Entertainers exist (as their job title implies) to entertain us. They’re supposed to sing and dance and act and make us forget about our woes and in return we pay them money so they can stay off welfare. But at some point along the way, the entertainment community convinced themselves that they are important enough to make policy and change the world (ever seen Martin Sheen cover himself in fake blood outside Fort Benning? Sad). The vast majority are straight up narcissists who love their flawless mirror images and have lost sight of the relationship between entertainer and fan. They exist for us, not the other way around.

So who’s pissed me off this time? Sarah McLachlan. More specifically, Sarah McLachlan’s record label. You see, I invited the Canadian siren to a formal ball honoring the partnership of American and Canadian Special Forces (called Menton Day) because I thought she may be interested in singing the national anthems of each country to mark the event. It was for the troops and since we’re living in an era of abundant military support, it should have been a no-brainer. I followed up the invitation with a polite phone call three weeks after sending it, which I didn’t think an impertinence to anyone. By the time I got through to Alpha Prime records, all I got was voice mail. So I tried again the next day. Another voice message. I waited two more days to call again, thinking myself to be a burden if I kept calling daily. I got the voice mail once again. I knew I was calling busy people, but by now I was feeling a bit blown off. I’m not exactly sitting around with nothing to do all day except call a singer’s errand boys to see if she would play our gig, but it’s important to my organization, so I persisted. I called a fourth time and finally got ahold of a female who claimed to represent Sarah. Elated, I described my situation, asking if Sarah would sing at our function. The response:

“You know you’re calling a record label, right?”

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“This is a recording company you’re calling. You do realize how busy we are and that you’re asking her to sing for soldiers at no cost, right?”

Bruce Banner’s “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry” echoed in my head. Rambo’s gigantic meaty hand crushed the phone to my ear. Were I an X-Man the phone lines would have melted spontaneously. Before I went 1955 and burned her satanic rock ‘n roll records in the nearest public square, I quickly went through the top five responses in my head:

5. Busy? I’m guessing you’ve got a crock-pot full of moose penis that you have to tend to. My bad.

4. That’s great public relations-ridicule the trained killer in the room. What’s the address of your building again?

3. If you represented those Canadian idols, Bob and Doug Mackenzie, I would feel bad about bothering you, but we’re talking about the chick who coordinated that man-hating Lesbian Fest, Lillith Fair.

2. If it wasn’t for soldiers like us,Canada would be a Soviet Republic full of socialist degenerates eating Borscht, singing Das Kapital, and learning to goosestep on the weekends.

1.The fact that you’ve mastered your opposing thumbs is a triumph of evolution. Now use one of them to turn the “Bitch” dial down a few thousand notches and be productive.

I went with response #1 and was hung up on.

“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 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

“How you doing today, Major?” an old guy in civie clothes says to me one afternoon in Afghanistan. I wasn’t surprised by the greeting as much as where it happened-in the JOC. My JOC. I was the JOC chief and some old guy had just invaded it like he was Josey Wales and even greeted me politely. Cheers to that, but my only thought was, “who let this guy in here?” Before I could utter as such, a small crest on his shirt that I immediately recognized as the Medal of Honor stopped me in my tracks.

Holy fuck, was about all I could get my mind to think before he shook my hand. “I’m good, Sir. How are you?” I replied, suddenly humbled.

His name was Robert Howard and he was about the studliest son of a bitch you’ll ever hear about. I call him a son of a bitch with the full reverence of a fellow soldier in complete awe of his accomplishments and because I know that’s what he would have wanted. He was the epitome of a grunt, selfless and patriotic, bereft of ego, and made of something few people (myself included) will ever know. He was a last vestige from the days of wooden ships and iron men and it wasn’t until his death a few weeks ago that I discovered he was the highest decorated soldier since WWII. Besides his MOH, he had two DSC’s, eight purple hearts, five tours of Vietnam, and a tossed salad of bravery that would make the real 300 Spartans at Thermopylae bow in deference. He was Vietnam’s answer to Audie Murphy, a man who displayed undaunted courage as frequently as the rest of us catch a cold.

Yet when cancer finally dragged him down like a pack of hyenas swarming an injured lion, he was relegated to the back pages of most newspapers, subjugated to the more important headlines of the day, like which of Tiger Woods’ new mistresses came out of the closet.

Are you fucking kidding me?

It’s no secret that entertainers are the apple of America’s eyes. It’s a necessary evil of being a secure, rich, strong country with nary an enemy on the horizon of the two oceans that protect us. We’re comfy and lazy and would rather hear about the balloon boy and Simon Cowell’s reduced role in the upcoming season of American Idol than pay respects to a man who was killing zips in the jungle while we were learning the phrase, “mommy…poop!”

As much as I’d like to throw contemptuous bags of shit at the walls of the New York Times, it’s really our own fault. Americans want to be entertained and we place those who provide our entertainment on a pedestal to be scrutinized on the same level as our elected leaders (which begs the question, why would you want that life?). When asked, the typical American teenager will list Brett Favre, Johnny Depp, and 50 Cent as their heroes instead of true leaders like Dwight D. Eisenhower, Ronald Reagan, or (God forbid) their own fathers.

I want to be angry that we worship actors (people who simply pretend to be someone else) instead of our brave warriors. But I can’t blame people who don’t have a care in the world when men like Colonel Robert Howard created it for them. I can only hope they get a healthy dose of perspective (preferably from their responsible parents) and realize America’s most precious asset is not Angelina Jolie in her Beverly Hills mansion, but Sergeant Angel Jiminez in his fighting position in Balad.

Brian Williams of NBC News says Howard leaves behind a grateful nation. Bullshit. Michael Jackson left behind a grateful nation full of weepy fans. Robert Howard left behind a small, yet very appreciative group of people who understood who he was and were proud to meet him, even if it was in a tent in Afghanistan on the eve of his passing. Rest in peace, Sir.

Read more about Colonel Robert Howard here.

Most of us drink, but do we all know why? The most often noted reasons for imbibing in alcohol are to feel good, forget painful moments, or take the edge off a long day of “”What the fuck are you doing ass hat?” But we’re all individuals. We all have our reasons for hitting the bottle, taking a nip, and living life by the drop. Time to confront those demons once and for all.

Now, real quick, I would be lying if I said I came up with this snappy title myself. Comedian David Cross recently penned a book called, “I Drink for a Reason,” so he has to get the credit for coming up with the title or those blood sucking fuckstick lawyers will come after us. Tim Kennedy and Team Rhino are formidable, but they can’t hold a candle to high-powered, rainmaking corporate barristers, so there. Take your fucking royalties and get out, Cross. Now let’s get to it.

I drink because there are things in this life that I will never have no matter how many times I steal them.

I drink because “if you can dream it, you can achieve it” is bullshit unless you have a twenty-inch schlong, an artistic eye for camera angles, and a group of very gullible hotties.

I drink to overcome the guilt of not deploying as many times as all my buddies.

I drink because I lost one of them and had to find out through The Army Times.

I drink because I live in a country where Green Bay, Wisconsin has two Superbowl rings and Los Angeles doesn’t even have a team.

I drink because I still don’t understand what the fuck extra virgin olive oil is and why it turns me on.

I drink because I have a daughter who is not a horse-faced troll with protruding teeth that could eat apples through a picket fence. Life would be easier if she was.

I drink because those who have made the ultimate sacrifice would want me to.

I drink because there are, and always will be, ignorant Americans who simply cannot fathom why those of us in uniform do what we do.

I drink because there are still poor, unfortunate souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

I drink because I am confused and I am confused when I drink. Such is the sweet circle of cereal malt beverage.

I drink because I am a fool who thinks logic dwells in the chambers of the human heart.

I drink because I have a horrible memory. Wait…what was I talking about?

I drink not to silence the voices in my head, but to understand them better. They like to put the lotion on its back.

I drink because society demands that I not festoon my bedchambers with the entrails of my enemies.

I drink because Nancy Pelosi breathes.

I drink to make 3’s look like 7’s (whiskey makes them 8’s-shameless plug!).

I drink when Tommy Batboy’s Ritalin wears off, Garrett rejects my t-shirt designs, RU Nick drags me into an all night beer pong bender, and Tim Kennedy is late for a meeting because he’s primping again. Oh Snap!!

Uniforms by Kelly Crigger

Gene Simmons is a narcissistic introvert who oozes old-guy-trying-to-be-young skeeziness with death hungrily watching over his aging frame. But when he donned his stud-riddled body leather, Pimptastic high heels, ghoulish makeup, and battle axe bass to front KISS, he was as close to being a God on earth as Rock and Roll has ever seen. He was a growling, intimidating, fire breathing, groupie-mongering man’s man who you simply didn’t fuck with for fear of him throwing you through the portal of hell and into the River Styx. But even Simmons freely admitted to being a completely different person once he removed his makeup and returned to reality.

So here’s the quandary: does the same thing happen to Soldiers? Do we act differently in uniform when we know we’re representing something bigger than ourselves? If so, does that also mean we lose those standards when we lose the uniform?

We’ve all seen the recently retired soldier sporting a fresh new soul patch and a gut that eclipses his or her view of their genitalia. They walk around rubbing their bulbous bedsores like Santa Claus and repeat the mantra, “I never used to be this way.” In reality they were fat mines waiting for something to trigger them. They secretly saw their military career as a race with the 20-year mark as the finish line where buttons popped and work ethic failed. Their uniform was the only thing positively influencing their behavior and once they lost it they turned into obese assclowns.

Here’s where it gets personal – I work in an anachronism of bureaucracy-a DoD agency that’s roughly 35% military and 65% civilian. But around half of those civilians are former military. They once had standards of military bearing and passed (I assume) a PT test every six months. Yet every day I see them committing some of the laziest acts that would make Kirstie Alley’s Nutrisystem commercials seem credible.

You see, our building has two sets of glass and steel front doors. One set is opened normally-by grabbing it and opening it (go figure). The second set has a special feature-a handicap button that opens the door when you press it. Genius, right? For the handicapped, yes. For the perfectly healthy with 100% of their physical faculties at their disposal, no.

Yet every day I see physically able people forego the normal doors, push the button like lab rats expecting a reward of cheese, and enter the building after they open automatically. Twice now I’ve even held the regular doors open for people who pass me by and push the handicapped button. How lazy do you have to be to bypass someone holding a door open for you and go in a handicapped door when you’re not handicapped?! Ironically, almost none of the handicapped people in my building use the special door anyway. They’re respectable citizens who’d rather not be pitied and use the regular door so no one feels sorry for them. Amazing.

I have a simple fix for this. I’ve hooked up one of those old TA-312 phones to the handicapped button and built a hunting blind thirty feet away. When an able bodied person touches that button, they’re going to get a dose of death row electric chair voltage…or at least the few volts that I can create by feverishly turning a hand crank.

This isn’t the only atrociously lazy trend. I work on the third floor and have to go down to the basement to eat lunch and almost always use the stairs (if you know anything about me, you know about my…extracurricular activities in stairwells). Once in a while I take the elevator when my bunions haven’t been massaged or I need to hear the sweet sounds of Norah Jones. Invariably someone with two perfectly good legs will get on the elevator on floor 2 and ride it down to floor 1. Seriously?! You have to be galactically lazy to ride the elevator down ONE FLOOR!

I have a present for these folks as well. It’s called silent but deadly. I’ve vowed to let the air in my colon build up to the rupture point and then ride the elevator down three flights solely for the purpose of floating an air biscuit the second someone gets on and presses a button one floor below where they embarked. In fact, I’m not even going to hide my cheek ruffling and may push out a cloth ripper, just so they are very clear about my disdain.

Gene Simmons would be proud.

Micah is a former Army Infantryman who took part in the 2003 Iraq invasion with 1-10 Cavalry (4th Infantry Division) out of Fort Hood. Like another Team Rhino member, Lee Gibson, Micah also successfully survived Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) only to turn it down to focus his life on raising a family.

Also like Lee Gibson, Micah is brain dead. He left the service in 2004 and got a job climbing cell phone towers to install lines and antennas. Just for fun, he once climbed 1,175 feet to the top of the XM Radio tower in Atlanta instead of taking the elevator. Like we said, brain dead. But you have to admire his resolve. At no time during the climb did he beg for a leg massage and a latte. Props. Why else we like him –

Micah lost his debut fight when he momentarily channeled Gegard Mousasi and delivered a huge, yet illegal upkick to his opponent. Instead of run out of the cage like Forrest Griffin, he stood his ground and said, “God should have told him to cover up.”

Micah bleeds easily and lost two fights due to cut stoppages. So did Randy Couture.

Micah has an extensive wrestling background and trains BJJ under the most renowned “old guy you should never fuck with,” Ricardo Murgel. Google him. His web page will submit you.

Micah recognizes the old adage, “brain damage sucks” so he’s adopted the Lyoto Machida open palm, elusive style to avoid getting hit. His nickname has subsequently been changed to “The Running Bitch Slapper.”

On Christmas day, 2003, Micah and his mortar crew fired rounds from a trash pit in Tikrit wearing only their underwear and Santa hats. You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout or Uncle Sam’s gonna drop half naked mortar rounds on your ass from a compost pile. Greatest. Military. Ever!

Micah currently runs a non-profit, faith-based MMA organization in Georgia called Faith MMA to take at-risk kids off the street and literally beat some sense into them. He calls it Christ Jitsu: a blend of Jiu Jitsu, Hapkido, Tae Kwon Do, and Bible Thumping. Their signature move? The Crucifix Hold, of course.

Micah’s family is halfway to the world record for fraternal twins. His wife is a twin and he has a pair of his own. Two more generations and they’ll be a part of history. That sounds like a great excuse to drink a six-pack of Guinness.

Micah was one of the first Soldiers to be awarded a Combat Infantryman Badge in Iraq. The next day he used it to stab a genetically enhanced enemy rat to death in his hooch. True story.

Micah has a USDA Brand tattoo on his butt. We would call that latently homosexual (especially since George Michael has the same tat), but since we’re sponsoring the guy, it’s officially the coolest tat ever.

Micah and his crew will be wearing Ranger Up at his next fight Dec 12th in Birmingham, Alabama at Alabama Pride.

I curse. Most Soldiers do, and for good reason. The colorful vernacular of the Soldier has been forged by hundreds of years of resilience, swagger, and a comfortable relationship with violence. It’s more of a necessity than show because when you deal with high velocity projectiles for a living and trust your life to the guy next to you, straightforward language that leaves absolutely no doubt as to its meaning is crucial. Feelings are subordinated to hostility when in uniform, so a thick skin is the Soldier’s second body armor. Even in garrison, troops abscond the politically correct, “There are some things you need to work on, but you’re doing great,” in favor of, “You’re a fucking idiot! Get your shit together!”

My situation is a good example. As I’ve noted on several occasions, I work in a government agency that’s full of erudite scientists and advanced degree overachievers who use sterile, politically correct language to ensure no one is ever offended when they get loquacious. To me this is counter-productive, but then again, I’m one of the few people who wear a uniform on my floor and frequently let my mouth function before my brain can stop it. If I think I’ve offended someone, my defense is to shrug and say, “Jesus, I have the mouth of a soldier.” Works every time.

Now I have scientific backup. A recent study by noted San Diego-based social scientists Duffy and Medina determined that profanity in the workplace actually promotes cohesion and breaks down the walls of social awkwardism, which in turn builds better teams. Holy fuck! See, you feel closer to me already.

Since discovering this nugget of 411, I now look for opportunities to drop profanity just for the shock factor that it creates. But it’s an art that not everyone can appreciate. You can’t just drop shit grenades and F-bombs into every sentence and hope to create a super squad from it. After a while, the words lose their impact, so they have to be used sparingly and with just the right emphasis to convey the emotional impact that they’re meant to.

I think most people wish they cursed freely like those of us in the service. Our silver tongues can slice through the coldest of situations and get right to the heart of the matter by saying exactly what needs to be said with no mistaken double entendres. But that’s just not the case. The overwhelming majority of white collared workers adhere to the “kinder, gentler” method of verbal interaction, which isn’t always easy to translate. They want to talk like Soldiers, but just don’t know how. Here’s what I mean:

PC Statement: The benefit of this added capability is an integrated and networked solution that will improve the unit’s lethality.
Soldier Translation: This shit’s the fucking bomb, bro!

PC Statement: The new female in the office brings a great new attitude that makes the environment more pleasant.
Soldier Translation: I’d dip that ass in ranch dressing and explore hidden valley.

PC Statement: I’m not fond of his briefing style.
Solider Translation: That guy’s a fucking douche canoe rowing up Massengil creek.

PC Statement: I’m not confident in his ability to adequately convey the risks associated with this venture.
Soldier Translation: He’s a lying sack of shit.

PC Statement: Candidate X is not the best person for the task at hand.
Soldier Translation: His dick is so flat he could spread peanut butter with it.

PC Statement: I’d rather defer on attending this staff meeting.
Soldier Translation: I’d rather stroke my junk to reruns of Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman than waste my time listening to more diarrhea of the mouth.

PC Statement: Unfortunately, I really can’t. I’m task saturated at the moment.
Soldier Translation: Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin, shitbag.

PC Statement: I was hesitant to bring that point up in front of our boss, but I had no choice.
Soldier Translation: Like how I punked you back there, mullet head? Are my testicles salty today?

PC Statement: Let me know if I can help.
Soldier Translation: Awwwww, muffin. You got sand in your crotch?

PC Statement: I sure am looking forward to spending the weekend with my wife.
Soldier Translation: She’ll be driving six white horses when she…

PC Statement: My E.D. has been presenting challenges in my performance.
Soldier Translation: E.D.? Say again? You’re coming in broken and stupid.

PC Statement: Make sure you learn the ropes and get up to speed as soon as you can.
Soldier Translation: Flush your fucking headgear newbie or you’ll be scraping barnacles off Jaba the Hut’s ass by morning.

PC Statement: I’d appreciate it if you could take care of this matter at your earliest convenience.
Soldier Translation: Get the fuck down there and do your job before I clamp a Swedish penis pump to your nose, Pinnochio!

PC Statement: Oh, I didn’t know we got a new secretary.
Soldier Translation: Did the last one tell you about our ranch dressing incident? It happened.

If you’re blessed with the gift of soldierly gab, keep on keeping on. If you’re hopelessly ensconced in a work situation desperate for four letter words, embrace your inner Assholian and channel George Carlin’s “Big 7 of Doom.” Forego “bad idea” for “that blows goats,” and “really?” for “are you shitting me?” In the end your co-workers will appreciate the fuck out of your verbal sodomization of the English language. If they don’t, just shrug and say, “Jesus, I have the mouth of a soldier.”

Works every time.

This certainly isn’t a bad thing, but I feel like I’m robbing my father’s generation of the gratitude that everyone who serves their country should know at least once. Contrary to the current public support of the military in America, my dad received the exact opposite when he returned from both tours of Vietnam. He received no adulation, no praise, no ‘thanks for your service,” and certainly no free cups of coffee. Yet he never wavered on his decision to join, despite the obvious confusion he felt at being ostracized by the people he swore to protect. Rather than be the exception, today’s wave of patriotism should be the norm and the Vietnam era’s apathy should be the lone moment in time where our veterans were not given the respect they deserve.

I now try to return the favor and go out of my way to pat a vet on the shoulder when I spot one in airports or restaurants. If people really feel the need to do something for the troops, thank an older vet for his service. Or leave a prepaid coffee card at the Starbucks counter for the next Vietnam vet that comes along. It’s long overdue.

Most crackheads are politically left-leaning liberals, so your first line of defense is to distract him by pointing suddenly and yelling, “Look! Oprah!” When they turn around, smack his pipe to the ground with your Ninja grasshopper hand strike (be sure to make a Bruce Lee “Waaaa” screech for effect). Most crack pipes have glass bowls (David Caruso tells us), so once his whole world shatters he’ll be on his knees begging to perform a rusty trombone on you for new pipe money…or shoving a shiv in your face. Could be either. Unfortunately this tactic only works on the Darwinian dolts of the crackhead community because even addicts know that Oprah doesn’t slum around in back alleys unless she’s mongering her way through Wolfgang Puck’s dumpster again. So don’t count on this getting you out of your jam.

Before you can enact the backup plan, you must quickly determine if the crack head is currently cracked up. If so, you’re in luck. Crackheads are only one step away from death when they’re on the rock, so if he’s recently fired up, he’ll be hyper-vigilant, irritable, anxious, panicky, and more paranoid than Phil Hartman’s wife. When you factor in the heart rate of a crackhead is eighteen times that of a thoroughbred, he’s a powder keg just aching for your flame. All you have to do is flick your Bic. It’s well documented that crackheads are like Justin Timberlake at a rave when the beats start thumping, so whip out the boom box and get your Riverdance on! Five minutes and his heart will burst faster than Brittany Spears staring down an oiled-up backup dancer.

If he’s clearly not on the rock (easily discernable by his rude disdain for your personal space and persistent boner) no problem. When not firing up, crackheads experience deeper depression than a Brando family reunion. Go for the jugular of self loathing and make him question his reason for living. Exploit the fact that he’s a strung out addict doomed to a life of disappointment who couldn’t get hired picking the underwear out of a fat man’s ass and he’ll reenact the implosion scene from Scanners. Stand back so you don’t get hepatitis shrapnel on your club shoes.

Your emergency plan is to go in the opposite mental direction. If the crackhead grabs a common object, like a cat, and approaches you menacingly, quickly proclaim, “It’s not your fault you’re a drug addict, it’s the Government’s!” Within seconds you’ll be inundated with every mundane conspiracy theory from ‘The EPA is letting aliens use my brain for experimentation’ to ‘Walt Disney’s was a crossdressing CIA operative who funneled Afghani opium through Mickey’s anal cavity!’ This soft sell has a drawback because your inadvertent use of therapeutic soothing will probably end up with you making a friend for life. A crackhead wanting to be your personal bellman doesn’t exactly win you friends on Wysteria Lane.