man, let alone a smelly heathen convert to Christianity who was created to work in my garden ....

[Laughter in the studio ...] Doctor Pete, have you ever heard the term, 'You've been punk'd...?' This is Thabo from the States ... The Free State. You've been punk'd on Radio Fuck The Fundamentalists ... or as we prefer to say, you've been proper fucked!

I cannot repeat what I said to Thabo from the Free State. But I've now destroyed the second cellphone in a few days and exhausted every biblical curse known to fundamentalists. This, my friends, is how the righteous are being mocked in this apostate world ... I declare a jihad against all those who insult the anointed servants of Jesus Christ and will be sending out recruitment documents shortly.

Fight the good fight.

Krokodil Resurrection

2006-11-01T23:07:00.000-08:00

I spent most of yesterday in mourning after learning that the great Krokodil has croaked. PW Botha was a great man who should never have lost power to that sell-out FW de Klerk who released that commie Nelson Mandela from prison and drove our once God-fearing land into utter secular humanist darkness.

Everyone who knows anything knows that PW Botha was a great politician who stood on the broad shoulders of the Voortrekkers and Boer commandos, who showed both the native black savages and the Nancy-boy Brits that the Bible and the bullet are lethal soul mates. So he supposedly has gone to his grave with a whole lot of secrets about his apartheid reign. Liberals are all pissed off because he refused to testify before the Truth and Reconciliation commission. Good for him. That commission should have been called the Torture and Rape commission – torturing good citizens like me who fought communism by raping us with details about how we enforced apartheid. The Krokodil was too great a man to be tortured and raped by liberal commie sympathisers in his old age.

Rest in peace, PW Botha. I always understood that you had the best interests of this country at heart by insisting the black man knows his place and the rest of the world mind their own business. I'm praying that you will be raised from the grave and appear one last time in the once hallowed halls of Parliament, wearing your trademark National Party hat and wagging your finger in the face of this God-hating liberal government who have ruined your good work. I also pledge to restore your political vision to this land when I'm made President.

Fight the good fight.

Osama Does Halloween

2006-11-01T04:14:00.000-08:00

I hate towel-heads. But I respect them. Any religion that sanctions conversion under threat of death has to garner at least some respect. After last year’s botched paintball mission to teach those little devil kids that they should not be worshiping Satan in my community, I was simply not going to risk jail time this Halloween by driving around in my own car paintballing kids. I needed a disguise.

Sympathetic readers of my blog suggested that I send Liberty out to do my dirty work and be the fall guy if the paintballs hit the fan. I was grateful for the suggestion and wouldn’t normally mind sacrificing my Sudanese convert garden boy for the sake of the gospel, but that would take all the fun out of Halloween. I’m not like those military generals who watch the action from way behind the frontlines – I want to taste the action for myself, to see evildoers get a taste of hell. At the very least, I want them to get smacked in the chops with a frozen paintball and taste the righteous indignation of Paintball Pete.

So to come back to my respect for towel-heads and my need for a disguise … you’ll remember that I scared the bejesus out of Muslims to celebrate 9/11. The last thing those Muhammeds saw was a mad fellow-Muslim racing away from the scene of the crime. You got it … that was me. I still had the Osama look-alike outfit at home in my secret bunker, so last night when the darkness of hell crept in, I hotwired a car in my street and drove around looking for trick-or-treaters to paintball, dressed like a mad Muslim fundamentalist terrorist.

I spent a few hours committing glorious drive-by paintball attacks, teaching the occult followers that their way will lead to eternal destruction and that my way leads to eternal life with God, Jesus, the good angels and all those who have lived the Christian life like me.

The papers this morning report that a copy-cat paintball terrorist has been on the loose, and that he resembles Osama Bin Laden. I even had one cocky reporter call me to quiz me about my possible links to Al Qaeda. I told him where he could stick a paintball in no uncertain terms, then I pronounced an explicit biblical curse that I can’t repeat here and slammed the phone down on him. I need a new cell phone, by the way.

So there you have it. I keep to my word. Halloween is a demonic celebration of the devil’s birthday. The only gift I’m ever going to give Lucifer is a frozen paintball up his horny ass – and one for each of his followers. I have no doubt that both military and church history will record yesterday’s resounding paintball mission as a dual victory. The treat part is that I taught kids not to dress up like demons and celebrate evil, and the trick bit is that I made sure Muslims pick up the tab. Someone who looks like Osama is going to be gang-raped in Pollsmoor when the cops catch him.

Fight the good fight.

Following Jesus Into Hell

2006-10-30T06:14:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-25T02:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-18T02:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-16T06:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-13T02:33:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-11T02:25:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-09T07:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-06T01:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-05T00:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-04T01:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-03T03:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-02T05:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Fire Insurance

2006-09-29T00:41:00.000-07:00

Fr Gerard Joseph reckons he has been reading my comments about Muslims, Catholics and just about every other *normal* person. Accuses me of spewing hatred at the world and suggests I should try a positive blog for a change.

First of all, I don't accept criticism from child-molesting homo priests who worship Mary and serve Satan.

Secondly, I don't believe there is anything positive to say about this doomed world. God is going to burn it all to hell on Judgment Day, so why speak positively about damnation? It's my calling in life to proclaim hellfire on a doomed world so sinners can't turn around and accuse me of failing to warn them of the coming wrath of God when they are being thrown headfirst into the Lake of Fire.

Thirdly, I don't accept criticism from anyone, period. If I'm really affronted, like I've been when supposedly fundamentalist Christian folk accused me of lying and mismanagement and God-forbid, sexual misconduct ... then I'll write a book defending myself. What I mean by that is I'll entirely sidestep all the accusations and spend about 150 pages talking about all my valuable contributions to the cause of missions, like delivering Bibles and other helpful things like tracts and hymnbooks and clerical collars to persecuted Christians. I'll throw in a few inflammatory statements about my accusers, linking them to worldwide demonic attempts to undermine the work of the Lord.

Like I've said before, the best defense is a good offense.

Lastly, Fr Joseph, your father is Satan. You better get some good fire insurance. You're going to need it where you're going.

Fight the good fight.

Crazy About Jesus

2006-09-27T00:10:00.000-07:00

I've received numerous emails -- okay, five -- insinuating that I exaggerate the truth; that I am a hypocrite; that I am an ecclesiastical terrorist; that I have disgraced the Lord Jesus Christ; and that I am certifiably insane. I will answer each of these ridiculous, slanderous remarks before I track down each emailer -- this is my blog and I can say what I goddam please, including disrespecting every sacred religious belief and democratic norm known to man. If this God-forsaking government insists on holding onto its liberal secular humanist constitution, well then I'll just have to exert my Christian right to insult everyone until they realise I'm right and they're wrong.

1. "Pete, you exaggerate the truth!"

Pete's indignant response: This slanderous heathen has obviously never read the Bible. Our Lord Jesus Christ once said it would be more difficult for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom. Well, I know plenty of rich Christians (in an age of hunger) who are definitely going to heaven. I know this because they have faithfully supported my missionary / mercenary work in Africa for decades. So Jesus was obviously exaggerating his point. I'm sure He was referring to rich people who don't give to fundamentalist Christian causes. A camel would have a better chance of humping his way through the tiniest hole than these people have of getting into heaven. So if you think I'm exaggerating the truth, I'm in good company -- God's company. So shut up and send me your donations.

2. "Pete, you're the biggest hypocrite I've ever come across in my whole life, and I'm a 96-year-old pensioner."

Pete's righteous response: I assume you think I'm a hypocrite because I say I'm a Christian, but I go around paintballing kids on Halloween. I've defended myself ad nausea against such ridiculous remarks -- those kids had it coming. There was nothing anti-Christian about what I did. If you're doing stuff for Jesus, it doesn't really matter what you do as long as you achieve your righteous goal. My goal was to teach those infidel kids that Halloween is an occult celebration of the Devil's birthday. So, some kid got hit in the face. Big deal. Serves him right for swearing at my kids. Cut and dried case of self-defence. And by the way, you're the hypocrite -- where in the Bible do you read that Christians should ever become pensioners? You should be out on the mission field, old timer, instead of wasting away in some retirement home.

3. "Pete, you're as bad as those terrorists who blow themselves up ... I wish you would blow yourself up."

Pete's pissed-off response: How dare you accuse me of being an Islamic suicide bomber ... everyone knows those people will not be rewarded in heaven with 72 nymphomaniacs, but will spend an eternity in hell being sodomised by horny demons. I am not a terrorist. Sure, I believe in the righteous use of terror. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, my dear ignorant fool. It's how and why one uses terror that makes all the difference. When Christian countries like the US bomb the living crap out of Muslim villages, that is the right use of terror. When a mad Arab straps explosives to his body and blows himself to smithereens, along with innocent Israeli coffee drinkers, that's an evil use of terror. Now, if you'll be so kind as to give me your physical address, I'll personally come and demonstrate the righteous use of terror on your sorry ass.

4. "Pete, you have disgraced the Lord Jesus Christ."

Pete's even-more-pissed-off response: How [words deleted] dare you, you little [words deleted]. I have done nothing but faithfully serve my Lord. I don't have enough cyberspace to mention how many admirable, courageous, godly things I have done for our Christian God. I have gone on endless armed mission trips, marched on Parliament demanding that law-abiding citizens be allowed to have and use as many guns as they goddam please, protested outside every sex shop in every town and city throughout this God-forsaken country ... I have done it all and have the T-shirt to prove it. Sure, I may not have a great grasp of grace, but I certainly have never disgraced Jesus, you demon-possessed twit.

5. "Pete, you're fucking insane!"

Pete's furious reply: How dare you use such profanity! I don't care if you think I'm nuts. For your information, you reprobate bastard son of Satan, the Bible says that God deliberately chooses the fools of this world to shame the wise. So if I really am crazy, then it's exactly this kind of insanity that God will use to show the unbelieving world that their clever little atheist evolutionist ideas are going to end them up in hell. Now if you ever use such bad language in an email to me again, I will rip your goddam heart out through your left eye socket and feed it to my hungry pet croc.

That's it. All five emails have been answered in one blog post. I love this technology.

Fight the good fight.

Terror From On High

2006-09-26T02:52:00.000-07:00

A Muslim family moved in next door over the weekend. It just so happened to also be a major air show in Cape Town over the weekend. You'll recall that I recently scared the bejesus out of a few Muslims to commemorate 9/11, using my skillful remote-controlled terror attacks from the sky.

As a warm -up for the air show -- I wouldn't miss something like this for all the Sudanese converts in the world -- I decided to let my new neighbours know that they should have stayed in their Muslim community rather than move into a largely white and Christian suburb. I don't care how rich they are; they worship Satan and support terrorism. In fact, they should immigrate to the Middle East where they belong.

I waited for the first jet to make its deafening swoop over our suburb, launching my rigged miniature plane just as the jet flew overhead. My plane skillfully dodged branches, a braai area and a jungle jim and then made straight for Mohammed sitting drinking his tea on his new porch. He was blissfully looking up at the sky, trying to make out the jet, when my much smaller plane came screaming out the sky straight for his head.

I'm still laughing as I type ... he screamed something that sounded like, Allah have mercy! Then he hit the deck with his hands over his head -- like that would have helped him if the real jet was about to crash into his skull. So happens that a pilot died before the air show when his plane went down in the sea -- Mohammed must have thought another pilot was using his new home as a crash-landing site.

Like I said, my plane was rigged. I'd worked all night on a custom-made paintball bomb that I released just as the plane screamed over Mohammed's crouching body. Bull’s-eye! The paint bomb hit him in an explosion of red paint, symbolic of the Blood of Jesus shed for sinners like this.

I quickly landed my plane, hid it behind the rose bushes and a minute later was knocking at his front door. A crazed-looking Muslim covered in red paint answered the door ... I explained that I had seen a rebellious looking teenager dressed in a I Love Cheeses T-shirt running down the street, clutching a remote controlled device and laughing manically like a Satanist. I promised Mohammed that I'd track down the little punk and exact some righteous justice on his sorry ass. Then I wished my new neighbour a good stay. I give him under a month and he'll be packing his Koran and heading back where he came from ... he's only tasted a morsel of what Paintball Pete has planned by way of a welcome.

Fight the good fight.

Vatican Solution

2006-09-19T03:16:00.000-07:00

After reading of the furor about the Pope's statements regarding Islam being spread by violence, I really had to rethink my position about the demonic nature of the Church of Rome. Christians like me have always considered Catholics to be masquerading as angels of light, just like Lucifer and his horny demons. So that would make the Pope the Antichrist. But anyone who says that Islam is evil can't be all that bad.

But here's where my conflict lies -- what's wrong with spreading your faith by violence? Unless it's the wrong faith. But God commanded Joshua to literally snuff out whole tribes of pagans, including their snotty kids and cows and sheep. Then Jesus told His disciples to teach all the nations what He had taught them, and to make them disciples. Don't know about you, but if I'm asked by the Lord to make someone a Christian, I think that means whatever it takes, just do it. If you have to bomb their villages and then let God-fearing companies come in and profit by building nice new Christian homes with a church and a few gunshops and paintball ranges, then do it. Just like the Americans are doing in the Middle East right now.

So on second thought, I distance myself from any kind thoughts about the Pope or any other Catholic, even those who oppose abortion, pornography and Communism.

Here's my solution to this dual problem of Islam and Catholicism. I support a massive global Jihad against the Vatican. Muslim hordes should be flown by American planes into Italy and then be given huge amounts of ammo to wipe out all those faggot bishops and behead the Pope. But exactly one week after the Muslim world pronounces victory over Christianity, the God-fearing nations of the world should each release several nukes on the Vatican. I really don't care if half of Italy is wiped out in the process -- they're all Catholic gangsters anyway.

That solution will teach Catholics and Muslims everywhere that it's only Christians like me who are destined to rule the planet. I have no doubt that Muslims the world over will convert to true Christianity -- after all, they understand that religion is best spread by the sword or a nuke. And Catholics will resign themselves to going straight to hell where they will join their not-so-holy father.

Fight the good fight. And remember, my way is always right.

MOSH

2006-09-18T00:30:00.000-07:00

I hit the streets again with some of my favourite Turn Or Burn gospel tracts on Friday night. Not far from my nice leafy suburb populated by many godly Christian folk, is a night spot that fans the fires of hell and invites hordes of demons to push through cracks in the pavement. Perfect environment to fight the good fight.

I was wandering along, handing out tracts to sinners, when I passed a club holding a satanic ritual in public -- a giant bonfire in the beer garden with plenty of people literally asking God to smite them or Satan to possess them. Then I spotted the sign on the wall -- Fokofpolisiekar were playing. God was definitely trying to tell me something -- the last time I did some street evangelism, I heard these diabolical twits swearing at law enforcers. I had to find out if my Rock Is Satan's Music tracts had been read by the band -- I managed to shove a fistfull at them last time.

Paid my cover charge and walked into Satan's throneroom. On my way to the bar for a non-alcoholic refreshment, I passed a large group of men who looked a lot like women. On closer inspection I realised these were women dressed a lot like men -- they were, in fact, lesbians. I always carry anti-gay tracts with me, so I handed out a few to the lesbos with a dire warning that dikes will spend eternity in hell being sodomised by demons. This seemed to excite a few of them, so I pushed my way to the bar and ordered a Red Bull. I had no idea the special was a double vodka and Red Bull, but reality hit me when I downed the drink under three seconds and felt my head spin and a strange euphoria flood my central nervous system. I think demon possession feels a lot like this. I told the barman my favourite lesbian joke -- What do you call a lesbian dinosaur? A lickalotopus. Haha, I even laugh at it now that I don't have Russian Bears attacking my brain cells.

I had no trouble shoving my way through the crowd as the band started up. I was wearing my MOSH T-shirt -- it has nothing to do with jumping around like a crazy fool to satanic music. It stands for: My Organisation Saves Heathens.

I think my T-shirt slogan ignited a wild frenzy of moshing -- or it may just have been the music. Either way, I had to put my unarmed combat training to good use -- the moshing fools got the bruised ribs, bleeding noses and fractured shins, not me. But I did get drenched in beer and a lesbian grabbed my genitals, shouting 'Whose being sodomised now, you fucking Jesus freak!' By the time I'd jumped, kicked and pushed my way to the stage, the crowd was so out of control, a Springbok rugby player would have struggled to stay on his feet. But I'm Paintball Pete -- even a mosh pit at a Slayer concert would be a walk in the park for me.

After observing the anarchy on stage and in the mosh pit, I was convinced that my tracts had simply been rolled into dagga joints and smoked by these God-and-police-haters. I bruised more ribs on my way out, loudly praying my fiercest imprecatory psalm of God's wrath against evildoers. Don't think anyone heard a word over the pulsating chaos -- probably thought I was just cursing God and the cops like everyone else.

I have not failed. I'm sure at least one lesbian will repent of her ways ... the one who grabbed my privates. That should be enough to convince any dike that a real man is better than a cucumber any day. As for those swearing Afrikaans punks, hell awaits.

Fight the good fight. And remember, MOSH.

I Love Cheeses

2006-09-14T00:05:00.000-07:00

Sure, I'm not considered the poster boy of respectable Christianity after last year's paintballing incident during Halloween, but I do live in a nice leafy suburb populated by many respectable Christians and lots of churches. So I don't expect to meet a blaspheming reprobate teenager at the mall. That's exactly what I bumped into when I popped in to pick up a new replica toy gun for my youngest -- I'm pulling out all the stops to ensure he stays on the heterosexual track after yesterday's diabolical display of flagrant homo behaviour.

So there I am, quietly humming the tune to Onward Christian Soldiers while strolling back to my parked vehicle, when I spot a few kids skateboarding around the carpark. Being the good upstanding citizen that I am, I had to confront the rebels -- everyone knows you're not allowed to ride a skateboard in the carpark of a shopping mall. It's almost a stoning-to-death criminal offense.

I was mentally preparing my indignant speech, including veiled threats of imminent death by public execution, when my eyes fell on the one kid's T-shirt. The blasphemous shock erased my entire self-righteous speech from my mind, all but the words Jesus Hates Sin in flaming red letters.

'I Love Cheeses!'

That's what his T-shirt said. Cheeky little bastard ... I know exactly what his cocky slogan was ripping off -- the very Lord and Master of the Christian faith. Demon-possessed young fool crossed the line when he got dressed this morning!

With the flaming words of God scorching my brain cells, I abandoned all restraint and fairplay, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck I shook him several times while cursing him in the name of Cheeses ... Jesus, I mean.

Then I tore off his T-shirt, shredded it in front of his whole gang of skateboarding punks with my pocket knife, and then recited one of my imprecatory psalms written especially for such public demonstrations of God's justice.

I'm sure I'm going to be hearing from yet another disgruntled parent accusing me of child abuse and public violence, but I've done nothing wrong. If his parents can't discipline him properly in the ways of the Lord, well then I'm more than happy to play surrogate parent to the community's rebel teenagers. They'll thank me when these kids grow up to be just like me.

I've already ordered a few T-shirts from Fundamentalist Clothing Co. so I can present these to the angry parents as a token of my generous spirit and commitment to spread the gospel. I had the new slogan especially designed by Jack Chick:

Front: 'I Love God, Guns and Godly Government!'

Back: 'Blasphemer Go to Hell!'

Fight the good fight.

No Homos In My Home

2006-09-13T03:51:00.000-07:00

I was still on a spiritual high after scaring the evil spirits out of the Muslims who came to see my mini-twin towers explode with the wrath of our Christian God on 9/11 ... but I've descended into the dark depths of Hades since coming home to find my youngest son dressed in his sister's tutu.

God have mercy, have I spawned a flaming queen? My worst nightmare ... I had to strike myself several times with my paintball gun to ensure that I was not lost in a hellish dream. But there he was, smiling at me and prancing around like a young version of Freddy Mercury minus the porn star moustache, saying, Look papa, I'm a fairy like [name of daughter removed to protect identity from possible internet paedophile stalkers].

Sweet Jesus, save my little boy!

I was transfixed by the demonic apparition before me ... but a reflex action ensured that I held down the trigger of my automatic paintball gun. My lounge has now been repainted in a Picasso-style interior decor that fits the rainbow queen scene I was beholding.

Before Satan could completely snatch my boy out of my righteous hands and turn him into a raving homo, I tore the tutu off him and quickly dressed him in his favourite cowboy outfit. Then we went out and had a giant burger, burped loudly in public, scratched our crotches, visited the paintball range and went beserk, then went back home to watch my edited version of those Chuck Norris movies when he takes on the entire guerilla commie terrorists in Vietnam singlehandedly and only gets a minor cut above his right eye -- which actually happened when he got too close to the spinning rotor blades of a helicopter. My edited version simply has Chuck shooting endless rounds of ammo surrounded by giant firestorms of destruction. Pretty much like the original, but minus the boring credits rolling at the end.

That should be sufficient to show him what a real Christian man is all about. I've also banned ballet as an extracurricular activity from my homeschool. By the way, please note that I said Home-school, not Homo-school.

Fight the good fight.

PS If this behaviour happens after Christians take over the world and reinstate the Law of Moses ... well, I'll have to stone my boy to death for dressing up like a woman / raving homo.

Reverse Jihad

2006-09-12T00:48:00.000-07:00

I should have spent less time practicing on Liberty and more on flying my remote control planes over the weekend. My 9/11 lesson in righteous indignation and eternal damnation didn't go down quite as I had planned. But I did manage to scare Allah out of a few Muslims yesterday.

The mosque I had carefully selected for my fiery display of reverse jihad is conveniently situated opposite a park. That's where I was going to be an innocent bloke dressed like a Muslim, peacefully flying his remote control plane(s) in the mid-Afternoon. But I needed someone to erect my makeshift Twin Towers pre-destined to become towering mini-infernos, depicting the burning fires of hell scorching the followers of Allah / Satan. (Bribery and corruption is criminal, but not when a righteous follower of Jesus does it for the sake of the gospel.) I located a loitering gang member who didn't look particularly threatening -- and threatened to rip his heart out if he didn't do what I said. Perhaps it was the Muslim get-up I was wearing, down to a bushy black beard that made me look less like Chuck Norris and more like Bin Laden ... or perhaps it was the very visible weapon strapped to my ankle. Whatever it was, the fella looked like he was about to soil himself and would have murdered his grandmother if I asked him to.

So my scapegoat proceeded to erect the towers in front of the mosque, watched by curious onlookers, then he made a cowardly bolt down the street and probably hopped on the first taxi out of the city.

In the meantime, I looked the perfect, innocent Muslim citizen minding his own business in the park. I was, in fact, minding my own business -- and God's business of violent retribution against sinners. The first plane took off beautifully -- I decided to change the words to Jesus Saves on the one plane and Allah is Satan on the other. I circled the park a few times, until I saw a nice crowd gathering around the towers. Then I swooped in for the kill. Except I missed the first tower and almost decapitated a bystander. People were scattering in every direction, pointing in the sky and screaming like hysterical civilians do when a hijacked plane is about to fly into a gleaming building and explode in a glorious fireball. I lost control of the plane in all the excitement and it crashed into the street. Nice explosion that was met with even more screaming, but the towers were still standing.

I quickly got the second plane in the air -- the Allah is Satan one -- and aimed it straight for the towers. As I said earlier, I should have spent more time practicing over the weekend. The plane simply flew neatly between the mock towers, leaving them both unscathed. But this time I did manage to strike something worthwhile -- the mosque! You should have seen the white robes running around like God Himself had exacted His awful wrath on their holy place. Which He did, thanks to me.

I didn't manage to burn the evil building down, but it was very quick thinking that made me use a stolen vehicle to get to and away from the scene of the crime. Now the police are looking for a mad Muslim terrorist in a BMW instead of Paintball Pete. They should have a long suspect list.

Also a good thing that I had planted special detonators in the towers. As I sped off I pushed the button and brought the towers down in a magnificent display of burning wood. Just like the real Twin Towers were brought down by primed explosives set by the US government. Well, that's the conspiracy theory, but I believe it.

Fight the good fight.

My 9/11 Demo

2006-09-11T01:45:00.000-07:00

"We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity. ...We carpet-bombed German cities; we killed civilians. That's war. And this is war."

I don't have any female heroes other than my warrior wife, but the right wing Christian woman who made the above statement comes very close. It took a blonde dressed in a tight mini to say what I would have said if I were Ann Coulter on 12 September 2001. And it seems the Americans pretty much took her advice -- bombing the living [word removed] out of those countries responsible for killing innocent US civilians. Even if they weren't really responsible, they got what they deserve for following Satan and calling Christians infidels. Just a pity they still haven't caught that bearded bastard terrorist, Bin Laden. I'll keep searching for him in Sudan -- I'm sure I'll find him in a hole like they found Saddam.

I can't let this Coulter woman take all the glory, however, so I'll be taking my usual public demonstration to a local mosque later today. This is what I plan to do:

If you've read my earlier blog posts, you'll know that I like to give pornographers and other sinners a visual reminder of the doom and destruction that awaits them inside the fiery bowels of Satan. So I've planned this elaborate demo of 9/11 that will teach Muslims not to mess with Jesus or His followers. Standing at a safe distance from my twin-tower props, which I'll be erecting outside the mosque, I'll skillfully guide my two remote-controlled planes filled with plastic explosives into them.

The loud explosions will be shocking enough, but I've added a few unique touches to make the demo unforgettable. Each tower will have murals of Bin Laden and Saddam painted on the side; one plane will boldly bare the words Don't Mess With Jesus and the other, Don't Mess With Pete.

I've been practising all weekend, but without the explosives. And just to get into the feel of holy warfare, I made Liberty dress up like a Muslim this morning and run around the paintball range while I pelted him senseless with frozen paintballs. I didn't aim for his head, so he won't be having any convulsions tonight, but he probably won't be able to walk for a few days.

Fight the good fight.

Liberty Arose

2006-09-07T01:43:00.000-07:00

I found Liberty pleasuring himself behind the rose bushes this morning. I was feeling particularly generous and charitable, so I let him complete the sinful act before scaring the bejesus out of him. Turns out he had borrowed one of my magazines I keep for *research* purposes in my secret bunker and he just couldn't control his wild animal lust.

For those of you who have read my earlier blog posts, you'll know that several years ago -- just before the atheist secular black humanist commie regime took over from the good Christians who used to run this once God-fearing land ... just before that tragic event that I'll mourn forever, I built a secret bunker under my garage to protect my family in the event of a nuclear fall-out or marauding masses of black thugs invaded our white suburb. Both of these events are yet to transpire. But this has not stopped me using the bunker for my *research* -- this is where I keep tabs (evidence, really) on all the disgusting pornographers out there who degrade women and drive Sudanese convert garden boys to desecrate my rose bushes.

I'm not sure how Liberty got hold of my research material, but I've confiscated it and returned it to the safety of my bunker, changed the locks and debriefed the fella. He will also spend the entire day replanting my entire rose bush section while repeating endlessly: I must not wank over master's magazines.

Fight the good fight.

Infidel Flight 666

2006-09-04T06:16:00.000-07:00

"Sweet fucking Jesus ... Not again!"

That's just ridiculous. We all know that Jesus never went around fornicating. But these blasphemous words were uttered by the commercial airline pilot responsible for flying me to Sudan over the weekend, not Marilyn Manson at one of those diabolical heavy metal concerts. Here's how it all went down ...

I missed my flight on Friday night. A series of delays that began with my wife giving me more missionary-style attention than an actor on late-night TV; then Liberty decided to have a few of his demon-possessed, one-too-many-paintballs-to-the-head convulsions; and then I had to dodge a few more missile-bricks on the highway to the airport. So I missed my flight.

I had no option but to take another plane that was flying what looked like the entire human contents of a mosque to Mecca. I was the only pale-faced, Christian-God worshiping bloke on the plane. The pilot was probably an atheist or Satanist or both with a foul mouth like that -- I'm talking about the passengers here.

So there I was, sitting in a plane surrounded by a host of devilish potential suicide bombers.

Eventually, I couldn't take anymore torment. Every time a Muslim got up to go and pee or pray to Allah / Satan, I thought the plane was about to explode in a fireball that would rival a dragon's fart after consuming all of India's curry in one sitting. So I decided to ensure that no raving mad Muslim could storm the cockpit and fly us into a tall building. I was going to protect the pilot and make sure another 9/11 didn't happen on my watch.

Turns out the whole plane thought I was a mad white infidel bomber.

So by the time I reached the front of the plane, a number of white-robed Mohammeds had jumped me, screaming something about jihad and the will of God and other demon-tongued bits even I couldn't make out. But Chuck Norris does not fear me for nothing -- I made it to the cockpit and that's when the pilot let rip with his evil blasphemy. I only learned much later that he has survived at least two other attempted hijackings at 30,000 feet and thought the same stupid things about me that the rest of the plane did -- that I was a terrorist! But nothing excuses taking our Lord's name in vain.

At that moment, I would have detonated all the explosives wrapped around me if I was indeed a suicide bomber -- and sent all those misguided, demon-worshipers and the evil-tongued pilot to hell while I jetted off to heaven as the hero who sparked off Armageddon.

But it was not to be. The pilot's blasphemy made me drop my guard for a second, just long enough for a bearded terrorist-in-the-making to klap me on the back of the head with a hard, blunt object. Possibly the Koran. Knocked me out cold.

The pilot made an emergency landing in some or other African country -- a long way from Mecca or Sudan. But I'm not Paintball Pete for nothing and managed to speak my way out of detention without trial in some God-forsaken, cockroach-infested African prison ... although it would have been just another reason to write yet another newsletter about my persecutions at the hands of black atheist commies and raise more funds for my *mission* work.

I'm back in SA and have abandoned my Sudan trip until further notice. I've heard every Muslim on board the plane has also decided to abandon any future holy pilgrimage. And the pilot has retired, together with most of his cabin crew. At least next time I'm on a plane, there'll be fewer Muslim passengers, blaspheming atheist pilots and gay air stewards to contend with.

Fight the good fight.

Bombproof

2006-08-30T03:02:00.000-07:00

In the 80s, we had a far more widespread culture of suspicion in SA than we do today. Whites were suspicious of their own shadows -- because they were black. And blacks were suspicious of whites, because they had black shadows. I was suspicious of everyone, including myself at times. So I made sure that our mission post was delivered to a church up the road from our small, inconspicuous office that just happened to be in the same street as a conservative evangelical church.

Well, times have changed ... but not that much. People are still deeply suspicious of people like me; and I am still profoundly suspicious of everyone, but I've come to accept that I'll always have a dark shadow. So when we moved our mission office to a bigger but equally inconspicuous suburban house, I felt that our mail still could not be delivered to our door. Who knows, the postman could easily be a commie bastard spying for the regime. Or worse, an atheist assassin who may try unsuccessfully to take me out but perhaps fatally wound one of my staff members.

Turns out my decision to have our post delivered to the old lady's address two houses from our mission office was God-inspired. This morning, a letterbomb exploded in her postbox.

I usually get to the office bright and early and make sure I collect the post from her box before she does -- the old wrinkled dinosaur is still completely unaware that her postbox is shared by the secretive people down the road. So this morning I'm a little late because Liberty was having a series of convulsions near the rose bushes -- I thought he was demon possessed at first, but now I suspect the repeated hits to the head during paintball. I've got to stop using those frozen pellets.

But I digress ...

So I'm speeding down the road toward the mission office, when I see the old duck strolling down the path in her dressing gown. Towards the postbox. I screeched to a halt, rolled out in dramatic special forces fashion, dived over her thankfully low fence and shoved her facedown onto the wet lawn. Just in time. The postbox exploded in a million lethal fragments of wood and metal. A letterbomb. Obviously an assassination attempt. And obviously not a hit on the old lady.

I debriefed the traumatised fossil, making her believe that some rebellious pagan child from up the road had detonated one too many firecrackers in her postbox and that I would be teaching the little swine a good lesson. She knows all about the paintball episode last Halloween -- my version, of course -- and so is in favour of me administering righteous discipline on kids who follow the Dark Lord.

I've built her a new postbox made from the same material used to build the space shuttle. The next letterbomb that goes off will hardly dent the postbox and will definitely sound like a substandard Pakistani firecracker exploding several blocks away. If I happen to be delayed by another one of Liberty's demon-like convulsions, she'll simply assume a hungry pack of snails ate her mail.

Fight the good fight. And please send emails rather than normal post ... I can't be held responsible for your incinerated mail.

Free State

2006-08-28T02:25:00.000-07:00

So they've thrown another worthless politician into prison. They should throw away the key, but instead of life imprisonment like he deserves for being the crook and atheist that he is, he'll get treated like a VIP and be out on parole before his wife even misses him. (If I know this corrupt government, they'll probably sneak her in to give him some special conjugal pleasures while the other inmates have to do themselves.)

My opinions are quite transparent and obvious: every black commie politico should be locked up for life. But there's a bigger issue here -- what are we to do about our overcrowded prisons and out-of-control crime rate? It's just going to cost the God-fearing, mostly-law-abiding tax payer more and more to send away these thieving, raping, murdering buggers. Here's my solution ...

Let's create a giant shooting range. I suggest the Free State -- and we don't change the name, just because of the irony. We build a huge electrified fence around the whole province, give all the God-fearing mielie farmers nice new farms somewhere else, and then put all the criminals and commie politicians inside. We can then have human-hunting safaris -- I'm sure right wingers from the US will pay a mint for my new and improved version of canned hunting. I sure as hell would spend much of my donor-sponsored funds on this live target shooting. Beats chasing Liberty, my Sudanese-convert garden boy, around the garden with my paintball gun.

Eventually we'll wipe out all the criminals and atheist politicians and the mielie farmers can have their province back. I think Jesus may just decide to come back to this regenerated land rather than Israel.

Fight the good fight.

A Buttock Is Fair Game

2006-08-24T03:45:00.000-07:00

A concerned reader of my blog has questioned why on earth I would strip-search my Sudanese convert gardener. Umm, wasn't I clear about that? I suspected that he had stolen some paintball pellets. And yes, I did find a pellet -- but I thought it would have been lodged up his rectum, when in fact it was buried in his left buttock. I just had to be sure.

Before I get a small cyberstorm of demands to explain, allow me to explain.

You may remember that I was just a little incensed at the remote possibility that the porn drop on my missionary website may have resembled a well-hung Sudanese convert giving my wife a good seeing to. So I tried out my new frozen paintballs dipped in battery acid on Liberty during family paintball. It obviously works pretty well, as the pellet lodged in his ass proves.

I removed the offending piece of shrapnel with a pair of tweezers and his wound has healed remarkably. These guys from North Africa are very resilient. He's been debriefed and we've worked through the forgiveness issues -- he understands that I needed to vent my frustrations and experiment on a lesser human before attempting to do so on one of my fundamentalist pastor buddies in a few weeks time at our annual Fundamentalist Paintball-athon.

Fight the good fight.

PS I'm now very sure that Liberty is not the porn star I thought he was. I found the same offending picture on a very popular porn site [I was doing research]. Turns out it's a famous black porn star from Jamaica, not Sudan. I've always said blacks all look the same.

Mistaken Identity

2006-08-23T04:26:00.000-07:00

[Word deleted] it! Turns out I did make frontpage news for my heroic citizen's arrest of a highway stone-throwing terrorist. But the newspaper skewed the truth -- as usual. According to them, it was a racist attack on an innocent youngster trying to cross the highway. Some motorist -- obviously a commie sympathising atheist satanist bastard -- reportedly saw the whole event unfolding like a big budget action movie. I supposedly screeched to a halt on the highway, narrowly avoiding a huge car pile-up, and then ran like a beserk, demon-possessed lunatic across the road and rugby-tackled an innocent kid on the side of the road. And then I supposedly proceeded to assault him in the most violent racist attack the motorist has seen since the riot police days under apartheid, tied him up and threw him in the back of my vehicle and tore off at high speed. The last part was accurate, at least.

There are no innocent black kids standing on the side of the highway. They're all potential stone-throwing terrorists. I did the city a favour by arresting him, whether he was the stone thrower or not. At least now he knows that a life of terror will catch up with him, should he choose to follow the devil.

I plan to send this newspaper article to my American guest as an example of how I've again been persecuted for preaching the gospel. This will be splashed on every right wing fundamentalist Christian newsletter and website to prove that whites should have never surrendered power to the commies.

Fight the good fight. Complete world domination is a stone's throw away.

Stone Throw Away From Hell

2006-08-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

I can't wait until Christians like me take dominion of the world. I'm praying it's in my lifetime. Other than the obvious benefits of ruling the planet for Jesus, the one thing I'm really looking forward to is stoning people to death who refuse to do things my way ... I mean, God's way. Just like we're instructed to in the Law of Moses As Interpreted By Pete.

This hit home quite literally yesterday evening while I was driving an American guest speaker back to the airport. I had flown him out to the country to speak about the importance of carrying weapons and using them against evildoers. So while we were travelling the infamous highway to the airport, I was as military alert as I've ever been, but the flying brick hurled from the side of the road almost caught me off guard. I said *almost*. The little heathen bastard was hiding behind a bush and I didn't see him before the missile was about two metres from impact. I've taken a few advanced driving courses, so with the combination of my driving skills and my superhuman reflexes, I managed to avert total disaster. The brick would have struck my American passenger in the head and sent him home to Jesus in a split second if I was not the driver. But I was. And he's still alive and on his way safely home to the American South.

The hurtling brick from hell smacked the side of the vehicle instead of the side of my guest's precious dome. As long as it took my vehicle to make a spectacular skidding halt on the side of the road and for my door to fly open, I had rolled out in a graceful manouvre with my weapon drawn. The little heathen bastard hardly had time to soil his pants before I had pinned him down and administered a good few righteous backhands.

I tied him up, threw him in the back of my vehicle, dropped off the very impressed American who promised to raise even more support for my mission work when he got back to the Land of the Free and the Brave, and then dropped off the brick thrower at the nearest police station. I'm sure I'll finally be front page news as the hero I am rather than the villain of the peace people imagine I am.

Despite the wicked behaviour of this heathen brick thrower, I've been left with an indelible image of how glorious it will be when the righteous take dominion of the world and we can legally stone the godless who refuse to convert. I'll make sure this little idiot gets the first brick.

Fight the good fight.

Below The Red Radar

2006-08-21T03:21:00.000-07:00

BG invited her commie father to a mission braai yesterday. It was a carefully orchestrated event that may easily become material for a spy thriller one day -- I've been thinking more and more that I should start a film production company to take back that godless industry and spread some God-fearing instead of Christ-hating. I'll change Hollywood to Holy-wood.

But I digress, as usual ...

So BG's father came to the braai with his bottle of whiskey and enough meat to feed a small but hungry tribe of cannibals in Borneo. I had to send one of my staffers to buy more wood. As I was saying, we had spent many days and nights planning this day. We posed as an NGO that builds houses for the poor and just happens to be Christian. I knew this would help us fly under the commie bastard's radar. Just in case he recognised me from all the media publicity I've gotten over the years, I went under a false name and even grew a beard for the occasion. My warrior wife said I looked a lot like Chuck Norris and even screamed out his name while we were getting intimate in the missionary way the night before. I was quite happy to be associated with my film hero, even if my wife was acting like a right whore. Certainly did wonders for my performance.

I digress, again ...

So BG's politician father was none the wiser and fell for our righteous deception hook, line and boerewors. I think the whiskey helped as well. These commie swine can only drink like alcoholic fish ... I had to bite my lips raw restraining myself from quoting countless verses from the Bible about the folly of drunken debauchery, but then again, what else can we expect from unbelievers? So I sipped my grapejuice and listened to how he was working on ways to make even more money from the 2010 World Cup. Thieving bastard. I knew these commies were all crooks ... the NP would never have lined their pockets if they were still in power.

He drank a lot, ate more than a small tribe of hungry cannibals and told some very off-colour jokes. But they were at the expense of gays, so I didn't have to put on my laugh. It was genuine! I even memorised at least five of his jokes to tell in my Bible study about the abomination of homosexuality next week.

By the end of the evening, we had found out a few bits of information that will come in really handy in the future. Like which high-ranking government officials actually have shares in the porn industry and how I can make use of existing loopholes to hold onto my small armoury of weapons without falling foul of the law.

I've invited him to a staff paintball event in a few days time. I may try out a few of those frozen paintballs soaked in battery acid that I used on Liberty the other day. He'll never see it coming, but he'll sure as hell feel it.

Fight the good fight.

Black Friday

2006-08-18T04:49:00.000-07:00

This post has nothing to do with my new receptionist recruit. It has nothing to do with porn, funny enough. Then it would have been a blue Friday, dummy. No, when I say black, I'm not talking about race but the colour of the hearts of those out to get me.

Turns out my favourite war story, that of me being a sniper in the special forces, is all a figment of my imagination. Well, that's what my slandering accusers will have everyone, including my American Christian donors, think about me. That I'm actually a bit loony and have made up a whole bunch of lies about myself. That I wanted to be a legendary war hero, but never was, so made up some hogwash adventure tales to paint a rambo image of myself.

At the risk of repeating myself, these are all [word deleted] lies. Lies, lies, [words deleted] lies!!

I was a sniper for Jesus. I did take out unsuspecting terrorists before I was saved. Then when Jesus saved my soul, I decided to blow their kneecaps off rather than kill them. Then I'd make them confess their sins -- at the threat of death, obviously -- and if they surrendered their lives to Jesus, I let them live for God. If they stubbornly refused to adopt the white man's religion and continued to embrace their atheist commie beliefs, I'd put them out of their misery and sent them to Hell.

Now who in their right mind would not believe a story like this?

Never mind. I have always said, the best defense is a good offense. So I'm going to write yet another book with a crappy cover about how the compromising church is trying to silence a faithful warrior of the Lord.

Fight the good fight. If the Lord is for us, who can be against us?

Smash And Repent

2006-08-17T01:43:00.000-07:00

I know you're not supposed to gloat at the demise of the wicked, but I can't help it this time. Okay, I can never help it. I rejoice when God-haters get a taste of what they can expect in eternity.

I read a newspaper article a few days ago that really got me smiling. A sports car was all but totalled when the idiot driving it slammed it into the side of a road -- speed and booze are the apparent reasons for the once awesome beast of a car now lying in a crumpled wreck in some scrap yard.

The driver apparently bolted. Don't blame him.

But here's the part that got me whooping with joy. The car -- a four million rand Italian sports car -- was licensed to an adult sex shop. Ha! You see? Crime does not pay, and neither does porn. Next time I stage a placard-wielding protest outside a sex shop, I will be waving giant laminated posters featuring images of the wrecked sports car with a dire warning of Turn From Porn Or Prepare For A Climactic Catastrophe in illuminated letters.

As you can see, I'm not into this love the sinner, but hate the sin thing. That's just pussy-footing around evil. Confront the sinner, I say, with the fiery warnings of God's Word and then you'll see some results.

Fight the good fight.

Blue Monday

2006-08-14T04:18:00.000-07:00

I was met with the most disgusting sight this morning as I turned on my PC to check my email. As soon as I log on, my computer automatically takes me to my ministry's homepage. I may be more conservative than the Amish, but when it comes to advancing God's cause, I have no qualms about using technology. The same cannot be said of the Amish.

As I was saying, I had one of those blue Mondays. But when I say blue, I don't simply mean a depressing it's-back-to-work-the-weekends-over kind of thing. I don't feel depressed to get on with the Lord's work, so I have to be talking about something else. Which I am. This is it .... blue as in PORN!!

At first I thought I had been misdirected to a porn site because of some *research* I'd been doing over the weekend, but it turns out that some diabolical servant of the dark lord hacked into my missionary website. And to make matters worse, he/she did not simply make his/her/it's evil presence known like some hackers do. This wicked spawn of Satan posted the most disgusting porn images I've seen in a long time where there once were only pages of all my glorious exploits for Jesus in darkest Africa. And to add insult to injury, it looked a lot like Liberty giving my wife a good seeing to. I can't be certain, but that Sudanese convert's privates are not that private -- I have had to strip-search him on a number of occasions when I suspected him of stealing a paintball or two (I guess I'd do the same if I was the family's moving paintball target).

I don't suspect my faithful wife of becoming a porn star in a moment of insane weakness. But I've deleted all the porn vomited from the pits of hell onto my website, so I'll never know the truth. I'll have to undergo some secret psycho therapy to delete the images from my mind, and with it all traces of suspicion. But before I undergo this reformating of my mental hard drive, I'll be trying out some frozen paintball pellets dipped in battery acid on Liberty this afternoon during family paintball.

Fight the good fight.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Gold

2006-08-11T00:50:00.000-07:00

Turns out my black receptionist is also a black belt in karate. I can't believe how much God has blessed me by appointing her as my affirmative action receptionist, crack sharpshooter and personal bodyguard. But there has been a small mishap in the office, which thank-you-Jesus wasn't as bad as it could have been.

You see, Black Gold, or BG as we call her around the office, had not met my wife until yesterday afternoon. My kids were all at a birthday party -- a paintball theme, to my great approval -- so she popped into the office quickly to say hi. I was briefing my receptionist about some particular typing tasks I wanted her to attend to, when my wife approached very quietly from behind. I am familiar with the unique sound of her footsteps, so I thought nothing of it. But before I knew what the blazes was going on, BG had pushed me aside, and in one swift movement that would have impressed Chuck Norris, kicked my wife's feet from under her and pinned her to the ground. A beautiful, violent movement that could easily have inspired a multitude of martial art films.

Driven by sheer instinct, I launched myself at BG and we spent the next few minutes wrestling on the floor while my shocked wife looked on in mild horror.

Once I had successfully constrained BG -- she fights like a wild beast, I'm proud to say -- I was able to introduce her to my wife. Not quite the scenario I had planned for their first meeting. (Praise be to God, my wife was so confused by the swiftness of the attack that she didn't observe how much I enjoyed the floor wrestling.)

Fight the good fight. And if you're a potential terrorist out to get me, be warned that I am well protected.

The Interrogator

2006-08-10T05:42:00.000-07:00

My "Black Gold" receptionist has proven her worth already. She narrowly missed my all-time record at the shooting range yesterday, and only because I had primed one of my staff members to shout out, "Is that an ANC flag over there?" as she was about to blast her last round into the centre of the bulls-eye. The shot flew wildly in the direction the staff member was frantically pointing at -- good thing those commie bastards hadn't really hoisted their diabolical flag. Someone would have tasted some ex-terrorist lead in their [word removed].

But her real value is her hostile telephone manner. It fits perfectly with my over-all image as the bad-boy of ultra-conservative Christianity. By bad-boy, I'm not referring to the Halloween paintball incident or the alleged sexual misconduct [all lies, by the way, if you read my earlier blog posts]. I'm talking about the anal-retentive, bad-tempered prophet image that I have. You have to be this way when dealing with pornographers and secular humanists. They don't understand any other language. Tough love!

So if you call and ask for me, do not be intimidated by the telephonic interrogation you will receive. If you've ever seen movies where the bad guys are tortured mercilessly until they cough up the necessary info ... well, magnify the way these sorry bastards feel and you'll have an inkling of how my receptionist will make you feel. But be bold as the Lion of Judah! Simply state loudly and rapidly, "I love Jesus, I hate commies, I hate homos, I hate everything Pete hates!!" You'll be put through immediately.

Fight the good fight. Speak to you later ... if you make it past The Interrogator!

Black Gold

2006-08-07T01:07:00.000-07:00

At long last ... I can now proudly state that my organisation is multi-racial. After weeks of tireless interviews, I finally struck gold.

I finally found the perfect replacement receptionist. And she is black. What a brilliant stroke of luck, a black woman who packs a gun, can shoot almost as well as me, hates Communism, humanism, evolutionism, homosexualism, paganism, secularism, antichristism and every other evil-ism. Before she answers her first call, however, I need to have pre-warned my entire support base that when they hear 'yebo' on the other side of the line, they have not got the wrong township number.

Here's the beauty of it all ... this woman used to be a trained ANC terrorist. Somewhere along the line, she found one of my millions of tracts distributed in the 80s on one of my many cross-border *evangelistic* crusades. She kept it secretly hidden -- at one stage, in an unmentionable orifice -- and the seeds I planted grew in the darkness until one day emerged a cactus of righteousness that will withstand the most scorching onslaught of wickedness. In short, she repented of her evil ways and surrendered her life to Jesus. Thank goodness for my tract, which helped her to realise that a true Christian does not need to disarm, but simply change sides.

So now I have hired her as my new receptionist. But this is a glorious smokescreen ... she is also going to act as a political spy in enemy terroritory. You see, her father is a leading political figure. And he thinks she is simply doing some charitable Christian work, not working for Paintball Pete. The Bible does speak of God blinding the eyes of the wicked ... perfect example of a modern miracle. Or righteous deception, if you will.

Fight the good fight.

Fokofpolisiekar

2006-07-27T02:34:00.000-07:00

What is happening to our once God-fearing land? It's all going to hell in a handbasket, is what I think. When Afrikaans rock bands are now telling police to f**k off, the flames of hell are already igniting the fabric of our society.

I was recently handing out some gospel tracts I've personally written -- every now and again, a good street evangelism session is good for the soul. I was wandering past some night clubs where the flames of hell literally burn holes through the pavement, when I heard a band strike up and saw the crowd going ape inside. I asked the bouncer who was playing -- Fokofpolisiekar, he said. I paid my thirty bucks and joined the godless crowd. I know I don't look anything like an Afrikaans punk rocker -- I look more like a gun-toting missionary who loves paintball. But I was pushed and shoved towards the front of the crowd and got close enough to the lead singer to shove a fistload of tracts into his shirt pocket.

I've never crowd surfed before this night, but when the bouncers tried to donner me because I'd accosted the band with unsolicited literature (the one tract was all about the evils of rock music, which is quite fitting given the context), I allowed the drunken crowd to carry me to the back where I made a hasty exit.

I've later learned that the lead singer of the band has a minister for a father. I guess the devil can corrupt even the seed of the righteous, although I'm convinced my kids will never dream of disgracing me by joining a band that curses law enforcers. When I become president, bands like this will be publicly executed.

Fight the good fight.

PS And if you're pulled over for speeding, like I was the same night, do not be tempted to say where you were. You'll definitely spend the weekend in jail getting close to some smelly prisoner.

Crash Course In Diplomacy

2006-07-24T03:11:00.000-07:00

I had to go to the police station again over the weekend ... since my little paintball episode last year, I've become a household name among my local community law enforcers. I don't mind really -- no publicity is bad, as they say. It's all good, in other words, and I have to agree. Misunderstood and persecuted, yes, but infamy and fame are just different ends of the same tightrope, and I am remarkable at keeping my balance.

I digress ... as I was saying, I had to visit the local copshop because of another unfortunate incident. I was still interviewing potential receptionists at my office late on Friday evening, and on my way home I stopped at a believing neighbour's home to drop off the manuscript of my latest book. The working title is A Missionary Guide to Africa's Finest Paintball Destinations. This elderly neighbour, bless her soul, is one of my proofreaders. I was late for my family's regular Friday Game's Evening -- we were going to try out a pirated version of the Eternal Forces video game -- so I left my car running in her driveway while I dropped off the manuscript. Before I knew what the blazes was going on, I heard a screech and loud bang and then even louder cursing from the street. At the first nanosecond hint of danger, I had flung my body heroically over the poor old dear, to protect her from danger in case it was an assassination attempt.

It turns out that my handbrake was not up and my car had rolled back into the street, into an oncoming vehicle.

To make matters worse, my heroic dive to save my proofreader's precious, godly life from the possible terrorist attack, broke several brittle bones in her body. She is recovering in hospital and promises to proofread while she lies in bed.

But this is not half as bad as the crash. The person driving was none other than the father of one of the kids I had taught a good lesson to about worshiping Satan on Halloween. I can see where the kid gets his evil ways from -- the fuck yous and you bloody stupid piece of horse shit comments that emitted from his vile mouth were like lethal bullets aimed at my righteous soul.

His car was a bit buckled and so was mine, but thank the good Lord for insurance.

I went to the police station to both report the incident and lay a charge of character assassination on the unbelieving, foul-mouthed [word deleted]. I guess I'll be back in court again as well ...

Fight the good fight. And please remember to pull up your handbrake.

Kill 'Em All

2006-07-21T03:42:00.000-07:00

A violent Christian video game for children to play ... why didn't I think of that? But despite my regret at not being the originator of such a brilliant idea, I'm still it's most enthusiastic supporter! A video game where kids can fight the forces of the antiChrist ... a game where they can say 'Praise the Lord' each time they snuff out one of the bad fellas. Now that's something I want each of my kids to have. I'll even play it! [I wonder what awaits the top scorer ... a special seat next to Jesus in heaven ... ?]

If you think I'm just making stuff up [again] or exaggerating [once again], think again. This thing is going to sit beside Grand Theft Auto as a kick-ass video game, and at least instead of thugs running amok, the only thugs here are the forces of the antiChrist who will hopefully go down in flames when my kids are loosed with their arsenal of virtual weapons. Good training for the real thing.

As I was saying, if you reckon I'm just up to my old tricks of stretching the truth or just plain lying like Rahab, watch out for Left Behind: Eternal Forces.

Fight the good fight. Use your joystick if you must.

Every Village Needs An Idiot

2006-07-20T00:39:00.000-07:00

I will smack the next person who insults that good man, GW Bush. I'm tired of hearing him referred to as a village idiot, an imbecile, a moron and a stupid person. All those things mean the same thing, by the way ... I'm no village idiot.

So what if he stuffed a whole lot of food in his mouth and said shit while talking to his pal Tony Blair. I mean, so [word deleted] what! That does not change the fact that he has been called by God to be the next Winston Churchill, to rid the world of evil once and for all. So [word deleted] what if he has created more problems for the world, more terrorists for future generations to combat, more people who will associate militancy with Christianity ... what's wrong with that? Onward Christian soldiers, I say!

And if you'd like to know, I'm 100 percent behind every gigantic Israeli bomb flattening Lebanon and its civilian population. They had no right to abduct those innocent Israeli soldiers and demand that all the political prisoners Israel is holding be released. They're not political prisoners, by the way, but ungodly terrorists. And everyone knows that Israel is God's holy land. It doesn't matter what Israel does to its neighbours ... God is behind every exploding bomb they detonate on Lebanon. It's like the good old times when Joshua slaughtered masses of Canaanite pagans.

I know, I know, you're wondering how a follower of Christ can say such things. Well, read your Bible, you moronic village idiot. Holy bloodshed. It's all good. If we want peace, we need to wipe the ugly smear of terrorism and pagan combatants from the record of history. Jesus said He never came to bring peace, but division. Who are we to stand in His way by promoting peaceful resolutions in the Middle East? Drop those bombs and let's get on with it.

Fight the good fight.

Office, Fort, Same Difference

2006-07-07T02:50:00.000-07:00

I have a significant staff fall out. People say it's my abrasive personality. I tell them if they can't stand the heat in the kitchen, get out. I have used stronger language in the past, and I know the Lord understands. He called people a brood of vipers, so I don't think it's a problem to call someone a mother-fornicator.

The receptionist at the mission headquarters resigned after one week's service this morning. Why? Well, she simply did not understand the requirements I have in place for everyone who serves the Lord through our mission, even if they just answer the phone and screen my calls. (Generally it's almost impossible to get through to me on the phone as I suspect every caller of having a hidden agenda.)

Anyway, the receptionist did not realise that everyone on my staff is obliged to pack a weapon on them at all times and to attend compulsory shooting practice during every lunch break. I can't have some lunatic burst into my mission office, even though it is a secret location, and not have competent, trained people on hand to defend the righteous.

She was completely shell-shocked when her first lunchbreak was at the shooting range. One week of weapons training did nothing to turn her into a more competent warrior for the Lord. Instead, it made her a jittery, nervous wreck who on several occasions hit the alarm button and screamed hysterically that we were under attack, simply because a door had slammed. I can't have people like this on staff who may take a pot shot when my back is turned -- I'm always vigilant, but you don't expect friendly fire in your own office. At least let's shoot each other by mistake out on the battlefield, not while we're having a Bible study or prayer meeting.

So if you're wanting to volunteer your services at my mission, make sure you're armed and ready, not armed and a potential life-threat to those around you.

Fight the good fight.

PS If you know of a weapons-trained receptionist, please let me know.

Happy Birthday to Me

2006-07-06T02:33:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday today. I'm not really pro-worldly celebrations, but when I found out that I celebrate my birthday with GW Bush, well I had to go big. My wife gave me her gift early this morning before the kids were up -- I have an unsettling suspicion that Liberty was already up and took a peek through the open crack in our bedroom curtains. There are some lovely rose bushes right outside our bedroom window, but I'm sure my vocal appreciation of my wife's lingerie-parading got the better of his curiosity. I'll have to debrief him later -- don't want him getting ideas about anything other than the missionary position being acceptable for the righteous. I overstepped my boundaries this morning ...

What am I going to do for the public side of my celebrations? Well, I've got a public rally planned at the local shopping centre during lunch. Nothing like a public reading of an imprecatory psalm to get the blood flowing -- okay, my morning activities did the job as well. But I need an additional buzz.

I'm then going to treat myself to a few new paintball items. Then I'm taking the whole family out to feed the penguins. I may squeeze in a shark cage-dive, a jetski trip to Robben Island (where I'll read another imprecatory psalm remembering the future judgment of God on all involved in the release of Mandela), and to end it all, we'll spend a significant amount of recent donor funds on an expensive dinner. No alcohol.

Please don't send cards or gifts. But my mission will gladly accept any funds you may have spent on a worldly gift. After today, I'll need to replenish one or two accounts.

Fight the good fight.

Why The Grave Won't Silence Pete

2006-06-30T03:32:00.000-07:00

How do I hope to be remembered in history? Good question, thanks for asking. I have no problem sharing the hallowed halls of history with great leaders like Moses, Jesus, John Calvin and Hendrik Verwoerd. I have no doubt that I have already made my mark on history -- and I'm not talking about the paint-splattered Halloween demon worshipers who got a taste of Pete's righteous indignation.

I have made my mark on history by reforming the way Christian missionaries are perceived in the world. Now, when everyone thinks of missionaries in conflict regions of the world, they picture me -- Bible in one hand, automatic weapon in the other. The modern dragon slayer.

I wouldn't mind having the words 'He was a Great Reformer' emblazoned on my tombstone. That would be cool, as my idiotic ex-apprentice would have said. But I'd prefer 'Here lie the mortal remains of Paintball Pete, the Great Dragon Slayer -- Second only to the Primary Dragon Slayer, Jesus the Warrior King -- who has Fought the Good Fight and now claims his rightful place in God's throne room among all the other great heroes of the faith, like Moses, John Calvin and Hendrik Verwoerd'. But I'd need a fairly large tombstone to have all of that, including my favourite imprecatory psalm so that I have the final word on all my persecutors.

Actually, I think I'll call the funeral place right now and change my tombstone selection. I want the biggest, most formidable thing they have on offer. If it glows in the dark, all the better. If my persecutors imagine I've not made a significant mark on history, at least my final resting place will settle the score once and for all.

Fight the good fight. Before the grave, from the grave and beyond the grave.

Aisle Number Five

2006-06-23T03:25:00.000-07:00

I bumped into my ex-apprentice in the supermarket yesterday. I needed some batteries for my son's very realistic automatic toy weapon, which is why I was walking down aisle number five. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a shaven-head youngster in surfer gear stop dead in his tracks at the bottom entrance to the aisle, shriek something that sounded very much like omyfuckinggoditsthatcrazymissionary and then throw himself under the aisle partition and crawl like a madman to the other side.

My military-trained instincts told me immediately who it was and I zipped around the partition to surprise the living daylights out of the idiot. Thought he got away from Paintball Pete, did he?

I grabbed a packet of oreos and with the same swift motion, shoved the entire packet into his wide open mouth before he could yell out any more profanity in the store. I asked him a tirade of questions, which needed a simple nod or shake of his head in answer. Turns out he was in the store to pick up some batteries for his iPod. He wasn't tailing me. He wouldn't dare. But just in case the thought ever crosses his mind, I gave him a good smack across the back of the head to clear it of all foolish fantasies.

I have to go back to get more batteries today -- I'm sure I won't be running into iPod boy in aisle number five. My little warrior got a bit carried away with his new toy and chased Liberty around the garden for hours. I'm so proud of them both -- my son for his developing militancy and Liberty for his eternal slide into submissive servitude. He'll have to use his paintball gun until I get back from the shop.

Fight the good fight.

Old Money

2006-06-22T00:26:00.000-07:00

A well-meaning geriatric (financial) supporter of my mission adventures and anti-terrorism efforts recently asked me if I would consider taking out that lunatic atheist who has ruined the once magnificent colony founded by Cecil John Rhodes. By the way, all the indigenous peoples around the world who bleat about being there before the holy white man arrived, suck it up, okay. As I've said before, all is fair in love and war.

I told the wrinkled old prune of a woman that I may consider an assassination attempt, but what's the point of taking over that country again when all the whites have already left. I guess I could help to launch a Christian political party that would resurrect their pitiful economy and entice whites back with promises of land and nice new churches and plenty of segregated privileges. But the West has become so liberal, I'm not sure this is a realistic vision. Best to leave history to play itself out. One day, when Africa is no longer the Dark Continent and most of its peoples have died because of Aids and wars, clever and more civilized whites can repopulate the continent in a modern Voortrekker era that will usher in the thousand year reign of God's people.

I promised to look into it and take a few containers of food, Bibles and other tools of our trade, while scouting for opportunities to take out the idiot of all dictators.

She took out her cheque book and immediately handed me a wacking sum of money.

Well, I'm off to the local gun shop to buy a few more toys with this gracious donation to my cause. Then I'll be stopping off outside the warehouse that used to house a disgusting adult perversion outlet. They've closed down thanks to my persistent protests. The den of iniquity has been bought over by a giant child toy franchise. My youngest broke one of his many toy guns the other day, so I'll also pick him out something intimidating to act out his manly aggression in the garden.

Fight the good fight.

Lies, hunger strikes and swollen digits

2006-06-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

I know I've been a little quiet of late. One reason is that I locked myself in my secret bunker by mistake. It took the rest of my family three days to discover that super dad had not disappeared on another one of his clandestine missions. I have been known to vanish for a while without telling them -- if they know, they can be tortured for information by atheist communist terrorists or by liberal pacifist Christians. And they don't have to lie on my behalf either, although that would not be a bad thing. Remember the story of the whore in Jericho who hid the servants of Yahweh and lied about it to the assassins? She was considered a righteous person for doing this, even though she was shagging for a living. But I know my kids -- they can't lie with a straight face. Not yet. It's part of their basic training programme in the Lord's army, but I just can't risk it until they're lethal spiritual fighting machines.

So I've been recovering after my forced hunger strike, which is why my blog has not seen much action recently.

The other reason is that Liberty slammed my fingers in the garage door. By mistake. So he says. But we had just used him as a moving, running, ducking, diving target in a game of paintball, which was a particularly aggressive one as I was trying out my latest, custom-designed paintball gun. Let's just say he took more hits than a Sudanese convert / house slave should. To the head. Repeatedly.

As you know, successful blogs demand rigorous typing. My bruised, swollen fingers didn't allow it initially, although I've ploughed through today's post with all but three fingers still twice their normal size. If I've never boasted about my incredible, supernatural pain threshold before, well, now is as good a time as any.

Fight the good fight. If Liberty behaves and I don't lock myself in my bunker again, you should hear from me pretty soon. But if I'm locked in that bunker, well, I have lots to read down there.

My Way Or The Highway

2006-06-14T06:47:00.000-07:00

My wannabe missionary apprentice has reconsidered his calling. He no longer believes the good Lord wants him to deliver Bibles and military goods to African countries. I have convinced him that he cannot give the devil a foothold or allow evil men to prosper by not carrying a weapon with him at all times. And I mean something that can blow a serious hole in a grown man's chest, or at least cripple him for life. Not a pellet gun -- although, I am sure I could take on Chuck Norris with a pellet gun and win anyday.

No, my young apprentice would not like to be a missionary -- I could have told him that the day he walked into my office, and reconfirmed it the day he soiled his undies in the bush. What does he want to do? I'd love to tell you that my freshly initiated apprentice is going to organise anti-abortion protests and anti-sex shop campaigns, but instead I have to inform you that he has failed the cause of righteousness and is dangerously close to eternal hellfire.

Here's why: he plans to abandon the faith. It's worse than you think. He's going to attend a liberal church that welcomes homosexuals as if they are okay in God's sight. Wrong! They're an abomination. And he is planning to support Gun-Free South Africa -- even tattoo their pagan logo on his shoulder. I'm sure he'll have his ear ring back in his ear in no time and be listening to that satanic rock music on his iPod. He should tattoo "I belong to Satan" on his forehead.

He's lucky he only told me this when we were fifteen minutes away from headquarters. I'd have left the little ungrateful, backslidden, apostate bastard son of Satan back where he crapped his pants. I slammed on brakes and tossed him out on the side of the highway to hitch a ride home.

I'm a little disappointed that my tactics didn't work out completely as planned, but I'm not at all sorry for doing the Lord's work on that boy by removing his tattoo, shaving his girlie hair and ripping out his homosexual ear ring. And who knows, perhaps all those seeds I have sown in his life will not be stamped on by Lucifer and he'll come around to my way of seeing things. For now though, it's the highway.

Fight the good fight.

Survivor

2006-06-12T03:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Battle Scars

2006-06-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

My stupid little apprentice has grown to like his military hairstyle. If he keeps looking at his reflection in his spoon and saying, "Rad, man, like totally frikkin cool" ... I fear I may tattoo the word Moron on his forehead. Speaking of tattoos, he has accepted my justification for removing his ink and is warming to the idea of the battle scar he is sporting where the ridiculous tattoo used to desecrate God's temple.

We've dropped off the Bibles / guns at the mission station / mercenary training camp and are making our way back home. I have tipped off a few ex-military buddies of mine who are staging a mock ambush a few hours away. My apprentice may be sporting a brand new scar, but he needs a real battle experience to exorcise the ways of the world from his psyche. He has a neat haircut, but he knows nothing of the thrill of warfare ... yet. I'm really looking forward to the initiation -- even if it is rigged.

Fight the good fight.

New Creation

2006-06-08T03:41:00.000-07:00

Shock and awe! There's no better way to describe the look on his face. He shouted something like omygodwhatthefuckhappened! But I was laughing so much I didn't really hear the exact words coming out of his incredulous mouth. But if he does utter such filthy words in my presence, he'll know all about it.

My apprentice had just awoken to see his new military-style shaved head with the missing homosexual piece of jewelry staring back at him. And after he'd stopped clutching his almost bald head and fingering his naked ear lobe, he tried unsuccessfully to rip off the banana leaf bandage around his forearm. I may still patent my tattoo removing remedy to fundamentalist church pastors who wish to straighten out other young punks in their congregations. It's painful, but it works -- I'm sure my skinhead friend will be whining about it for the rest of the trip, but he'll thank me when he gets to heaven and he's not the laughing stock of the entire celestial multitude because of his inked body. Sure, he'll have a nasty scar, but at least he can boast about suffering for righteousness sake instead of trying to explain why he rebelled against the Holy Bible.

We are now ready to drive to the mission station and deliver our precious cargo. No ways I was going to arrive there accompanied by a long-haired punk who would offend the locals and God in heaven. But he still has a few things to learn on the way back. I've saved the best till last, just like Jesus and the really good grapejuice at the wedding in Canna.

Fight the good fight.

The Day After Yesterday

2006-06-07T02:53:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what went down yesterday, but I have no doubt that some really diabolical act has taken place somewhere in the world. Either the antichrist was finally born, probably to a Muslim terrorist family or a secular liberal humanist newspaper editor. Or someone threw another rock over my wall with some demonic message written in blood. I wouldn't be surprised if both these satanic things have taken place, given The Beast's mark on the calendar. But it's over and a six has become a seven, God's perfect number.

Perfect timing, too -- we've successfully crossed the border. I have not allowed my young apprentice to sleep more than fifteen minutes the whole journey. He's a little delusional, so I've let him sleep for a while longer. He will awaken with a much shorter haircut, his ear ring will be a thing of the past, and I'm still working on removing his tattoo without having to amputate his arm.

STOP THE PRESS: I've just received an sms from my faithful warrior wife back home, who says she is sure a rock landed in the garden around midnight last night, but she couldn't find any trace of it this morning. Liberty is going to get his little black ass kicked when I get home. No doubt he found the cursed piece of masonry and buried it. He may think he's doing his master a favour, but now the entire garden is polluted with that foul satanic tool. He'll unbury it and I'll make sure he crushes the damned thing to dust with his bare fingers.

I've got to run. I hear my apprentice stirring and I don't want to miss the look on his face when he sees his reflection in the mirror, which I've suspended 30 centimetres from his face.

Fight the good fight.

666

2006-06-06T01:59:00.000-07:00

We've driven our two-landrover convoy for twenty-four hours, only stopping for a few short pee breaks and to refuel. My apprentice is starting to look slightly weathered. At first he tried to insist on being allowed to listen to his Christian rock music on his iPod, but I have insisted that we sing all my favourite hymns instead. We may have sung Onward Christian Soldiers upwards of 234 times, but even I've lost count.

We've finally stopped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere (well, I know exactly where we are, but I'm not going to disclose my exact location for obvious reasons). We could soldier on, but seen as the date today is 06.06.06, I thought a special demon-destroying prayer meeting would be appropriate. I have no doubt that countless demon-worshiping satanic covens, heavy metal bands and the Pope will be praying against the work of the Lord today. I don't need a blow-out and unfortunate accident all because we allowed some diabolical spirit to attack one of my landrover's tires. And I certainly don't need Liberty to go off his rocker back home and attack my unsuspecting wife with a garden fork.

So I've commanded several angels to stand guard around my property and one to restrain the nutty Sudanese gardener. A few more are accompanying our convoy -- one is on duty sweeping the road clear of all potential satanic devices, and another is protecting my precious cargo.

My apprentice was about to foolishly challenge this aspect of my theology, but a lack of sleep and excessive hymn-singing has sapped his energy. His extreme makeover is imminent.

Fight the good fight.

Apprentice

2006-06-05T01:23:00.000-07:00

I had planned this gun-running, Bible-delivering mission a long time ago, but the day that long-haired freak walked into my office with his Dude-this and Bru-that lingo, flashing his Jesus Rocks My World tattoo like a wild, untamed pagan, the mission evolved into something else. Yes, of course we'd still deliver the weapons, both tangible and spiritual, but I'd be damned to hell with all the ANC voters if my young apprentice did not return from his bush adventure a changed man.

So we left really early this morning. Landrovers were loaded over the weekend with the precious cargo, gave my wife a good bon-voyage seeing to in the missionary way, sang a few Sunday school choruses with my young warriors, gave Liberty a long list of chores that would cripple a normal man, and then rode off into the sunrise with my red-eyed apprentice looking apprehensive. As he should!

The long journey itself should begin to shatter his foolhardy attitude, but that's only the warm-up. Buckle up, my young apprentice, your life is never going to be the same again.

Fight the good fight. If you're the infamous rock-thrower and even think of a cowardly act in my absence, think again.

Starting a Church, Baby, Starting a Church

2006-06-02T02:35:00.000-07:00

I think I've told you before that I've been kicked out of several churches for my "overt militancy" and for a few minor indiscretions. Simple solution: just start your own church, which I've done. But before the blown-out-of-all-proportion paintball issue that has given me my snappy nickname, I was attending a local church filled with mostly old people. I find this is the perfect cover for a guy like myself. The older generation of white people generally hanker after the good old days when God-fearing whites still ruled this land and there was no such thing as gun control (for whites) and abortion on demand. So they don't really question my shady past like a younger generation does.

Except this one time. The older guy who came up to me after the service must have been recently converted to Buddhism or some wacky New Age cult. He looked okay, nothing too freaky for an old guy, but it was what he said that convinced me the guy was a nutjob.

He said he had read plenty of my literature -- and believe me, there is plenty to read, so I was immediately impressed. Then it all went down like a lead balloon! He said he could not understand how come I was such a judgmental person -- why I spent so much of my energy opposing everything that I didn't like or that didn't square up with my biblical worldview.

I almost punched his lights out, but instead I kicked into my sly, grinning persona as I guided him out of earshot of the other tea-sipping congregants discussing the minister's sermon on loving your enemies (that reminds me, it wasn't long after this that I was asked to leave his church ... I guess it was the letter I wrote him informing him about his faulty theology).

I digress ... when we were safely out of earshot, I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought about his lopsided views and pussy-footing around the truth. Christians are not supposed to judge? Rubbish. We are to test every spirit, which means if we find something that is unchristian and / or satanic, we are commanded to oppose it in Jesus name. Which I've dedicated my life to, by the way. I made sure he could see the holstered gun bulging under my jacket as I told him he was a disgrace to the faith for not showing up to my anti-abortion marches.

He was a strangely composed fella despite all my threats and intimidating statements. He simply recited countless verses about peacemaking, loving enemies, forgiveness, reconciliation, the nonviolence of Jesus and other misleading portions of the Bible. People say I misquote and take the Bible out of context! Well, idiots like this side with the antichrist, as far as I'm concerned.

I almost let my grinning persona slip and wanted desperately to knee this chap in the groin, but the minister snuck up behind me and asked how we were doing on this fine Sunday. I spotted my faithful wife across the tea garden and excused myself hurriedly, mumbling some standard line about having to go and organise a protest march.

Uncomfortable moments like this are a thing of the past. Now that I'm running my own little church, comprised of my family members and Sudanese converts (the perfect multi-racial smokescreen -- someone has to serve the tea after the service) and one or two invited, gun-owning guests, I don't have to deal with idiots like this who insist on quoting the Bible back at me. The nerve!

Fight the good fight. If you prove yourself on the battlefield, I may invite you to a church meeting. Maybe.

Dude, Have You Seen My Missionary?

2006-06-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

If that little long-haired twit sends me one more email about how much he is looking forward to next week's mission trip ... if he signs off one more email with Keep radical, Your Dude in Christ ... I'll drag him by his ear ring into my secret bunker and teach him some respect before we've even loaded one of our landrovers with the boxes of Bibles / guns we'll be transporting to Zambia. It's taking every ounce of righteous control to stop myself from going off pop and crashing his computer with a lethal virus and then ripping his tongue out of his backside. It will be far more enriching for him to learn firsthand how a true Christian behaves among the heathens, so I'll just have to bite the bullet. But don't worry, I'm definitely going to make sure his appearance changes drastically when we get more than ten feet out of this country. Punk.

You may be wondering how I manage to smuggle guns across border posts. Faithful readers of my blog will know that if I disclosed such sensitive information to you, I'd be obliged to terminate your life. Fundamentalist Christian or not, your ass is mine if you ever learn more than you need to about my mission activities. But do not underestimate the power of a good bribe. That's all I'm saying. That and prayer. It works a lot like magic, but we're forbidden to dabble in the occult, so I'll leave it at that.

Fight the good fight, dudes!

I'll Make The Punk's Day

2006-05-31T06:55:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I do what my donors support me to do -- I do missionary work! There's no use in spying for this current regime like I used to for the previous one, spilling the baked beans on where the terrorist camps were dotted about Africa (which the Apartheid armed forces subsequently bombed into oblivion, I must add). And yes, I do still smuggle guns to freedom fighters and mercenaries who are fighting the good fight against Muslims and neo-communists. But I'm talking about the more boring, traditional stuff.

I'm in favour of the career missionary, like myself, who sacrifices his entire life to the missionary cause. How else are we ever going to convert the pagan masses to our Christian way of life? But Christians love the short-term thing and I sometimes allow some of these wannabes to come along with me so I can give them an indelible image of what a real missionary does. Bible in one hand, gun in the other, I march across the heathen continent and preach the Good News and watch the devil run for cover.

The other day a young guy came around to my mission offices and asked to accompany me on a mission. I was convinced he was a secular humanist spy from some New Age organisation, possibly Gun Free South Africa, as soon as I laid my righteous eyes on him. He had long hair, wore surfer attire and sported an ear ring. He also had a tattoo on his forearm: the words "Jesus rocks my world" in some diabolical gothic type.

He almost soiled himself when he entered my office and saw me cleaning a number of weapons while I listened to a modernised version of Onward Christian Soldiers at full volume. "Awesome! That's like lank impressive, bru," he said when he spotted my latest shooting range target pinned to my front door -- six bullet holes all crammed into the bullseye.

After two hours of interrogating him, I was less convinced that he was a spy, and more convinced that I needed to hold him down, shave his head, rip his ear ring out, and remove his tattoo with a sharp knife.

I may still do all of this. I've allowed him to come along with me next week when I lead a short-term mission to one of our mission stations in Zambia. No ways I'm going to let a long-haired punk taint my image and offend God. The little twit doesn't know what's coming his way, but I'm putting on a very friendly face so he remains unsuspecting. I'll keep you posted.

Fight the good fight.

Porn Prophet

2006-05-29T02:25:00.000-07:00

The Adult World protest went down pretty well. I was a little disappointed that the leggy blonde who tried to assault me last time with a vibrator had either died of Aids, was off to a porn shoot or had been fired for her violent act of terror on a peaceful protestor. It's not often that a beautiful woman throws herself at me with a sex toy ... of course, that kind of behaviour deserves a violent act of self-defense, but the thrill of such a public scuffle leaves me with an indescribable feeling of righteous indignation and something else.

But instead of a leggy blonde, all I got was a few fuck-yous from a pimply faced youngster with greasy hair and an older guy with a grey ponytail and nose-ring offered to sodomise me. No vibrators, not even a blow-up doll this time. So all three of us protestors went home earlier than expected (for obvious reasons, my wife and kids don't accompany me on sex-shop protests). We left several Paintball Pete's Remedy for Porn Addiction tracts on car windshields, I prayed loudly for God to drive the sex shop into bankruptcy, and I left a special visual reminder of the terror that awaits all sexual perverts: a huge, blow-up replica dildo in front of the store with the words "Sex Toys Won't Be Of Any Use To You In Hell" written in large print with a permanent marker. I think the message will get through to the evildoers.

Fight the good fight.

Public Relations

2006-05-26T00:07:00.000-07:00

I received an email from Dan Brown thanking me for all the great publicity I've been giving his book and the movie.

Moron! Hell awaits your kind.

Some anonymous coward has also sent me an email to inform me that my pro-death penalty stance is fascist, hateful and un-Christian.

Rot in hell, pagan.

I'm keeping things short and bitter-sweet today as I have another protest to get to. I've organised a picket line outside the biggest Adult World in the world -- this time I'm not there to purchase a few items for research purposes. Today it's all hellfire and brimstone. And I'm ready for the tall, leggy blonde who manages the place. She attacked me with a giant vibrator during a protest a few years ago. I was quickly able to wrestle it from her and now keep it as a memento in my secret bunker, but I can't promise not to hurt her if she pulls another disgusting prank like that on God's messenger of damnation.

Fight the good fight. If you're thinking of sending me a note of slander, remember Dan Brown's fate and think again. And if you're the porn lady, you better have something bigger than a vibrator this time.

My Glorious Gallows

2006-05-25T01:44:00.000-07:00

I was reminded the other day of another protest I held a few years back that rivals anything I've ever done for the glory of God and the demise of evil. It was a mock execution outside parliament.

As you should know or may safely assume, I am pro-capital punishment. If we brought back the death penalty in this country, violent crime would all but disappear and we would go back to the good old days when whites ruled this wonderful land that blacks have now totally stuffed up! Bring back the death penalty, you soft-on-crime politicians!

In the Bible, prophets who put on an elaborate show to demonstrate God's word got their message across better than those who took a timid approach. So that's one reason why I go all out when I want the world to stop and listen to what I have to say.

So I dressed up in a judge's robe, built a make-shift gallows, pronounced the death sentence on the evildoer, recited one of my imprecatory psalms written especially for public executions, and hung a mannequin. First time I did it, the gallows worked so effectively that the doll's head snapped right off. Not really the visual image I wanted to convey, but the sheer brutality of it was awesome to behold and all five spectators broke into applause at the sight of decapitated evil. I went through the whole exercise again, and this time the cursed piece of plastic stayed in one piece and hung there for all the world to see what should happen to every violent criminal, homosexuals and New Agers.

I got my picture in the papers, which is always a bonus. Works like a charm when I'm mailing my donors for additional funding -- include paper clippings of all my protests and the money comes flooding in. It costs money to buy a mannequin and build a decent gallows. (I've got the replica at home to keep Liberty on his toes.)

Fight the good fight.

I Love a Good Grilling 2

2006-05-24T06:39:00.000-07:00

I interrupted my grilling session to inform you all about my anti-Da Vinci Code protest over the weekend. It went brilliantly. All three people who went to see the film and had the audacity to walk past my picket line, felt the spittle of my righteous anger against their haughty, blasphemous necks. One guy actually swore at me and spat on my youngest son's poster -- he was holding one that read 'Dan Brown is Gay'.

It's no small coincidence that Persecution begins with the same letter that Paintball Pete does!

Anyway, enough about the protest (which I have no doubt will cripple the ticket sales of this evil movie and drive Dan Brown into poverty and toward repentance). More about my critics stupid questions:

434. Are you really a missionary or a secret agent who used to work for the Apartheid regime but now works for the American government to topple emerging economies in Africa?

Nice one. When I retire from my efforts to convert the pagan ancestor worshipers, I'll join the CIA and assassinate African dictators, beginning with that idiot who ruined the great nation of Rhodesia! But no, for now I'm a bona fide missionary. Sure, I live in a nice comfortable house, drive a nice car, take my family out to nice dinners, all with donor money . . . but I also hand out the occasional tract and make the rare journey through Africa to deliver Bibles to illiterate blacks. I need to stick around here -- what's the use of protesting abortion and the Da Vinci Code in the jungles and deserts of Africa? I'm not an idiot -- Dan Brown may have the right ethnic name, but no one in a poor African village in the middle of Sudan knows who the white Brown guy is.

666. I was reading somewhere that you encourage your kids to play aggressive games in the garden to prepare them to take over the world? Did Jesus not encourage peacemaking as the path of righteousness?

You're way off the beaten path, you misguided twit. Have you read none of my previous blogs? For the uninitiated, let me give you a brief overview of the life of Jesus. He was God's Son, sent into the world to die for our sins. He was sent here to kick the devil's butt and open the way for sinners to go to heaven. He could have beaten the living crap out of the Romans and their Jewboy friends, but that would have defeated the objective of His Incarnation. But He said nothing to persuade His followers against taking up the sword, or in our day, guns and bullets and occasionally paintballs for sport. How else are we to make all nations Christian? You think the Muslim terrorists are going to stop praying to their false god just because we say Jesus loves them? And do you think the liberal secular humanists are going to stop financing abortion clinics? Get real!

So yes, I encourage my kids to learn the violent art of warfare and take after their earthly daddy and their Heavenly Father.

787. I feel sorry for you and fear you may burn in hell, if I believed in hell. Unfortunately, I believe that everyone will go to heaven.

This is not a question. But I will reply to this demonic-inspired excuse for a human being. There is a hell. You are going there simply because you don't believe it's there -- it's a kind of cosmic joke on all atheists and those who believe there is only a heaven. You think I want to share eternity with idiots like you? You need to take out some good fire insurance -- repent and become like me, and you may still get to heaven.

I'm off to organise another round of protests. This time we're going to burn a few Da Vinci Code books for special effect.

Fight the good fight.

Pete's Protest

2006-05-19T00:17:00.000-07:00

I can't be upstaged by all those rioting security guards who are trashing cars and acting like British soccer hooligans let loose on European soil. So I'm staging my own semi-peaceful protest this weekend when the heretical, blasphemous, diabolical Da Vinci Code opens in the cinemas.

I'm not sure it will have the same theatrical power that my annual protest of the Day Babies Were Slaughtered By Baby Killers -- my ongoing anti-abortion campaign. I and a handful of like-minded anti-abortionists dress in black as if we're on our way to a morbid funeral -- which we are, in a way. We march on Parliament and lay down several tiny coffins and wreaths to symbolise the millions of children torn out of their mother's wombs by evil murderous doctors and tossed into rubbish bins like animal waste at the abattoir. I get to recite the best of my imprecatory psalms and pray that fire will rain down on the heads of every lawmaker responsible for this wicked legislation and that every person who has ever had an abortion will die of some dreaded disease.

This weekend's protest will be less emotive. We can't exactly hold up posters that say Dan Brown is a baby killer. Although if I were able to prove that anyone on the crew of the movie ever had an abortion, well that would taint the whole thing for them and I could claim that Da Vinci Code is actually making money for a secret abortion clinic. All is fair in love and war -- I think I will use this line of logic to oppose my enemies. No doubt there are numerous baby killers behind the scenes of the film.

I'll have each of my kids and faithful wife stand with me outside the local cinema. We'll hold placards that say: Dan Brown hates God! Brown is a Black Satanist! Da Vinci Code is Pornographic! Dan Brown Supports Abortion On Demand!

If you are a true believer (read all my previous blog entries to understand what true Christianity stands for) and even think of going to see this evil movie and I find out about it, there is nowhere you can hide. Pain. Torture. Death. Hell.

Fight the good fight.

I Love a Good Grilling

2006-05-18T00:35:00.000-07:00

I have so many critics out there I can't keep up -- the liberal secular atheist humanists hate me because I'm a devoted disciple of King Jesus, and the liberal practically-secular compromising Christians don't like me too much either because I supposedly present a distorted view of the faith. They don't like being painted with the same brush. Well, I'd like to paint them with something -- a million frozen paintballs to the back of the head at close range! I don't have anger management issues, either -- righteous rage is totally biblical. You think throwing evildoers into the Lake of Fire is a peaceful gesture? Think again, my misguided critic! If God can get pissed off, so can I.

Anyway, thought I'd spend some time answering the scathing, defamatory, character-assassinating questions of my critics. So here goes, no iron fist in a velvet glove -- Pete does not pull his punches. (Ask Liberty any day if you doubt me, infidel.)

1. Are you really a Christian?

At the risk of answering a question with a question (a clever tactic when being interrogated by semi-illiterate terrorists): What kind of question is this? Of course I'm a Christian. I doubt your salvation for assuming a Christian who loves guns as much as I do, who promotes as much fundamentalist separation as I do, and who lacks even an ounce of compassion for the poor and downtrodden as I do, could not be a true Christian. I am the poster boy for true masculine Christianity.

2. Have you ever had a gun accident?

Other than ruining my TV by blasting it with my paintball gun when the grinning face of Nelson Mandela desecrated my inner sanctuary? No. I don't call shooting others because of mistaken identity as accidental. Unfortunate for them, but serves them right for being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- in my gun sites!

3. How can you be anti-abortion and pro-capital punishment, pro-war, pro-guns . . . ? Isn't that a contradiction of the term 'pro-life'?

Ooooh, I would love to get this critic alone in a dark alley. Idiot! Baby killers are nothing but murderers -- mothers and doctors are equal butchers of the innocent and powerless! Criminals who rape, murder innocents, hijack cars, steal loaves of bread, steal tyres off cars, have same-gender sex . . . people like this can't be tolerated and should be punished. And pagan nations that threaten our freedoms should be stopped, even if it means nuking the whole lot of them. This is the meting out of divine justice. It's what God has called us to do on His behalf. Read Romans 13. So I see no contradiction. I am pro-life -- I'm just not pro the life of criminals or anyone who doesn't agree with me.

I hear Liberty crying hysterically in the garden -- I think some demon-like bug has been attacking his prize rose bushes again. I better go and sort him out. I'll answer some more critter questions next time.

Fight the good fight. Always be prepared to give an intelligent-sounding answer to all of your detractors.

Nightmare on Pete Street

2006-05-16T02:51:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me what my worst nightmare is. Well, to tell the truth, I don't have bad dreams. Most of my dreams are about me dressed like Chuck Norris in very tight jeans, wearing a bandanna around my head and brandishing two semi-automatic weapons while the demon-possessed hordes emerge from Darkest Africa to attack my family. But just like Chuck in all his war movies, I save the day. I never run out of ammo, I never take a hit, and I always remain unflinching no matter how many dead bodies pile up on my doorstep. I actually wake up feeling quite refreshed after such a dream and give my submissive wife a good seeing to in the trusted missionary way.

But if I did have the misfortune of having a nightmare, I guess it would be a combination of things. One of my sons would tell me that he is a homosexual and that he has joined the ANC, and he would tell me this wearing a Gun Free South Africa T-shirt, sporting long hair and a pierced ear.

I break into a cold sweat just thinking about it.

Fright the good fight. I mean fight the good fright. [Word delete]! I mean fight the good fight.

Love Notes and Hate List

2006-05-15T01:42:00.000-07:00

Some famous people I like:

Jesus Christ because He is God and that should be enough reason to top my list. But I particularly like the bits in the Bible about Him coming back from Heaven to wipe out evildoers.

Chuck Norris because he is lethal and loves Jesus. What better combination can you wish for in a man?

Dick Cheney because he enjoys shooting and isn't afraid to take a pot-shot at a mate then cover it up as a case of mistaken identity. And he's also pro-war, which is always a good thing in my books for all the obvious reasons.

Eugene Terreblanche because he believes much the same as I do, that a white man without a gun in Africa is as good as dead. And that blacks are subservient to whites. And he loves guns and isn't afraid to use them. Also love the firebrand oratory, hatred for communism and understanding that this land belongs to Christian whites, not blacks. He should just try and stay on his black horse next time he gets out of prison and the media are around. They love to watch a good man fall!

Jacob Zuma because he can get away with murder. Well, in his case, rape and corruption, but you know what I mean. He is a complete paradox -- I like him and hate him equally. Read on to learn why.

Some famous people I hate:

Everyone who is ANC because they ruined our country. So that includes my good friend JZ.

FW de Klerk because he let Nelson Mandela out of prison and then let him ruin our country by letting him become president. Sell out.

Those Gun Free South Africa people because they have threatened my family with extinction. If they really think I'm going to willingly hand over all my guns so I can become a sitting duck for criminals and assassins, they have totally underestimated me. And my firepower. Including all my illegal weapons hidden in arms caches throughout the country and elsewhere in Africa.

Darwin because he taught that men are descendants of apes. He was right about the survival of the fittest bit, though, except the fittest are Christian fundamentalists who are destined to rule the world on behalf of Jesus.

Harry Potter because he is a wizard serving the dark lord and leading our kids astray with all his books and movies. One of the kids we paintballed last Halloween looked a bit like him. If he shows up again next Halloween, he is seriously going to get a frozen pellet lodged between his evil eyes.

Dan Brown because he wrote a heretical book about Jesus having sex and fathering a child. I mean, if that were the case I'm sure I'm directly descended from that righteous offspring, but it's all a pack of lies because there's nothing in the Bible about Jesus being a normal human. He was more like Chuck Norris. Even down to the beard.

Fight the good fight. Real or imaginary, makes no difference, oppose them with truth and righteousness.

Bring Back the Battle Hymn

2006-05-12T01:48:00.000-07:00

I'm sick of these weak twits who pass as pastors. One of them had the audacity to say that I am too militant. How can anyone be too militant? We live in a world where suicide bombers are blowing themselves up together with innocent coffee drinkers or bus commuters, where baby killers are masquerading as doctors and nurses, and where atheist political leaders are trying to take away the guns of semi-law-abiding citizens like me. How can you not be militant in such a world?

Pastors like these probably don't like their congregation singing the greatest hymn of all time -- Onward Christian Soldiers . . . Marching as to war, hmmm, hmmm, you see, I'm going on a tangent already, it's such a stirring war cry!

And pussy pastors like this probably don't really like their Sunday schools teaching kids that child-friendly battle hymn, I'm In the Lord's Army. I mean, it's a terrific tune with all the actions about riding in the cavalry, swooshing down in fighter jets and marching in unified aggression to obliterate the enemy. What's wrong with teaching kids songs like this? They have been staples in my home ever since my five kids saw the light of day.

I have always taught my children, especially my sons, that they are destined to rule the world, to subdue the pagan multitudes who refuse to convert. Long before the glorious days of paintball, my kids have played aggressive games with a military theme rather than waste-of-time sports like soccer and tennis. What good is a tennis racket against the demon-possessed hordes out there?

So to all those pastors out there who think I'm too mercenary, too militant in tone and behaviour, I say go to hell. I mean it. I doubt their salvation if they come up with such compromising pacifist views, which means they're on their way to hell. And believe me, just like God, Satan is no pacifist. His torture chambers will be filled with the eternal cries of pastors who teach their flock that nonviolence is what Jesus taught. We're only supposed to be peaceful to fellow fundamentalist Christians who believe exactly as we do. To hell with the rest!

I'm off to play another game of find-the-terrorist-behind-the-bush. You guessed it, the progressively brain-damaged Liberty is the moving target . . . I wonder if this may be the reason he made a run for it the other day?

Fight the good fight.

Pete for President

2006-05-10T05:18:00.000-07:00

I assume you assume I'm one of those Rapture pundits, right? You know, the Left Behind types who believe Jesus is going to miraculously vaporise His chosen people and then punish the rest of the world for seven terrible long years, during which time there will be some dramatic conversions to Christianity and a worldwide assault of demonic proportions on all that is godly and good. Armageddon, call it what you want. Then Jesus appears and obliterates the antichrist who has led the whole world astray except for the newly redeemed fundamentalists.

I like it in theory, I really do. Who wouldn't like this kind of godly mayhem to straighten out sinners? But it's all bull[rest of word deleted].

Sure, the Lord Jesus is going to return. Mark my words. Better yet, highlight your Bible in all the right places, especially those that say He is going to hurl evildoers into the Lake of Fire together with homosexuals and ancestor worshipers.

But I'm into a world takeover kind of theology. It's also called Dominion Theology. I like that -- take dominion of the planet, baby! When we do finally rule the world, we'll bring back the Mosaic Law so we can put to death all the evildoers in one gigantic bloodfest. Man, what a day. I can't wait and I certainly hope I'm still around or the Lord sends me back to see the spectacle. One thousand years of torturing reprobates, homosexuals, liberals, Muslim terrorists and black communists, school teachers who insist on teaching kids that we're related to apes and everyone else who won't get with the programme.

So that's it in a nutshell. The world is going to get better, much better. As soon as every nation can have a Christian president -- or one superpower with a godly leader can subdue the rest of the planet -- then the thousand year Reich will begin.

I would stand for president, yes I would.

Fight the good fight. Vote me for president of the New World Order.

The Rock from Hell

2006-05-05T04:53:00.000-07:00

I suspect the same cowardly servant of the dark lord who threw a rock over my wall with a note tied to it, also sprayed graffiti on my wall. I was walking around the garden inspecting Liberty's work from the day before, when I came across the offending piece of masonry -- forged in hell, no doubt, and hurled from the wicked hand of one of Satan's scornful servants. I can't repeat what was written on the note -- even I was shocked, and I've personally penned some of the most hate-filled curses against God's enemies in my imprecatory psalms.

Without repeating the exact evil words, I'll simply give you the gist of it's diabolical slander . . .

The demonic author of the devilish note has obviously been reading my blog and had the audacity to insinuate that I read porn in my secret bunker, that I am a slave owner, and that I terrorise innocent children. Moreover, the sinner suggested that I may be psychotic and present a distorted view of Christianity that would even dissuade Jesus from being a Christian. Blasphemy of the highest order! People like this should be publicly executed, but not with a wasted bullet. Burn 'em, I say. Or seen as he likes to throw rocks over the walls of godly Christian people, he could be stoned like they did in the good old Bible days.

I took a stroll beyond the walls of my fortress after I had digested -- and almost puked twice -- this evil diatribe aimed to rattle me (I admit I was a bit shaken at first, but I recited one of my psalms and felt invincible almost immediately). And then I saw it, scribbled on the outside wall: Paintball Pete Loves Porn!

I almost lost control of my bowels like I did all those years ago in Hillbrow.

After Liberty repainted the wall with five coats and I recited all 234 imprecatory psalms loudly in the street, I called a family prayer meeting and we asked God to rain down fire on the satanic pervert who dared defile my holy sanctuary. My favourite Bible story to tell my kids before I tuck them in is the one about the reprobate youths who jeered at the prophet Elisha and called him a baldhead. He called down a curse on them and two bears came out the woods and tore 42 kids to pieces. (And they think my exploding bunnies were over the top!) You can read this superb Sunday school lesson in 2 Kings 2:23-25.

I don't mind fire or bears, by the way. Both at the same time would really get the message across.

I also double-checked to see if the sicko graffiti artist had somehow managed to break into my secret bunker and plundered my stock, but it was all secure. I had to page through each magazine and watch every last video again to make sure there were no hidden messages left there, or signs of tampering, but it all appears clean. As clean as filth can get, I mean.

Fight the good fight. And watch the news for reports of a bear mauling someone to death.

Pete's Favourite Things

2006-05-04T07:14:00.000-07:00

I know I've presented a truly heroic side to my life -- the righteous warrior kind of thing, teaching kids not to follow the dark lord Satan by pelting them with paintballs, blowing up their Easter eggs, publicly burning piles of pornographic literature and occasionally making a daring raid across the border into another country to spread the Good News of King Jesus, with whom I and all white right-wing fundamentalist believers will rule the universe . . . you know, that side of my life.

But I thought I'd pull more of a touchy-feely Oprah kind of thing and let you know what some of my favourite things are . . . but if you read into this that I am having homo-erotic fantasies and need to vent my female side, I will hunt you down and make you beg for mercy.

So here goes . . . Pete's Favourite Things!

* My guns. All of them. I can't choose one. I love all of them equally.

* My paintball equipment. If paintballs worked as effectively as real bullets, this would top my list.

* My Bible. Every inspired letter, but not in any paraphrased modern version.

* My camo pants. The kid who made the wise crack about them the other day at the mall is still recovering in hospital.

* My collection of spent cartridges and shrapnel. I have collected them over the years on my travels throughout Africa.

* Everything in my secret bunker, including my stock of literature I keep for research purposes. I have added a few videos lately -- also for research purposes, of course.

* Playing with penguins.

* Playing godly soldier and evil communist / muslim terrorist with my kids. Liberty is always the bad guy and I fear he may be suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder from repeated hits to the head by frozen paintballs, but my daily debriefing sessions with him should keep him going for a while longer.

* Playing 'hide the rocket launcher' with my submissive wife. The missionary approach to the game, if you know what I mean. If you don't, you must be pagan or homosexual and should prepare yourself for eternity in hell.

* My righteous offspring.

* Any war movie starring Chuck Norris.

* Will and Grace. I have no reasonable explanation for this, other than research purposes. But if I find myself laughing at any gay jokes, I use the mobile mini-electrocution device I bought on my last trip to the States and shock myself in unmentionable places.

* Photos of myself. Usually posing beside a blown-up tank somewhere in Africa or unloading big containers of Bibles [if you want to believe there are also weapons in these containers for my mercenary missionaries, that's up to you, but I won't deny it].

That's about it. I'm concerned that if I carry on I may actually end up on the Oprah show.

Fight the good fight. Whatever your favourite things are, make sure guns and Jesus are on your list and not much else matters.

Born to Serve

2006-05-03T00:13:00.000-07:00

Slippery little snake . . . but I finally got him! And I've successfully re-educated the ungrateful bugger. It took a few days of intense physical manipulation [if you want to read torture and brainwashing into this, that's entirely up to you . . . but you never heard it from me]. He has once again submitted to my godly lordship and is pruning rose bushes and picking up dog turds like nothing ever happened.

Just to refresh your memory: I'm talking about the escaped Sudanese convert of mine who made a run for it while I was somewhere in Africa waiting for the dust to settle after my Easter bunny shock-and-awe mission. He was attending to his garden duties and no one realised -- until it was too late -- that he had slipped into one of my escape tunnels and disappeared on the other side of the wall. My warrior wife drove around the neighbourhood in one of our armour-plated SUVs [South Africans call them 4X4 vehicles, but I don't want to confuse my faithful supporters somewhere in the US]. But she could not find him anywhere. Only two street kids, who she slapped around a bit trying to get some information about his whereabouts.

During one of our physical manipulation sessions, I managed to extract the truth from the scrawny bastard. Once out of the tunnel he had run in a blind panic up the street, but he was lost almost immediately. He had been blindfolded when he was first brought from Farmer Frik's farm to my suburban property. My cunning strategy paid off. Imagine how much longer it would have taken me to find the twit if he knew where he was? So he climbed the first tree he could locate and stayed there until dark. I guess this is why my faithful wife couldn't find the snivelling rat.

But I got him. It didn't take too long after I'd activated the tracking device. I found him hiding behind the refuse bins at the local shopping mall. I know how much he likes biltong [sorry, beef jerky for my American brothers], so I tossed a piece a few metres from his hiding spot. The hungry sod abandoned all reason and came crawling like a dog to the morsel. Zap! The paralysing dart was imbedded in his neck before he could even take a single bite of biltong.

You do so much for these people. You give them the Good News about their second-class ticket to heaven, where they will be clothed in righteous garments of white and serve the ruling saints like me who were born with the right skin colour. You give them so much -- a decent job in a white man's garden, at least one meal per day, and plenty of time to read the Bible and pray for their brothers and sisters back home. And what do you get? Ungrateful escape artists who make a run for it when you turn your back for a few days! Well, I'm having none of it. Next time he pulls this stunt, it's a frozen paintball pellet at close range to the back of the head. And he's getting no more biltong in his daily ration pack.

Fight the good fight. And keep a watchful eye on your servants.

The Day Liberty Escaped

2006-04-26T00:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-24T03:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-21T01:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-19T04:40:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-13T00:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-12T01:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-05T00:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-04T01:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-03T07:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-03T01:34:00.000-07:00

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.

The Devil is My Target

2006-03-30T04:18:00.000-08:00

You're probably wondering how I got to be called Paintball Pete. It's a long story, one that again emphasises how misunderstood I am, suffering alone for righteousness sake in this godless land . . . but I'll try and get to the point so I can spend these valuable blogging hours talking about more important issues, like how you have the right and the divine-ordained duty to bear arms and protect the innocent and the mostly law-abiding citizens oppressed by this secular humanist government.

Well, last year on that Day of Evil and Witchcraft commonly called Halloween, I decided to educate my kids on the price one pays for serving the Dark Lord. So I drove my little warriors-in -training around my neighbourhood looking for demonic trick-or-treaters. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to have some educational fun -- and at the same time, teach pagan kids why they should never celebrate evil by dressing up like demons. After all, our Lord has commanded us to go into all the world and make disciples of all men (that includes their inappropriately dressed women and snotty, disobedient offspring), teaching them to obey (by all means necessary, I'm sure it should have said). You should know this verse off by heart like I do, but if you don't, I strongly suggest you open your Bible immediately to Matthew 28: 20 and commit it to memory. Remember, if we are to win this battle against the devil and his servants, we need guns and a spiritual sword. You should be ashamed if you can't quote the Bible extensively; you are just plain stupid if you don't carry a gun at all times (I have developed a special waterproof sock to wear over the firearm I always have strapped to my ankle; this way, I can still be armed and ready when I take a shower).

Back to the Halloween incident that has been blown out of all proportion by the secular, liberal media . . .

I had recently introduced my righteous offspring to the joys of paintballing -- it doesn't come anywhere near to the thrill of blowing up moving targets, terrorists or otherwise, with a real gun. Anyway, the plan was to pull up alongside these evildoers and pop them with a paintball. Perfect opportunity for my kids to get the feel of what it's like to shoot another human being -- well, a reprobate child of satan version. So that's what we did. Except, the mission got a bit derailed by a real spoil sport kid who must have been high on dagga or something, because he actually came right up to the car and swore at us -- You fucking little wankers, what the fuck are you doing, I will fuck you up you motherfucking little bastards -- something like that. It may have been more like, You goddam Jesus freaks, I'll tear out your hearts and lay them on the altar of the Dark Prince, you weak little fucks. It was an avalanch of profanity straight out of hell. I yelled shoot, shoot, shoot the pagan, and my son did as he was told. Popped him a good one in the face and we drove off before things got ugly and I had to show them why I'd take Chuck in a moment. Truth be told, I'd forgotten to remove the condom from my foot after I'd taken a shower earlier, so it would have been a problem trying to get at my gun if the little demon-dresser got violent. I hit the pedal to the metal and we were out of there.

And what did the little pussy do? He went home and cried to Daddy. So it was all over the papers and the cops were looking for some crazed gunman armed with a paintball gun, roaming the suburbs looking for innocent little kids to scare and hurt. First of all, it serves the little pagans right for celebrating the Devil's Birthday. Secondly, there is no ways I am mentally unstable. I know there are rumours about me being psychotic, but unlike my gun-running to the Sudan, this is nothing but liberal media lies. Lies, lies, lies.

So that's how I got the name Paintball Pastor, but I prefer to go by Paintball Pete. It has a catchy ring to it. Sure, first prize would have been something more intimidating, like Bazooka Bill, Tank Tommy or even AK Albert. But I can live with this one. It gives me an authentic platform to speak to the media about our right to self-defense -- and now I've extended this to our right to cruise the streets at night and pop evildoers with paintballs. I've driven up and down Voortrekker Rd shooting red paint at whores. I'm working on strategies to do similiar things in similar dens of iniquity.

Fight the good fight. The Warrior King is with us.

I Luv Guns

2006-03-28T23:59:00.000-08:00

My name is Pastor Pete, but like Chuck Norris' infamous roundhouse kick fame, paintballing has given me the fearsome nickname of Paintball Pete. More about that another time. I can't seem to keep up with my notoriety, so I've decided that blogging will be a great way to document my journey of being the most persecuted, misunderstood fundamentalist in South African history. I love films like Rambo I through XIV (many of these are unreleased home videos of me fighting my way through African war zones with nothing but a pellet gun and penknife), so like all good films and novels that use flashbacks to help viewers / readers understand the history of the subject, many of my future blog entries will take you back in time so you can better grasp my pain, my persecution, and my obsessive love for guns.

On that subject, I am a vociferous opponent of gun control. Like that other misunderstood bearded Afrikaans freedom fighter, Eugene Terreblanch, once stated, a white man without a gun in Africa is a dead man. I couldn't say it better myself. Why do you think I'm still alive? I've been imprisoned in Zambia, paraded like a captured communist terrorist pig through the streets of Lusaka, I've successfully penetrated terrorist training camps disguised as a pacifist pancy missionary, dodged landmines and enemy fire on countless excursions throughout the Dark Continent . . . do you think I'd still be alive if it were not for my awesome capabilities with weapons? Of course, the previous God-loving South African government helped me out. All the rumours about the SADF sponsoring my cross-border adventures are true.

By the way, the world seems so taken with the supernatural ability of Chuck Norris . . . I could kill that roundhouse-kicking Texan with a broken toothpick. And if he were not an American Patriot, I'd already have shown him why not to mess with Paintball Pete.

So that's me in a nutshell . . . I love guns. Yes, I love Jesus Christ the Righteous Lord who has commanded me and likeminded brothers in arms to take dominion of the world. Yes, I love the Holy Bible, every God-breathed last word. I will give you plenty of verses from God's Word to help you realise that a white man without a gun is nothing short of stupid. Yes I love the Christian God and the Christian way of life, which means I love guns most of all. Guns stop criminals -- the evil South African black communist government has armed these crazy lunatics with guns to terrorise innocent law abiding citizens like my family -- but guns in the hands of the Righteous Remnant will stop them. Stop them dead!

Stick around . . . I may even invite you to join my militia of paintball freedom fighters.

Fight the good fight!