Single Guys

I have a friend. His name... for anonymity sake, let's call him Randy. Randy is a single guy. Consequently, as might be expected, he is prone to certain strange behaviors.

Now, I don't have anything against courtship and marriage. I don't. Really. But I do commiserate with Randy. When you lack that special someone in your life, you've got to spend your spare time somehow. Ministry activities are all well and good. So are group social times. But sometimes... you find yourself... alone.

...and when those times come, who you gonna call?

In Randy's case, there was only one option. He's got a plethora of single guy friends--most of whom have airsoft guns, camping gear, and redneck tendencies. And yes, I'm one of those guys.

:flash forward 24 hours:

We were screaming down the highway in a dilapidated compact sedan. Of course, compacts weren't really designed to hold five full-grown men (middle seatbelt = false advertising). No worries. We rolled down the windows and let bodies bulge out of the makeshift openings. It was just as well, 'cause we still had to pack all the ammo and weaponry. By the end, the backseat passengers represented martian gun platforms with legs.

All this must have appeared--to the casual observer at least--to be some kind of guerilla uprising. ...except for Rascal Flatts singing Stand at full blast through the radio... it kind of ruined the effect.

We rolled into the back woods of a friendly farmer (with the requisite cloud of dust). Doors opened, releasing the flood of pent-up male energy. The contorted backseat passengers briefly regained their human forms... that is, until Randy put on his ghille suit and transformed into a bush. Magazines clicked into place and we donned our rumpled forest-colored caps. Teams picked, we ran for the woods.

60 minutes of chaos ensued.

See, it's no fun to shoot someone with a high-powered airsoft rifle unless you're within 20 feet. Naturally, this meant we had to pick a field of combat where it was impossible to see anyone more than 10 feet away.

Randy, the only player present with a ghille suit, quickly felt like a tennis ball in a velcro factory. Ripping free from bushes--in the process sounding four times bigger than he really was--he used the noise to his advantage. Shadowy figures fled before the barrage of plastic missiles. Trust me, nobody wants to mess with a Bigfoot at any time of day--especially when he's armed.

The charge was shortlived; the retribution quick and severe. A sniper nailed several opposing teammates with 0.28g ammo fired at a velocity of 400 ft/sec. Bigfoot went down. The white flag of truce went up. Everybody recongregated at the spawn point.

We laughed, reloaded, and went back in again...

and again...

Not to be more alarming than necessary, but I've only recounted the airsoft portion of the weekend. The camping itself... well. Let's just say it involved a mixture of the Old Spice Guy, pillow fights, and chopping random stuff into bits... not necessarily in that order.

Male singles--a largely hopeless race...
...but at least we have fun while we're doing it.