Last week I traveled to Africa to build a well for an orphanage. During my missionary, local tribesmen did me the great honor of asking if I'd accompany them for the day's hunt. Being a smart man, I happily obliged. Although experienced bushmen, they ended up learning a trick or two from Boy Georgia. They had planned to encircle an injured lion, thinking him an easy target. I followed along for the time being, but something told me the winds were blowing for a reason that day. Turns out the lion was bait, a glistening shimmer of succulence laying on the savannah meant to lure whomever's foolishness was adequate. Before shove came to push, a half pride of lions and lionesses were upon us. The bushmen began to pray to their incorrect deities, convulsing in dance prayers the likes of which I haven't seen since Mississippi. The sweat on my brow only served to cool me, as I drew back on my bow and and delivered Truth Arrows home to rest in each cat. It could have been a bloody end to their tribe, but luckily Boy Georgia was there to settle the dust. To this day their Chief follows me on Twitter.