“Did anyone give you a package to carry?” the security dude asks me. Before I can even think of an honest response, “No” jumps out of my mouth.

I’ve traveled so much that it’s just automatic anymore. All I want is those prying, uncaring, cynical eyes off of me so I can go to the bar and down a tranquilizer before boarding yet another overcrowded flying shitcan. So it was a surreal astonishment when a TSP agent said, “over here please” one afternoon last Christmas before guiding me to the “rape booth” for an uncomfortable violation of my personal space. Here’s how the play-by-play went:

TSP: “Did anyone give you a package to carry for them?”
Me: “No.”
TSP: “Okay.”

Guard 1 looks over at Guard 2 who’s intently studying a bag on the X-Ray. I recognize the bag as mine.

Me: “Oh shit.”
TSP: “What Sir?”
Me: “Nothing.”

Guard 2 gives the super-secret ‘nod of knowing’ to Guard 1, who turns to me.

TSP: “Come this way Sir.”
Me: “Why are you pulling out gloves?”
TSP: “What gloves?”
Me: “Those gloves.”
TSP: “Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about until you see a tube ‘o lube.”
Me: “Don’t joke.”
TSP: “Am I laughing?”
Me: “Is that a question or an attempt to coddle me?”
TSP: “Do you need coddling?”
Me: “Grief counseling will be in order if you break out anything labeled ‘petroleum jelly.’”

Guard 2 gives another nod and I’m sure they’ve just had a telepathic conversation about my impending bodily violation. More guards gather on the fringe, including one with a vicious looking canine. I suddenly know how a steak feels.

TSP: “Sir, I’ll ask again. Did anyone give you anything…”
Me: “It was my mommy!” I blurt out.
TSP: “Your mommy?”
Me: “I mean my mom.”
TSP: “What did she do? Make the big bad boogie man come to town?”
Me: “No! Those closets were terrifying!”
TSP: “Do you have something to hide?”
Me: “No! I mean yes. I mean whatever’s in there, it’s my mom’s fault.”

My shaky voice fails to convince the guard. A rare, uncomfortable silence ensues and although I welcome the lack of sarcastic questions, I want to run. The bomb sniffing ninja dog forces me to reconsider.

TSP: “Do I need to ask?”
Me: “She gave me a gift to give to my sons.”
TSP: “Is it in your bag now?”
Me: “Yes.”
TSP: “But I asked you already if anyone had given you anything and you said no.”
Me: “I know. It was a Pavlovian response.”
TSP: “A what?”
Me: “He had a dog…”
TSP: “I know who Pavlov was.”
Me: “Then why did you…?”
TSP: “Because I’m a bit dismayed to be categorized as a canine experiment. My job isn’t incredibly difficult, but I’m on the front line of stopping another 9-11, sir!”
Me: “I’m not trivializing your job.”
TSP: “But you compared it to Pavlov.”
Me: “I did, I’m sorry.”
TSP: “What’s in your bag?”
Me: “I don’t know. My mother gave me a gift to give to my boys.”
TSP: “You said that.”
Me: “And I was telling the truth.”
TSP: “Finally.”
Me: “I’m not lying.”
TSP: “But your credibility is in question, wouldn’t you agree?”
Me: “You got me there. Please put away that tube. You told me I didn’t have to be worried unless…”
TSP: “We’re going to have to open the gift.”
Me: “And ruin the surprise for my boys?”
TSP: “Would you prefer I open something else?” He holds up the tube for emphasis.
Me: “Sucks for them. Is that a taser?”

“Here’s the wires,” Guard 1 says as he pulls an iPod out of the upper pocket of my backpack.
“The machine says something underneath is organic, though,” Guard 2 interjects, shooting me a suspicious shoe-bomber look. “Cut it open.”
Guard 1 gives the perfectly wrapped box a Jack-the-Ripper and slices it open so efficiently I have an “Iron Chef” flashback. Three guards finger their weapons as the dog drools over my filet-like thigh. I get the feeling everyone has visions of themselves on the cover of Time thwarting another 9-11 and each one wants to be the first to put two in my chest.

“Fed him lately?” I jest as my piss hits the floor next to the drooling dog.

“Are you kidding me?” Guard 2 suddenly lets out as the final piece of wrapping falls away to reveal…Playdo. “Fucking Playdo,” he laments. “Beneath an iPod!” Fourteen guards gently lift their trigger fingers as the brightest part of their day fades away in abysmal disappointment.

“I don’t get it,” I say.
“The X-Ray machine saw an organic material beneath a group of wires. Looked like a bomb,” Guard 1 confides in me as he powers down his taser. “Guess you’re good to go.”

I was allowed to leave unconfined and more thankful than a thoroughbred in a barn full of fillies. But not fourteen steps later the universe taught me a valuable lesson as another man zipped past me. A man running, whether it’s from fear or joy, makes no difference to a dog. We’re all steak to a canine. You just have to be faster than the steak next to you.

Ranger Up President Nick Palmisciano announced today that wages will be raised by 1.4% in 2010.

Ranger Up, the premier military apparel company in the United States, announced today that despite massive growth in 2009, wages would only be raised 1.4% in 2010, mirroring the proposed Armed Forces wage increase.

Many employees, including COO Tom Amenta, was shocked at company president Nick Palmisciano’s announcement. “It’s insane,” reports Amenta, “All year Nick was promising that if we buckled down, improved our operations, and stopped taking martini lunches, the company would be in great shape. Well, we did that. We got rid of our Tilt-a-Whirl, Ball Crawl, and Petting Zoo, and created a surplus, and you know what that hooker and blow addict did with the money? He gave it all to the dudes that run Absolutely Incompetent Guys T-shirt Company across the street. Those assholes threw a drunken go-kart party and we didn’t even get invited. What the hell’s up with that?”

Palmisciano, was quick to defend his actions, explaining that Amenta didn’t understand all the intricacies of what was going on, especially because “Tommy” was notorious for spending roughly two hours a day “combing his hair” in the bathroom. “Look, if AIG T-shirt goes under, that could affect our shirt supplier. If they don’t ship as many t-shirts, our costs could go up, and we may have to fire someone. By my count I just saved at least four jobs. Trust me, it may seem like a bad decision given the fact that Ranger Up employees routinely work 80 hour weeks, have four job titles each, and sleep on cots in the boiler room while the AIG guys enjoy gourmet lunches, BMWs, and office parties filled with local college hotties, all while being completely oblivious to the fact that their business continues to fail, but trust me, this time it will work differently.”

“They literally are burning money,” Amenta retorted. “They don’t know how to use the thermostat, so they burn money to stay warm. This is not going to end well for us.”

When pressed further on why it would work differently, Palmisciano clasped this writer’s shoulder and explained “Because I said so.”

Amenta wasn’t the only employee to topple Palmisciano’s straw man logic. Warehouse manager Whitney Post also had concerns with the new development. “Nick bought one of those lists of potential customers from every piece-of-shit, third world country known to man and handed it to me with a big box of money. He told me to just start mailing it out,” exclaimed Post. “When I asked him why, he told me that as a company, we needed to build international good will. I retorted that there might be a contradiction between selling a shirt with ‘Douchebagistan’ on it and sending the denizens of that country $20 bills, but he just responded, ‘I love Lamp’. What the hell do I do with that?”

Amenta agreed, “Whitney is already handling shipping and customer service – now in addition to fighting those two wars, she has to deal with this humanitarian crap! 1.4% just doesn’t cut it for that much work – I don’t care what is happening in other companies!”

But while donations to other companies and countries are serious employee concerns, perhaps the biggest issue Ranger Up is having in the New Year is its new health care plan, which oddly only offers wart removal, fungal inspections, and tourniquets. Garrett Schemmel, the CMO complained, “Nick has decided to “scrap” big names like Blue Cross and United Health Care for Ranger Up Health. The dude seriously just spent thousands of dollars installing a clinic in the back of the warehouse with a Filipino voodoo specialist, a gallon of Robitussin, and a giant box of 800mg Motrin capsules that’s labeled ‘Ranger Candy’. After it was built, we realized that we didn’t have the kind of money to staff, you know, a giant fucking hospital, so we took out a loan, putting what was a profitable company into hock. Even with that, all we could pick up was a couple of retired Candy Stripers, so we’re putting Kelly Crigger through medical school. The company is now stretched thin, our healthcare is at the whims of the incompetent, and Crigger is walking around in a candy striper uniform and heels. Disturbing.”

“I want to introduce him to Helga the five knuckled proctologist,” offered Crigger as he threw his rubber doctor’s hammer at Palmisciano’s command photo. “I’m a professional writer and a Lieutenant Colonel. I’m sure as shit not checking Amenta’s balls once a year!”

Amenta agreed, “No one touches my balls but me!”

“That’s what she said,” offered Post.

So do these recent developments mean the end of Ranger Up? “Nah,”mumbles Amenta, “I love this job too much and I think it’s too important. I mean, yeah, it’d be nice if Nick appreciated how hard we worked, got his nails dirty, and put himself in our shoes every once in a while instead of embracing the limelight and worrying about magazine covers and which UFC star he was hanging out with, but at the end of the day, I don’t do it for him. I do it for the guys we ship to.”

After a quiet pause, Post added, “Yeah, but you know…fuck 1.4%”

Schemmel nodded., “Yeah fuck it right in the ear. That shit won’t even cover my higher tax rate.”

And Ranger Up marches on.

Tim Kennedy’s Workout – 17 February 2010

• Row 400m
• Dead-lift 150lbs dumbbells in each hand (1 rep)
• Dead-lift 140lbs dumbbells (2 reps)
• Dead-lift 130lbs dumbbells (3 reps)
• Dead-lift 120lbs dumbbells (4 reps)
• Dead-lift 110lbs dumbbells (5 reps)
• Dead-lift 100lbs dumbbells (6)
• Dead-lift 90lbs dumbbells (7)
• Dead-lift 80lbs dumbbells (8)
• Dead-lift 70lbs dumbbells (9)
• Dead-lift 60lbs dumbbells (10)
• Dead-lift 50lbs dumbbells (11)
• Row 400m

Time to beat 5:58

Middle of the pack 6:32

Last man 9:03

See Tim’s other MMA/Crossfit workouts>>

For those of you who’ve never been out of the country or deployed during any era of military service, chances are you’ve read some of the posts on this website or headlines from our current Long War and tried to imagine what it would be like to find yourself in some far-off land, thousands of miles from your home. Those of you who have probably find many distinct memories and experiences called to mind each time you think about your travels, regardless of how or why you wound up there. I’m no different, really. But given my current circumstances, I’m compelled to impress upon you one solid fact:

It’s a totally different ballgame when you’re on a boat.

(Except Grin & Barrett, who was probably a loblolly boy on the maiden voyage of USS Constitution… but I digress.)

The trip to Haiti was actually pretty damn fast for this tub – we made “best possible speed” as directed, and that was about 24 knots. Slow going, until you consider that this “small deck” displaces about 11,500 tons – empty.

Four or five days underway were just enough to notice little things like a gentle swaying motion when you lay down to sleep at night, or the deck moving up to meet your feet on occasion. After that, we were anchored for a good three weeks or so – just long enough to lose our collective sea legs. We were there long enough that the battle cry among Marines shifted from “Kill Bodies!” to “Save Babies!” (Seriously.) Then, a few days ago days ago, the fun REALLY started…

I never in my life imagined that (for a strictly random example) sharing one-third of a $400 St. Patrick’s Day bar tab in Chapel Hill and staggering down Franklin Street at 3am would be considered a perfectly-tailored military training opportunity. Yet whenever I try to walk down one of the narrow 40-foot long passageways on this can, that’s exactly what it’s like. Well, everything except that I’m perfectly sober and my body still isn’t moving the way it should.

Thankfully, I’m a big fan of roller coasters and I’m very easily amused, because this is all still cool as shit to me. We hit 28 degrees pitch fore and aft today, and I’m sure we’ve exceeded that in roll more than once. Standing amidships having a cigarette this morning, I couldn’t stop looking out over the gunwales on each side of the ship to see nothing but water… wait 6 or 8 seconds, and… nothing but sky. One of our machinegunners, a 6’4” twentysomething broad-shouldered stud, was leaning against the bulkhead, covering his eyes and sweating profusely. After about the third time I saw his face go completely ashen, I made sure to tell him he was missing out on some good chili-mac on the messdeck for lunch, and they still had plenty of greasy steamed cabbage to go with it.

(I’m sure he’ll probably bag-tag me next time we go ashore, but I just couldn’t resist – it was totally worth it to see spontaneous projectile vomiting without a game of beer pong involved.)

Luckily, most of the embarked Marines are adjusting to the new experience with no problems. As we slide by each other in the p’ways, Marines have already started cracking jokes, many referencing a recent late-night comedy skit:

“Hey, Sergeant, how are ya?”

“I’m ON A BOAT, motherfucker, ON A BOAT!!!”

Being underway also greatly enhances my dull, everyday routine of paperwork, meetings, and general busywork. When I open the armory each morning, I make a little Indiana Jones-style game out of trying to undog the 200 lb. hatch and latch it open with a tiny metal hook before the sea swells roll us and the thing slams shut on one of my more useful body parts. I thank God that I was able to find enough Class III giganto padlocks to secure all my gun lockers last week, because I can also hear the constant, rhythmic CLANK… (pause a few seconds) CLONK! as the spare barrels of my .50 cals shift around on the racks inside. When I sit at my desk to check email and write my morning sight count, it’s as if I’m in an F-16 going 350 knots, gently yanking & banking with no rhyme or reason. Honestly, the typos are not because I’m a dumbass – I just haven’t discovered the best way to zip-tie this damn keyboard to the desk.

Though the novelty of it all probably won’t wear off for the entire trip, it has given me still more appreciation for my predecessors who clawed their way across the Pacific and terrorized veteran Japanese forces island by island in World War II. Yeah, okay, I know Guadalcanal sucked because of the heat, the devastating arty and machinegun fire sweeping the beaches during the invasion, the lack of supplies (thanks, NAVY!), building an airfield with captured enemy equipment, shitting all over yourself from malaria, and other generally accepted inconveniences that come with the territory.

What I’m beginning to realize is that even with a few months’ training and some liberty in Australia or New Zealand before making that initial assault… the ride over had to REALLY SUCK. At least my boat’s comfortable and has good chow… cable TV and Facebook access too, even!

All in all, it’s been a blast so far – and long overdue. The past several years have seen the Corps rotating mass deployments of our most capable combat units through Iraq and Afghanistan for extended inland operations. We’ve lost much of our currency and inherent identity as an expeditionary amphibious force, without which we become “another 82nd Airborne” – no disrespect intended. As a force and as individuals, we need to get back to the point where forced entry from the sea comes naturally, for a Platoon or for three Divisions. That’s what makes the Marine Corps unique and necessary to the defense of our nation. We hit the beach en masse, kill many bad guys, and sustain ourselves until the job is done.

It has crossed my mind in the past couple of days that I would rather be “where the thunder is”, alongside some personal friends who kicked off Operation Moshtarak this week.

Then again, if I can’t go and get some, my second choice would be going somewhere ON A BOAT…

I’m a pretty easy going guy.

I don’t tend to get too spooled-up over this-and-that (unless, of course, we’re talking about a ridiculous YouTube video by “Rock the Vote.”). But by and large, I’m not prone to temper tantrums, raising my voice, or spouting off with a long tirade of profanity laced emotional explosions. But even the most even-keeled (self professed anyway), level headed of us are bitten by the freak-out bug now and again.

My most notable “freak-out” occurred recently when I walked into the latrine following one of “those guys.”

You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one that believes that the entire stall is his crapping ground, and he has absolutely no regard for the poor schmuck who mistakingly walks up to the latrine post-devastation.

After walking in and having every bodily sense shut down in self-induced defense, I fled the latrine as fast as possible.

What’s a man to do in response? After all, there needs to be SOME latrine etiquette, doesn’t there?

Post an articulate and respectable written response, of course.

Dear Disgusting Pig Who Left This Mess:

If you are not able to clean up your disgusting mess in the future, please refrain from using this public restroom. You are not the only one who uses it, and no one else wants to deal with the horrible smell or sight of your child-like defecation. The fact that there was no toilet paper in the bowl, which was full of brown water and poop, leads me to believe that you are incapable of wiping yourself either. I’m sure you didn’t wash your hands when you were done, and you run the risk of infecting everyone else in the BN. If you are not able to clean up after yourself, then please do not use this bathroom again. If I catch anyone leaving a mess like this in the future, you will be cleaning it up with a toothbrush.

- CPT XXXXX (I would be happy to discuss with you if you wish)

Of course I didn’t leave CPT XXXXX at the bottom. I was happy to give my name for anyone who wanted to “hunt me down.” Reactions from my superiors were swift and varied. I got a few pats on the back, and a few kicks in the ass. After I got a call at home from an angry field grade, my wife pointed out the most obvious flaw of logic in my note. I may not have the authority to make someone “clean it up with a toothbrush,” as the perpetrator could have been a superior, or a civilian.

I suppose we all have our moments of temporary blind rage. Perhaps I should have saved mine for a more appropriate, or more significant moment, but sometimes you just gotta’ tell it like it is.

If you’ve had a temper tantrum you’d like to share, we’d love to hear about it.

Vets from the Sitter and Barfoot Veterans Care Center

Folks, we just got this great note from Sitter & Barfoot Veterans Care Center, founded by two Medal of Honor Recipients. Just wanted to share the great note and the great picture.

During the height of Colonel Barfoot’s battle with the Sussex County Homeowners Association, the Ranger Up community urged us to send Colonel Barfoot some shirts to show our support. We did…and he marched right to the Veterans Care Center he cofounded and gave them all away.

Just awesome. Thanks to everyone here for getting his address and thanks to Colonel Barfoot for reminding us once again why we love him.

Letter from Sitter & Barfoot Veterans Care Center

Ranger Up brings back the Two-Martini Lunch

Who says you have to wait until the sun sets to drink? Getting schnokered in the middle of the day was an executive privilege going back to the days of Romans, Mead, and the always entertaining Coliseum until a bunch of clumsy, tea-totaling Jodies ruined it for all of us by losing too many fingers in wayward heavy machinery accidents. Just when we thought the hell of public bra burnings and pepper spray-laced political conventions was over, America got a conscience, kicked the hard-living Rat Pack to the curb, and mumbled “I’ll never drink again” like a sorority chick on an early morning walk of shame. Overnight, getting buzzed at work was a bad thing.

Well, this is America where unnecessary indulgences are a rite of entrepreneurial passage, so Old Blue Eyes would be proud to know that Ranger Up’s World Headquarters in Raleigh/Durham is a den of gin and vermouth-laced iniquity and profanity between the hours of 1130 and 1300. Wars, laws, and trade routes have been fought over booze, so this small company has tapped into the siren song of libation to get a leg up on the competition. Gird your loins.

“There simply isn’t enough self-righteous egoism in the workplace anymore,” says Ranger Up CEO and Supreme Overlord Nick Palmisciano while killing his first slightly wet, three-olive Hendrix martini. “All these rhinestone and foil wearing, faux hawk coiffed pantyweights don’t know jack about being a revolutionary. Two fingers of your favorite poison was a lunchtime staple for our fathers, but ever since the Carter Administration, everyone’s been uptight about drinking at work…even when we were in the Army. What kind of crap is that?”

Chief Marketing Officer Garrett Schemmel, barely competent after a pair of sugar-rimmed Appletinis, describes the new tactic this way: “One martini is nothing more than an unsatisfying appetizer…like the Minnesota Vikings…and we knew three was too much when a hide-and-seek game didn’t end until we discovered Tommy six days later camping in the rafters like a caveman. Two is just right. It stimulates the creative brain cells, which in turn kill the unproductive ones. So it’s really like brain cell Darwinianism. The weak cells die off leaving the herd stronger…until nap time of course.”

So far the net effect of the two-martini lunch has been limited to a Jackson Pollack wall covered with plans of unrealized world domination, lists of esoteric nonsense like “Kama Sutra uses for peanut butter,” and a collection of crayon drawings depicting RU employees bloodily decimating the greatest MMA fighters. “It’s mostly jibberish with an occasional nugget of stupid,” says Tim Kennedy, who enjoys a vodka martini without vodka. “I don’t know how a fully automated flux capacitor will turn a profit, so I crossed it out and wrote ‘V-necks’ because that shit’s money.”

“We’re still not sure who wrote, ‘I’m a genius surrounded by small vocabularies.’ but I suspect it was our resident curmudgeon, Crigger,” says Tommy Batboy as he polishes off a Tropic-tini and eats the orange, rind and all.

Of course, combining booze and work invariably has its downside. Recently Ranger Up had to let go of their temporary worker, Danielle, because she used the term “inappropriate touching” one too many times. The company also suffered a setback when Tommy donned a Beefeater outfit and trudged the hallways with a giant axe looking for a Queen to behead in order to ‘add realism to the martini coven.’ Thankfully Nick streaking by wearing only fuzzy bunny feet gave Whitney the chance to sweep his leg and put him in a triangle choke before the company’s lawyer woke up.

“It’s not Bacchanalian orgy, at least not a good one,” says Whitney, “but replacing food with intemperance at lunch certainly helps dull the ringing dissonance of Tommy’s apoplexy and dampens Nick’s irritating capriciousness. I mean, it’s cool…as long as they don’t bring back Thighmaster Thursdays. Disturbing.”

Proudly brought to you by the Rhino News Network

Tim Kennedy’s Workout – 06 January 2010

As many kettlebell snatches (from ground to overhead) as you can do in 10 minutes. (40lbs)

Reps to beat: 290

Lex McMahon, Ranger Up’s loved contributing writer, was interviewed recently, along with MC Hammer.

There may have been some gold thrown around.

Just saying.

MC Hammer Interview by Lex McMahon