Action Skeptics Storytime: Mallrat Missionary Mistakes

Sadly enough, this story does not involve Jay and Silent Bob. Were they present when this happened to me, it would have made things much more bearable. As it was, I was alone, in a strange mall, with strange people following me for almost an hour. I made many mistakes that day, which I will spell out in no uncertain terms, that you and your children might not make the same mistakes.

It all began way back when, in my freshman year of high school...

I had just moved back to the Mid after a two-year stint in California's Bay Area. Needless to say, it was a somewhat disheartening move. Nevertheless, we tried to make it happy and so one of the first things we did was drive from our new home in Indiana to our old home in Ohio to visit some old friends. Good times were had. I think.

On our way back home, we stopped in a newly-constructed mall in our old hometown. The family split up to go do their own things, and I went to a music store and bought a CD. I took my new CD to a bench near the entrance we had used and began looking over the liner notes while waiting for the family to meet back up. I was flipping pages in the little booklet when I looked up to see a chubby, blue-shirted, bespectacled teenager standing in front of me, an Ichi the Killer grin on his face. With him was another fat, greasy-looking fellow in a red shirt, also smiling.

I was immediately wary.

"Hi!" Blue Shirt said to me. "My name is Blue Shirt! This is Red Shirt! What's your name?"

I was younger than them, but not by much. That did not, however, stop them from speaking to me in the same tone of voice that Gordon would use on Big Bird. They were looking down on me, figuratively and literally, and I didn't like it. As such, I gave a simple two-syllable reply, a moniker given me by many an ignorant person who mistook the sound of my last name, a name that I hoped would make them think twice about bugging me. And no, you don't get to know my last name.

"Reefer," I said. "They call me Reefer."

Mistake Number One: Never try to get missionaries to go away by pretending to be a generic hardcase. It will only cause them to redouble their efforts.

"Reefer!" said Blue Shirt, as his smile somehow widened to show more teeth than I thought could fit in a human head. It was grotesque, like a John Kricfalusi cartoon. "Reefer! Nice to meet you!" He and Red Shirt stuck out their hands.

Mistake Number Two: Never shake hands with a missionary. Touching your heathen skin will not cause them to recoil in fear or burn like a vampire touching a cross. Rather, the act of physical contact causes them such Pentecostal glee that they almost start speaking in tongues.

"Reefer!" Blue Shirt exaclaimed with abandon, as if it was the finest name ever. "Reefer! Do you believe in god, Reefer?" It was strange and morbidly funny to hear my long-lamented, involuntary pseudo-nickname used with such enthusiasm.

I shook my head. "Can't say that I do, man."

They both started nodding like mad, and the smiles never left their face. "Uh huh, uh huh," said Blue Shirt, as if what I had said was somehow to his liking. "But let me ask you something, Reefer: have you ever read the Bible?"

"Not all the way through, but most of it, yes. I did go to Catholic school for two years."

"Oh, Catholic school!" Here's something I found out about missionaries that day: their apparent happiness is inversely proportional to their positive thoughts on what you say. I realized that as his smile threatened to burst his eardrums. "Yes, you can learn a lot there! But let me ask you something, Reefer: did you know that Jesus died for your sins?"

"That's what they tell me," I said, without enthusiasm, "but I don't believe it." I got up and made to leave. They didn't move, so I more-or-less politely carved out a space by using seven years worth of ice hockey knowledge to shoulder through them. "I gotta go, guys. I have to find my family. We're about to leave."

"Okay, Reefer! Okay! god bless, Reefer, god bless!"

Mistake Number Three: Never politely excuse yourself when dealing with missionaries. They see this as an opportunity to further the chase.

I went wandering randomly through the mall, looking for anything but a missionary. Periodically, I'd see them lurking around a corner and quickly duck into a store and lose myself in the merchandise. This worked well for about ten minutes until my Mall Ninjutsu skills failed me. Red Shirt and Blue Shirt were fast approaching, and they were bringing their friend Beret.

Beret looked like a beatnik: black beret, black shirt, black jeans, goatee. Except a beatnik wouldn't be caught dead with a shirt that had on its front "www.jesus.come." Cause, like, the man tries to use his authority to make you believe, man, and, like, it just ain't cool, man. Dig? Fingersnaps follow.

"Hey, Reefer!" Blue shirt greeted me. "Reefer, it's so good to see you again! This is our friend Beret! We were just telling him about you!"

"Oh, really..." I tried to find an exit but couldn't. I was surrounded. It was like that scene in Equilibrium, where they find Christian Bale escorting people out of the factory, except I didn't have guns and mad martial arts skills. Yet.

"Hey, Reefer!" exclaimed Beret. "Reefer, it's so good to meet you! They said that you don't believe in God? Come on, Reefer, come on!" The old Argument Ad O'Reillium.

"No, I don't. Sorry, guys, but I gotta find my family so we can leave."

"Come on, Reefer! Don't you want to talk?"

"No. Not with you."

"Why don't you believe in God?"

Mistake Number Four: Do not try to reason with a missionary. They have very poor critical thinking skills and will try to win you over with only bombast and enthusiasm in the best of cases. In the worst of cases, they'll threaten you with Hell.

"Well, there's no real evidence for him."

"Come on, Reefer, come on! The Bible!"

"The Bible isn't necessarily true."

"But it says right inside it that God wrote it!" I know, it sounds like something Stephen Colbert would say with the utmost of irony, but this guy actually said it.

"That doesn't mean--" A stroke of luck. I saw my father and sister exiting a Spencer Gifts. "There's my dad, guys, gotta go." I again shoved through and met up with my dad. I explained to him the entire surreal experience of being stalked by missionaries. I pointed them out to him. They tried to look busy and walked off in the other direction. My dad laughed and said that the family wasn't quite done, that I should go find something else to do. I expressed my desire not to leave his side ever again, lest the crazies find me and devour me in some strange reverse Transubstantiation ritual, but he pushed me away.

Away I went, frightened like I had never been before.

I found myself moments later in another music store. I wandered back to the video section (this was in the early days of DVD) to seek a video of Nirvana's Unplugged in New York concert, the album that is still my favorite of theirs. I found it, and was reading over the back when I sensed a presence.

Literally, like with my sense of hearing. I heard him scream "Reefer!"

I jumped. Not kidding here. Blue Shirt, Red Shirt, and Beret had followed me to the music store and purposely snuck up on me as I was looking for Kurt Cobain's final opus and yelled my "name."

"Oh...Hey guys..."

"Whatcha lookin' at? Nir...vana? Awesome. So, Reefer, we wanted to continue our discussion." Blue Shirt seemed to be the most prolific speaker of the trio.

Mistake Number Three-Point-One: Never continue being polite to a missionary. It only feeds the flames of their conversion zeal.

"Well, okay."

"Why don't you believe in God?"

"I thought I already told you that. There's no evidence for his existence."

"Come on, Reefer, come on! Duh! That's why they call it 'faith!'"

It was at that point that I made my first correct decision: I became stone cold and forthright, told them exactly what I wanted in a manner that brooked no misunderstanding.

"Look, asshole, I absolutely do not want to be having this conversation with you right now or ever. Now leave me the hell alone before I find security and tell them how you've been following me around for the past half an hour."

Finally, I cracked their smiles. Blue Shirt's jaw dropped and Beret looked askance as if searching for The Fuzz. Red Shirt's eyes about popped out of his skull. I finally had them, or so I thought.

"Fine, Fine, Reefer. We just wanted to have a quiet discussion, but if that's how you feel, we'll leave you alone. But can we pray for you?"

"Sure. Whatever. Pray for me all you want."

Mistake Number Five, AKA "The Big One": Never, ever, under any circumstances, tell a missionary that it's okay for him to pray for you. He does not mean what you think he means. He isn't going to bring "Reefer" in his heart to his next prayer circle and call out to the almighty that he save the poor, misguided soul. He's not going to include "And please save Reefer" before dinner. No, my friends, no. The truth is far, far worse.

All at once, in a high-velocity mess of flab and Christian body hair, I had six greasy hands pawing at me. They each found a hold, and six Christian heads bowed so violently I'm surprised they didn't get whiplash. A murmer of near-unintelligible prayerspeak came from every mouth; all I could catch was the odd "Christ," "Holy Spirit," and "Reefer," and the ending, an in-unison "In Jesus' name we pray for Reefer. Amen."

I was too completely flabbergasted to punch someone in the fucking face. I just stood there, dumbfounded, as these dipshits groped me like I was Kent Hovind in prison. When they were done, I extricated myself from the cage of limbs, put the video back, and left, my mind reeling and the strangeness of what had just happened to me. I did not see them again.

And, much to their chagrin, I'm sure, I continued not believing.

There is an easy alternative to every mistake I made: be completely direct and as much of an asshole as you can stomach. Nothing else will breach the shields of their zeal. Only abject rudeness will serve you when your adversary is one of such high ignorance. Passive-aggression, politeness, reason, none of these things will serve. Feel the Force around you and channel it into being a huge dick. Think Dr. House; it's that level of dick.

Interestingly, all of these mistakes, as well as the correct course of action, are all also applicable to females who find themselves being pursued by an undesireable male. Keep that in mind, ladies. I'm here to serve.