Esquire correspondent Doug Stanton describes his experiences at a New Warrior Weekend Adventure retreat, October, 1991. A staff member whose "warrior name" was "Scowling Beaver" has just juggled two oranges in front of "Jackrabbit," one of Stanton's fellow attendees. "I want my balls back, Mother!" Jackrabbit bellows. In response, Scowling Beaver orders the other weekenders to form a human barricade around Jackrabbit. Stanton picks up the action:

"Give 'em to me you bitch!" Jackrabbit screams. He crashes into us with a sweaty whump, reaching for the oranges, blood draining from his face. We stop him. He backs up, rockets ahead again.

"I can't go on," he groans.

"You can do it!" we yell.

"MOTHER OF GOD!" He's never felt this strong before! He's always been an accountant, and now the Wildman's energy beats in his heart, his guts, his balls! No, wait, not his balls, his mother has his balls. She turned him into a wimp, always told him to be a good boy, never let him piss in the sink. He raises his left hand—his sword!—and charges, panting like a plow horse, busting through the knot of men, emerging on the other side.

He halts, stunned, spins on his feet, and stares murderously at the oranges, like a psychopath in a fruit market. Scowling Beaver hands over the fruit, what he's paid $550 for at the door.

"I got 'em back! I got 'em back!" Jackrabbit shouts gleefully.

He hops to the stone ledge, sticks a plastic baseball bat between his legs, and waves his new weenie at us, his exhausted face streaming with joy.

"This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Stanton concludes.

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