OKAY.

I have no idea what I was expecting from my little rendevous with Sir Dork.
Actually, I do. My plan was as follows:
Step 1: I would sit there in the congregation, glaring at him with my beady little eyes, scaring him, and obviously intimidating him to the point of exasperation, in which he'd bolt off the altar in tears like a six-year-old girl.
Step 2: I'd stalk around the church, waiting for him to repeat Step 1, knowing full well that I was still there and ready to attack.
Step 3: I walk up to him in the midst of his adoring public, and watch his eyes grow in magnitude and sheer terror. Finally, repeat Step 1.
Ha. That's a nice thought. This is what actually happened:
Step 1: Pretty much the same as planned, minus the "bolting off the altar in tears" bit.
Step 2: Again, same as planned, minus the famed Step 1.
Step 3: I hid around a pillar, in what appeared to be a line of people (Read: adoring public.) waiting for a handshake and so on. No running and crying, much to my disappointment.
But that wasn't the scary part. He finished schmoozing, walked up to me, and hugged me.
Hugged me.
There is so much wrong with that sentence, and not just grammatically speaking.
Anyway, he continued on, in a much more jovial manner than I was hoping for, and invited me to join the parish. Like, "attend every week so that I have to see Derk constantly, so that he can rub into my face that not only is he a pastor, but he's the pastor of one of the wealthiest churches this side of Norway, not to mention the fact that he has the entire place to himself, including a two car garage."
Like I said: "Invited."
I don't understand it. He was so nice. I had every intention of going in there and systematically destroying his feeble little mind, yet I was left with a null and void reaction of "nice."
Not funny. Really.