An Ask Ally Religious Experience

In Beauty, Fashion, Funny, People, Social Commentary on February 24, 2008 at 3:01 pm

Well, today I have an amusing tale which will likely offend many people but which *disclaimer* really is not meant to offend anyone’s religious beliefs. It is a tale told purely for comedic value, and having little to do with actual biblical events.

Also, I would like to point out that this story is inspired by a costumed medievalist-swordfighter gentleman whom I just glimpsed outside my kitchen window while I was watching the regular Sunday meeting (I may have mentioned it) and enjoying my healthy breakfast of cookies and coffee. It is in no way inspired by the fellow known to many as ‘The Son of God’

So, now that I’ve cleared that up, allow me to proceed!

The Tale of Jesus: Master Swordsman

Jesus was tall. Quite tall, compared to most of the other men on the battlefield. His hair was long, past his noble shoulders, and his beard – while full and manly – was always neatly trimmed close to his face. His eyes were keen, and full of purpose; Jesus carried his head high as he observed the fray around him.

He is the Lord thy God, and he is here to kick some undead ass.

Jesus was dressed in woolen robes. They were brown, plain – nothing flashy or garish. Jesus was a classy dude. He wore no glittering metal armor; no glinting chest plate or gleaming helm accented his attire. Jesus needed not their paltry protection: he trusted in his skill alone.
Only Jesus’ wrists shone silver in the sunlight, and the metal which adorned his muscled forearms was not designed to spurn an enemy’s weapon: its sole purpose was to blind said enemy with a graceful turn of those previously mentioned forearms. Blinding was part of Jesus’ skill, and was totally not cheating.

Jesus stood alone on the battlefield. His well-defined hand, each digit marked with shapely, masculine, manicured nails, grasped the hilt of a fiery broadsword.

Jesus was a master swordsman.

His body was scarred from years spent slowly conquering each and every pathetic error. He never wore armor; he relished the pain of the blade each time his failure was punctuated with his own blood. It kept him sharp. It made sure he never made that error again – sometimes. Other times it just bled and then got infected because Jesus didn’t believe in hydrogen peroxide, so then his mom had to drive him to the emergency room to make sure that he didn’t have gangrene or a blood infection. But that, too, was a lesson.

Each week, Jesus would practice with others like himself. Others who held in their hearts the love of glory and pikestaffs and World of Warcraft. Others who dreamed of one day saving a maiden fair from the evil dragon, or of going home after practice and eating a plateful of pizza pockets.
They talked, at these practices. They shared tips, and more importantly, they shared dreams.

Some dreamed of success. Others of serving wenches. Still yet others dreamed of beating Guitar Hero on expert before a crowd of adoring onlookers. But amongst all the sharing of dreams and swapping of idle chit-chat and blocking techniques, there ran a common ideal: that, in a time of danger, when all others ran, they would use their skills for good.
Little did anyone dream that they would be forced to fulfill those promises of valour, or else cast into a pit of cowardice and shame, in the very near future.

Anyone but Jesus, that is.

For that is all Jesus ever dreamed of. He dreamed so that he might be prepared, when the onslaught came, to stand and fight for all that he believed in. His mind crafted scenes of gore and death before his closed eyelids; his nostrils seemed almost to fill with the stench of death as he breathed deeply, lost in sleep. His muscles tensed in anticipation of each attack, each defensive swing of his mighty sword. Those were the dreams that kept Jesus alive with purpose; that left him refreshed each morning, and hungry for his breakfast of Crunchy Nut cereal and Red Bull.

Those were the dreams that would shape his future… and the future of the world.

In the year 2036, the world was brought to its knees by a scourge, the very possibility of which had terrified many for decades. In the year 2036, the dead awoke with a powerful thirst.

In the year 2036, the Zombie Apocalypse came.

It covered the Earth with a quilt of evil, darkness, and nasty skin-eaters. And mankind scurried about on their knobbly little knees, cowered in their wardrobes or their basements, bolted their doors, and boarded their windows: tears in their eyes and fear in their hearts.

When Jesus falls to the zombie hordes, so falls humanity.

As everyone ran or was eaten, swelling the ranks of the zombie horde with each victim, Jesus sought out his fellow fighters: the time had come for them to live up to their promises of bravery.
But none were to be found. They, like their friends and family, were fleeing, fleeing, fleeing in terror.

It was up to Jesus, alone, to turn back the army of the living dead.

And even as the leathery hands of corpses clawed at his flesh, Jesus fought. And even as their yellowed nails ripped into his eyeballs, Jesus fought. And even as one zombie gnawed on his genitals, Jesus fought.
And even as Jesus felt himself succumbing, felt his brain sliding away, felt his eyes glaze over with rage and nothingness, he fought: knowing he himself was rapidly turning into his enemy, he fought (which, in the end, turned out not to be such a good thing after all, because then there was a zombie running about with a broadsword).

And that is why Jesus is a Master Swordsman…

And also a Zombie.

  1. This entry must have made you double check behind the bathroom curtain that night.

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