If You Want to Be A Laser Tag Champion, You Need to Double-Dutch with Christ.
Alright. Hands in, men.
I’m only saying this one time: these silly Sallies across the complex don’t have spit on our spirit. They haven’t been through the wars like us. They’re not of one mind and one body of arms.
I’ve told you many things about laser tag: It’s not about anybody; it’s about everybody. Cry for your brothers. Aim 10 to 15 degrees low, because the infrared particles of the lasers are nearly weightless and tend to rise to pockets of low pressure. These are the tenets of our fellowship.
But there’s one thing I haven’t told you guys about laser tag, and I feel that right now, mere minutes before we start tagging fools in this the regional semifinal match against our archrivals, Laser Larry & the Shadows, is the time for me to bequeath to you the last piece of advice I have for you about this game I’ve made my life.
If you want to be a laser tag champion, you’ve got to double-dutch with Christ.
Did y’all hear me? Seb? In the back? D’you get that? I’m talking about cracking out the old jump ropes — the ones with the plastic beads that go snick-snack on the blacktop — and falling into rhythm with the Lord. You’ve got to sync your cycle with Emmanuel.
Men, when you’re staring down the barrel of a Tippmann 90 Custom Tactical with an adversary tip-toeing through your crosshairs, the only way you’re going to find the gumption to squeeze that trigger and send some potentially harmful radiative light beams toward his harness is through prayer.
Here’s one I like to whisper right before I discharge:
Lamb of God, grant me the serenity to accept the fools I cannot blast, the courage to blast the turds I can, and the wisdom to know when I’m eliminated.
When Heavenly Father blessed mankind with recreation laser technologies back in the 1950s, I’m not sure that even He imagined an elite force of hawkeyed part-time assassins as ruthless, calculating, and full of His grace as us, the Master Blasters, the four-time West-Midwest regional champions and a party of men ablaze with the Word.
I want us to win this skirmish. And so does the Lord. He wants you to fan out, walk with your waist, and glorify His name by putting a smokehole through the nuts of these beta-boys. Let’s bust these dickweeds. Praise Him.
Also, brothers, I’m missing equipment rental fees from a handful of you, and I’m considering it a breach of trust. I’m gonna suit up next to concessions. If any of you wants to rectify this situation before we step out onto the field of battle, I will need help pulling these knee pads over my calves. We can rap then.