Myself: An idol mind is the devil's workshop, warns the proverb, and much of the random violence we've been seeing in news reports lately could simply be the tragic cost of excessive inactivity. In the absence of a bloody war, perhaps we need more camping organizations to keep potential mass murderers safely preoccupied through their sensitive years, while at the same time teaching them valuable survival skills.
Smuthers: I was a Tour Guide.
Myself: Bravo, my dear. However, such traditional clubs as the Tour Guides and the Eagle Cubs might not be everyone's cup of tea. Some may want more exotic skills.
Smuthers: Such as?
Myself: Such as those acquired by training in the desert rather than the forest. The Divine Caravan offers young outdoorsmen looking for adventure the rare opportunity to pitch their tents in the Middle Eastern desert. And if it prevents violence, I'm all for it. And now would you please welcome the Commander in Chief of the Divine Caravan, Achmed L. Kebbab. (Applause. Enter Kebbab in army fatigues with Arab headwear and sunglasses. We exchange greetings.) Glad you could make it.
Kebbab: We are pleased for any attention to our righteous cause.
Myself: You deserve it. I hear that one of the skills you teach is mining. That's very practical. And good exercise, all that digging.
Kebbab: There is only a little digging, just enough to bury the explosives.
Myself: And let the dynamite do the digging! I should have guessed. Why bother with a pick and shovel? I understand you also provide some good old fashioned religious instruction.
Kebbab: The disciple must be prepared to lay down his life for the holy cause.
Myself: Beautiful. Isn't that what faith boils down to in the end, self sacrifice?
Kebbab: To sacrifice one's life in the destruction of a thousand enemies brings greater glory to the lamb.
Myself: (After silent consideration) I suppose one wants to be prepared for the worst. And as a bonus you teach a course in knife safety. Very useful.
Kebbab: Bayonet safety.
Myself: Bayonets? Are they better for the snakes?
Smuthers: Sir, upon casual examination, your camping association strikes me as a rather transparent front for some kind of radical paramilitary group.
Kebbab: Must I answer to this woman?
Smuthers: (To me) Nice guests you invite here.
Myself: Well, you asked for it with your absurd accusation! There's nothing radical about camping in the desert. It's perfectly innocent. (To Kebbab) By the way, where is your camp?
Kebbab: Armageddon.
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Myself: He leads an environmental group called the Green Militia, whose highly trained members are charged with protecting our forests. Let's hear it for Milton Filby! (Cheers. Filby in green coveralls descends slowly from the high ceiling with a jet pack and lands upright. We exchange greetings and take our seats.) Nice landing.
Filby: Thank you. We find our jet packs indispensable in the woods.
Myself: I bet. Your community must be grateful for the efforts of your volunteer fire brigade.
Filby: We're just happy to help the trees.
Myself: Very noble of you.
Filby: Our patrols keep their torches burning around the clock, on the lookout for firebugs.
Myself: Torches? No flashlights? Aren't torches a bit of a fire hazard?
Filby: In a survival situation, you might not have a flashlight.
Myself: (Abject) True.
Filby: And when we spot a firebug, we send a smoke signal to mark the location.
Myself: Smoke signal? You start a fire in the woods to report a firebug?
Filby: What have we got to lose?
Myself: Don't you have telephones?
Filby: In a survival situation, you might not have a telephone.
Myself: (Sighing) Perhaps.
Filby: To perform our duty we need only our bare hands.
Myself: Commendable.
Filby: And our flame throwers.
Smuthers: I was waiting for that.
Myself: Let me guess, in a survival situation, you might not have a tank, right?
Filby: We need to accommodate the dual purpose functionality of our equipment. (Demonstrating) You plug a hose in this jet pack and it converts directly to a flame thrower.
Myself: (Aghast) Why do you need that?
Filby: To flush out the firebugs who lurk in the brushwood.
Myself: For God's sake! Doesn't that start forest fires?
Filby: Not at all.
Myself: I don't believe you. And I'm beginning to have grave doubts about the ultimate reliability of your fire brigade.
Filby: Hey, we're just trying to fight fire with fire.
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(A small child takes her first baby steps towards her mother.)
Narrator: It's a small step from walking to shooting an assault rifle.
(The child runs amok, making a mess.)
Narrator: Try to see the warning signs.
(The mother apprehends the child, pulls out her pacifier, and pops in a gummy.)
Narrator: The sooner the treatment, the more complete the recovery.
(The child is returned unconscious to her crib. The mother starts tidying up.)
Narrator: Curb childhood aggression with Neuro-Blitz Chewables.
Myself: As the Grand Guardian of the Maidens of the Dawn, she leads a club that introduces girls to the challenges of outdoor life. Please welcome Valerie Frieze! (Enter Frieze, in the armour of a hoplite. I lead her to the guest chair.) So you train in the rainforest. That's quite a commitment.
Frieze: We take our vow seriously.
Myself: What vow is that?
Frieze: To protect the Amazon.
Myself: I should have guessed. What outdoor skills do you teach?
Frieze: Our hunting program is comprehensive. We start by showing the girls how to carve their own bows.
Myself: You can make a deadly weapon out of a harmless branch?
Frieze: A harmless branch and a sharp knife.
Myself: Oh, right.
Frieze: We're thinking of combining hunting with horseback riding. We can always use more mounted archers.
Myself: Well, it's better than leaving restless girls on the street to get into mischief on their summer vacations.
Frieze: I agree.
Myself: What other programs do you offer?
Frieze: Too many to name. Rowing, longboat construction, astrology, rocketry...
Myself: Rocketry?
Frieze: Yes, we have a launch site in the Andes.
Smuthers: Rocketry? That's not an outdoors activity.
Myself: Where do you practice it? In the basement?
Smuthers: I mean it's kind of technical for the forest.
Frieze: We must attend to the Lance of Minerva.
Smuthers: Lance of Nirvana?
Frieze: The mighty Lance of Minerva stands ready to smite the intruders on the day of reckoning.
Smuthers: As in Doomsday?
Myself: Miss Frieze, just how mighty is this lance?
Frieze: It can strike across the heavens on a pedestal of fire.
Myself: I see. And does it roar with the thunder of supreme authority?
Frieze: Why, yes! That is precisely how it roars!
Myself: And does it impact with the blinding fury of a hundred suns?
Frieze: You know the hidden words! (Smuthers groans.)
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