The Power Rangers find Jesus. Are you in or in twice?
Fuck allegory. There’s no Santa, inbred Elvis, or heads in jars. This team follows the original, whip-cracking, whip-taking, reason-erasing Jesus. Without those weird red letters.
I rushed the delivery, because I need this. The empire has months left on the clock, and I’m blaspheming while it’s still legal. Armor of God Force is all I could ask for, short of another flood. That won’t be here for at least another summer.
Look at that backyard. It’s like a losing run of Chroma Squad. And worth every cent.
Nah.
Besides, it’s physical-only. Vintage. A vinyl security breach.
Specifically, a thumb drive that will never enter my home. God gave us free will to shield our data. Even the library felt too close to my pin number. I deserve humbling for all the cyberbullying, but I didn’t leave the pews to embrace consequences.
If that sounds paranoid, the Armor of God Force website didn’t inspire confidence.
At a glance, either a scam or a dead dream. They have the same style guide. Per less-broken pages,13 episodes once graced YouTube. Then, when I needed them most, the Armor of God Force channel, website, and shop disappeared. Another lost media martyr. Until June, when I noticed a layout change.
Still borked, but alive. The creator fought for the Power Crusaders. That didn’t deserve my support, but it got it. The sketchy update led to a sketchy Mercari page, where I ordered a sketchy flash drive. Armor of God Force fans prove their faith by crossing the desert of ransomware.
Faith is for other people. I mined this gold on campus. If student collarbones are expendable, so are Stone Age desktops. Lest I sound ungrateful: my copy of Crowdstrike came with merch. As the first viewer of Armor of God Force, I became proud owner of a gel…thing.
Presumably a Monster of the Week, but the details aren’t there. Call it another test of faith. One rewarded with this promo card:
Be nice. The lord provides spiritual succor, not startup funds. Call Mammon for those. Say you’re an Olsteen for a discount.
As for the creator, it’s a bit obscure. I’ve got two suspects. The armor for Shockwave, a Christian breakdancing robot from Juggalo Championship Wrestling (I know, I’ll be back), pops up as a monster. And the Blue Inquisitor’s played by the director of Time Church, a rentable Tupac impersonator. But I’m short on proof, and liars go to comedy hell.
Christ-Powered Rangers. Good Godly Graceborgs. Virtue Troopers. It’s so simple. And in case I’m wrong, there’s a disclaimer.
Too many words. I need that brainpower to repress Leviticus. Luckily, a voiceover follows.
Still too wordy. Let’s sample the power-up montage. It’s the best one since Japanese Spider-Man, as long as you’re not big on visuals or sound. Each inquisitor wields the same foam arsenal:
The voiceover goes for robot, and reaches joy. I’d listen to it read nutrition facts for water. If Armor of God Force ever hires an audio editor, they’ve lost their only customer. The tin-cup echo is as vital as Blue’s dead-eyed stare. Or Purple’s dead-eyed stare. Or Red’s lively indigestion. Actors thrive because projecting “heroic” instead of “lost” takes skill.
Protecting our heroes’ loins from love. And the enemy, I guess. After finishing the season, Blue’s tactical pouches remain a mystery.
In His & Hers, per action tradition. The leader wears the deluxe blue cardboard, instead of the typical red. This is a hipster move, for reasons I can’t explain without boring myself. Think of it as half an Evil Superman.
I’m shocked a nerd product avoided saying “greaves.” Everyone that crouched through Cyrodil has that vocab down.
The Shield of Faith blocks nothing, which reeks of sabotage. There’s a plant on the Armor of God Force team. Maybe Purple’s sneaking off to the library without matches.
Not bad, though Blue’s helmet has a few too many nicks. Pastor Jay already comes off as insane, and head trauma fits too neatly. Make clowns work for that insult.
Then the voiceover says Sword of Spirit, but there’s no pose. Odd. Did the Sword of Spirit have another shoot? Is someone swinging a foam sword at McDonald’s GospelFest?
I’m shocked this idea wasn’t taken. Henshin heroes (again, think Power Rangers/Kamen Rider/Cops) are even more maniac-friendly than cape comics or courts. They have simplicity and a built-in didactic streak. Even Saban executives grocked the basic formula despite organized efforts to miss the point. You could slot in any philosophy without breaking the machine.
Bible campers want to be anywhere else. Why not jangle the flashiest keys possible? If church propaganda was half as fun as Viewtiful Joe or Garo, I’d change nothing. But countless other dorks could be saved.
No one can fuck this up.
I’m wrong again! I should avoid broad declarations. All broad declarations are dumb.
Cell phones? Full access to the Paradise Lost cast, and you blew an episode attacking cell phones?
I’m watching the whole series. Here’s three episodes.
That’s the real name. But I’m not here for the title.
I’m here for the title card. That WordArt’s worth funding madmen. Where else do you get insipid glurge like anxiety superpowers? Disney?
Like Feelings Talking 2, this is an instant classic.
While prior episodes start on Pastor Jay’s porn couch, The Anxietor opens on Pastor Jay’s porn couch. That said, porn’s evolved. The acting and production here’s grimly work-safe.
Our leader recites some punchless scripture:
His friends/minions, Chris and Jessica, sit entranced. It must be something offscreen. While kicking needs setup, sermons in the Blue’s Clues living room feel slow. This puts pills around sugar. Youth group sinners have faster-paced propaganda on their devil phones.
That said, nice Matthew quote. Maxims rarely age this well. “Food works itself out” is much less suicidal advice now then–
Pastor Jay’s right, eating’s fraught enough. He’ll probably remember that next episode. For now, Jay’s worried about donations. His flock of two’s in decline, as we learn through a bit of visual storytelling:
It’s a sympathetic problem. I’d rather lose followers to an earthquake than a grifter called “Max Profit.” He should pivot into a Behemoth cover band. Pastor Jay’s superpowered evil side could debut here, but that’s beyond our budget.
Instead, we get the Robot Devil. He’s called Synastor, but he’s the devil. It’s a better show if he’s The Devil, and I’m trying out good faith. The Devil looks like this in action:
But spends more time in Dr. Claw’s chair, watching Jay taste failure.
But the Devil’s still an overachiever. Instead of leaving well enough alone, he summons an anxiety monster. Action tropes imply a sly type. A gentle manipulator. A classic Charisma/Dex hybrid, whispering sea level projections. Devilish, if you will.
Anxiety is jacked.
You should fear The Anxietor. If Pander Buddies 2 had an accurate panic attack, Armor of God Force has an accurate jumping. The Anxietor wants your shoes, and your brain warned you.
Anxiety beats the blue off Pastor Jay. It doesn’t look great, or good, but the concept sparks joy. Max Profit would’ve been ready.
It’s not close.
The Anxietor has brain powers too, I guess. He uses them instead of feeding Jay more teeth. The pastor fears that his color-coded friends will leave him for a better couch. And hallucinates what they’re definitely thinking:
Armor of God Force reaches for funny, without insight or edge. It could skip both with enough action, but…
It’s a little stiff. Though the declarations remain perfect:
Box office gold.
Jay spends half the rematch bleeding, remembers his sword, and gets stabbing. He also finds his confidence, but arms help more. The second amendment boost is tangible. And comes with bonus scripture:
That’s all it takes. Those of you hooked on science pills should try it. Or put Amy Poehler through the same arc twice.
Or let your feelings hug each other.
When Jay’s metallic voice shouts “Do not be anxious about anything,” my muse tells me I’m done. That 2024’s out of jokes or notable history. To retire, and tend to my true passion grading stories about thinly-disguised exes. But this is my truest passion: putting my hand on a stove and calling the stove dumb.
After the Anxietor, things get dumb.
This round’s title card is a little different.
Do you eat? Stop that shit.
Right, the setup. This is a Purple Crusader episode—the team isn’t into teamwork. You face your literal demons alone. Even when they can overhead press you. Jessica lucks out: her monster’s defined by contempt.
Jessica’s actress, Kimberly Frost, has a better superhero name. But her acting’s on par with Pastor Jay, sans memorization. She sounds like she’s translating her second language into her third.
We’re back to the step-couch, where Purple walks in on Red and Blue listing food. They’re her only friends, so she should feel left out. But we already did insecurity, so she’s thinking about power cleans.
A sign of things to come. Sane gym drones can talk like Jessica, like me for half the year. It’s very normal. But on educational tv, it filters to “stop gorging, piglets.” That sounds cynical, so let’s run it by our master.
Satan agrees. He sends his most insulting soldier to teach our fat planet a lesson: you’re only worth your squat depth. The Glutton can’t walk, fight, or read foodless dialogue. But he can eat, and that’s contagious.
Jessica sees his plumber’s crack, and goes right for murder.
It’s not very effective. For her trouble, she eats The Glutton’s meter burn move: the Binge Belch. The Armor of God Force kind of sucks.
It has a side effect.
It’s subtle.
Discreet. Tasteful.
Hmm.
Expansion’s a green belt fetish, so I can’t toss it around casually. But the likely creator’s a former pro-wrestler, toku fanboy, and Mercari merchant. I have, at best, half his internet madman power. This is expansion.
Granted, my theory’s a stretch. It implies Christian media filters sex through shame. File it away with evolution and gravity.
Anyway, Jessica struggles against the legions of hell. Her friends take an empathetic approach.
Yeah, it’s more scripture. Jay recites the whole “Your body is a temple,” bit, which sounds more like DDBO wrote it every year. And fixes her. Rejecting one piece of cake lets the semaglutide in her soul shine.
Somehow, The Anxietor had better structure. Jessica already deadlifts, making this the story of her learning nothing. And educational, in a way. Good examples of character development get long and brain-hurty. But Glutton offers a simple anti-example. I’m learning from Armor of God Force. Unlike Jessica.
Too thinky. Slashin’ time. Jessica summons a Monster Hunter sword, barbed to prevent healing and encourage infection. A fitting end for the fat.
She successfully cuts down a mascot with the power to not-move. Courage matched by prison guards every day. I see why the Sword of Spirit gets more mileage than the Battleaxe of Sportsmanship. She befriended The Glutton between my cutaway gags, creating a tactical opening.
I don’t know why Jessica gets the ED sermon. Or purple armor. I mean, my brain does, but I ignore that shit for personal zen. God, I love walking alone at night.
This fat-hate gets points–wait for the punchline–for catching me off guard. I’ve labeled garbage long enough to expect rants against evolution. But lesser sinners get their time at knifepoint too. Refreshing. It’s good to know Gilead has some creativity left.
Ah, the fundamentals. I almost thought it wasn’t Groundhog Day.
Armor of God Force treats students to ten episodes of cell phones and self-hate before getting to business. A Darwin allegory had to catch a beating today. Nothing less would fit.
Except Darwin.
Let’s rewind, I think we have the formula down. Title card?
The worst pun I’ve heard in decades, and my favorite. I love this title so much. I struggle to believe this madness occurred naturally. There must be an intelligent hand behind it.
Feature dork?
Chris, the Red Reactionary. He can act with his face on purpose, so he’s comic relief. Or rather, designated idiot on a show by D students. As the power dunce, he falls for reading a non-bible. Classic Chris.
Straw Monster?
Full marks. If a fresh spin on this image showed up every week, I’d stop complaining about the people behind this image.
Humiliating beatdown?
C’mon, man.
For all the Putty Patrol jokes, they helped the Rangers not look worthless.
Lord. We all love Rocky, but there’s an hour of meat-punching before each big loss. The longest Armor of God Force episode is fourteen minutes long. No matter how much scripture you staple to this, it’s a montage of accidental martyrs.
Fuck it. Brainwashing attack?
Subtlety was never an option. Yet zooming in on the Penguin edition feels like new crank territory. Maybe Armor of God Force is getting more efficient over time. By season three, Doctor Divorce will enter, beat Blue into a coma, gloat, and explode within twenty seconds.
Brainwashed hero?
Like clockwork. Note: my clocks screech cognitive dissonance at passerby. Every morning, they hurl Chick Tracts at tourists, commuters, and each other, hoping to drown the future in ink. But the future limps forward, no matter what clocks, heathens, or coastal cities want.
Ah well. Stabbing enemy ideas to death?
Hmm. Putting it that way makes this kid’s show feel off. Let’s avoid that.
Much better. Charles Darwin, bisected and mocked. We’re back to having fun.
Hush.
Charles Darwin, bisected, mocked, and burned. Extra fun!
Wait, is this murder propaganda? I signed on for armored crusaders lasering the unclean, not …ah shit. I need to start thinking things through. Catch you next week.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme:Thomas Cavazos, who is more of a multi-faith non-denominational MegaZord.
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