So, here’s what we’re doing. If you donate in support of Jim’s efforts, we’re going to be sending some free stuff your way.

To Donate to Jim Spiri:

$20 donations receive: A smaller, copy of the original image here
$50 donations receive: Senator’s Son, An Iraq War Novel

Also, we’re auctioning off  the original painting with all proceeds going to Jim’s efforts. Here’s how you can place your bid:

We are going to auction off the painting itself.  The appraised value of the work is $1,000 and the work is aprox 46″x54″ (it’s huge).  The work is not framed. We will be doing the bidding by blind auction.  Serious bidders need to email: tom@rangerup.com w/ their bid NLT Friday 3 September 2010 at 5pm, EST.  The top 10 bidders will we emailed with the current going price and allowed to be re-bid.  Bids will be due NLT Tuesday 7 September at 5pm EST.  The top bid gets the painting.

A few weeks back my wife and I were wandering through a flea market through the usual collection of cast off pots, pans, tools, souvenir ashtrays and decorative spoons of people’s vacations past to places like Rock City, Branson, Dinosaur Land and Captain Spicer’s Wonderful World of Wacky Wildebeests something on the corner of a table caught my eye – an old Kodak Super 8 hand held movie camera. Long before the advent of video cams this little camera was the pinnacle of amateur recording of all events that were important for somebody to keep a record of. They were simple, cheap and easy to operate. They had one switch that said on and off. Instruction books came back then in one language, English, with easy to follow pictures. The Kodak Super 8 had been a constant companion of my hoochmate in Vietnam, Wayne “Bubbles” Conner, and he filmed just about everything that he could during his tour there. No longer a dead antique it became a veritable time machine and I felt myself being pulled through a tunnel of sound and light depositing me back through the mists of time to:

BanMeTout Special Forces Camp, 14 August, 1971

Second Platoon,” POLECATS”, 192nd Assault Helicopter Company and me, Godfather 22, were attached to the Special Forces in the central highlands at BanMeTuot. We’d been operating out of their base camp for a month and the flying and missions were “interesting” and “challenging.” Overall though, things were pretty good and although we would take occasional small arms fire on various recon missions we didn’t lose a single ship or crewman during our August missions. Back at the camp the Special Forces treated us royally as we represented a way to get reinforcements and supplies to them or evacuate them should things turn ugly.

As was frequently the case in most units, mascots were a pretty common element to camp life. The Special Forces camp was no exception and they had the usual collection of pets ranging from mangy dogs, flea bitten cats and last but not least a pair of spider monkeys. We came to know them as Bert and Ernie. Memory records that they were both male and Bert seemed to have a couple of nasty habits like spending an inordinate amount of time pleasuring himself and when stressed out displayed the annoying habit of slinging monkey feces at those who perturbed him. Ernie on the other hand was the more gregarious of the two and loved to greet you by jumping off his roost in the TOC or hooches onto your head and shoulders before settling down to his self proclaimed duty of working through your scalp looking for nits to lunch on. During his tenure at the camp, Ernie had been trained to smoke cigarettes and drink beer. Whenever he was thirsty Ernie would go to the little Sanyo refrigerator in the TOC open the door and roll out a mighty steel can of Budweiser or Miller to anyone who would open it for him.

Naps were a problem because both Bert and Ernie never seemed to sleep when we did. Frequently, you’d be sound asleep in the bunker or hooch only to be suddenly awakened by a loud riotous shit storm of monkeys chasing each other, screaming like banshees and knocking over helmets, rifles, magazines and lots of empty beer cans in the dark. You’d try to find the little buggers with your flashlight and throw a boot at them, yell, curse and then yell and curse some more when one of them would throw an empty beer can back at you (or in Bert’s case some Grade A monkey crap).

I’m not sure exactly who came up with the idea first but seeing’s how we were around all these high-speed SF/Airborne Ranger types we came to the conclusion that it would be a neat thing to get Bert and Ernie jump qualified as both an honor and symbolic Thank You from us, the visiting aviators, to our new best friends, the Special Forces. Over the course of a couple days we gave it considerable thought as to the mechanics of the concept and along with considerable amounts of beer rendered our theories down to a final plan of action in order to get the monkeys their own “Jump Wings.” What could go wrong?

To begin with, we would need to make a harness of some kind and therefore some sewing support would be sought from one of the mama-sans who would come in daily from the village to do the camp’s laundry. The harness, made to fit the small torso of the ape, would be attached to D-rings which in turn would be attached to the shroud lines of a recovered parachute from the numerous parachute flares we had dropped from our “Nighthawk” Huey while flying around the perimeter and nearby possible enemy approach lanes. The size of the chute seemed perfect to support the weight of a 15 pound monkey and allow him a soft and gentle ride down to the earth.

Within days of having everything ready we had at hand a perfect opportunity to pull this off on a mission stand down day for the camp. The SF guys had been humping hard over the weeks we were with them and needed to catch up on resupply, mail, weapons repairs and the like. In addition the camp senior NCO, an E-8 named Swartzenhauer wanted to finish a new TOC as the old one was prone to flooding during tropical mountain downpours. To that end he had started building a new one with plywood and just needed a down day for everyone to fill sandbags to provide the necessary layers of protection against direct hits by mortars, RPGs and rockets which got routinely fired at the camp like clockwork. He had already moved his bunk, personal effects, and symbols of authority befitting an E-8 as the camp’s Top Kick into the soon to be finished TOC. He was one impressive dude with a set of teeth and muscles, like a Teutonic version of Teddy Roosevelt combined with King Kong. No one would want to screw with him, period. We had even volunteered to help fill his sandbags but he graciously waved us off as not our problem. So, barring an emergency we could count on the next day as all ours to do what we pleased and he would get his TOC finished.

The morning brought clear but smoky skies. Perfect mid-day Airborne drop weather. Our plan was for me and Bubbles, our crew chief Jose’ and gunner Red both holding our parachute equipped monkey, Ernie, to launch in our Huey “507″ just before lunch so that at 12 noon precisely, while most of the camp was at the barbeque pit, Ernie would descend from the sky to everyone’s great surprise and amusement. To add to this dramatic moment we had enlisted another of our pilots, Magilla, as a co-conspirator and his job would be to play a tape of “Stars and Stripes Forever” loudly over the camp PA system at precisely noon to get everyone’s attention on the ground. As a final and touching flourish we would safety wire red and blue smoke canisters to the rear of our skids which our crew chief and gunner could activate by pulling cords attached to the pins. We would then fly slow wide orbits around Ernie while he descended gently from the heavens.

We could barely suppress our giddiness in imagining how much good will would soon be pouring forth as a result of this heartwarming salute from enterprising aviators to our appreciative and awed battle hardened Special Forces hosts. So together all six of us, bonded together in this extraordinary endeavor, moved forward with anticipation as the zero hour approached. At about 1115 we found Ernie asleep in the corner of the ammo bunker. Jose and Red brought him to our ship and with much yelping and struggling got him into the harness. Bubbles, of course, was filming the action with the Kodak Super 8 while periodically we would mug for the camera. We planned on just keeping the parachute loosely bunched up and would toss Ernie out in a way that the chute would open near instantaneously. With Red holding the still squirming Ernie, Bubbles and Jose’ rigged the smoke grenades to the skids. I busied myself with getting the aircraft set to start.

So far, all had gone to plan and we were now ready to go. From our revetment on the edge of the compound we could see the barbeque pit smoke rising up in the center of the camp for the beef steaks that 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer had laid on as a reward to everyone for the down day and getting the TOC sandbagged. Our timing was going to go perfectly.

We cranked quickly and headed skyward. Even through my helmet I could hear Ernie screeching his brains out over the whine of the T-53 turbo shaft. As the AC I was flying and periodically would glance over my shoulders watching Red get scratched, bit and beat on by Ernie. Nonetheless, we were all laughing our asses off. With Jose’ doing his best to keep the shroud lines untangled from Ernie’s fury, Red getting covered in monkey bites and Bubbles filming away, I announced over the intercom that we were approaching our drop altitude of approx 2000 feet above the ground. I told the guys to wait till we were right over the middle of the camp.

I slowed to an almost hover and then gave a countdown from five and on zero, which was about 30 seconds short of local noon, Red flung a very surprised Ernie out the cargo door with the parachute trailing behind. The chute blossomed instantly into full canopy and Ernie swung below looking bewildered and moving his head around like it was on a jet fueled swivel. put our Huey into a circling descent with Ernie on the same side as Bubbles and his Kodak. Everything was going to plan and I imagined now that Magilla had started the tape of “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring over the speakers to a now amazed and amused throng below at the barbeque pit. To help draw the attention of the camp skyward we lit off the smoke grenades and now trailed beautiful red and blue contrails. I was filled at that moment with the pure rush of a kid running through the girls locker room with a Halloween mask on and a jock strap.

That good feeling lasted about 500 feet of Ernie’s descent. The monkey quickly displayed his emotional state by letting loose his bowels thus giving up a rather large quantity of fear scented feces, urine and dignity and now all were hurtling down to the skyward facing watchful throngs below. Ernie, also, now having had time to think and totally freak out, again did the unexpected, at least the unexpected for humans. For monkeys, I suppose this made sense.

Anthropologically speaking, when danger presents itself to primates one of their genetically coded responses is to “get the hell out of Dodge”, which is to say in primate terms, climb the first freakin’ thing that takes you away from the danger. With this genetic solution warning light banging away in Ernie’s head he therefore, unwisely, as it turned out, grabbed one side of the shroud lines and to our immediate horror started pulling on them to climb up. Although the little guy may have thought he was making progress upward he, in fact, had done the worst possible thing by collapsing the canopy.
Very quickly, Ernie had an armful of parachute and although possibly comforting to him, not much usefulness to his ever increasing velocity aerodynamically speaking, not to put too fine a point on it.

With Bubbles filming away I bottomed the collective and went into a spirally death dive to keep up. Even with a maximum dive angle of 30 degrees, bank of 60 degrees, collective full down, and the aircraft out of trim we weren’t even staying close to the rate of Ernie’s ever increasing speed downward. This was getting ugly fast. But, One thing WE HAD done real well was lining up Ernie on the geographic center of the compound.

His meteoric descent was going to be pretty much dead center on the roof of First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s brand new plywood (and as yet, un-sandbagged) TOC. As Ernie continued to plummet like a crazed white condom filled with lead B-Bs we did our best to keep up behind him screaming out of the sky at 3500 feet per minute. I think I did this as a combination of guilty conscience and not leaving Ernie to his impending and soon to be arriving doom, alone. At least we would be there with him when he reached monkey martyrdom. Although this fiasco had seemed to be going on for an agonizingly long time I have been since told, by those who are aeronautical engineers and beer drinkers themselves, that for Ernie the elapsed time from chute collapse till impact was 9.68775 seconds.

A little monkey math here:
Ernie, (monkey) = 15 pounds.
Altitude AGL, = + 1500 feet.
Max velocity at impact= 309 feet per second or 210 Miles per hour.
Energy of 15 pound monkey exerted on plywood roof of the TOC = 30157 joules or 22,200 foot pounds of force.
Impending UCMJ Article 32 hearing and Court Martial for me = Priceless.
In the final second prior to impact I swear I saw Ernie look up in my direction and with the look in those brown eyes of his showing only what the condemned must know at the moment of their departure from this planet and arrival at paradise seemed to be telling me to go and, technically speaking, have sex with myself.

As Bubbles recorded it with his trusty Kodak Ernie disappeared into the new TOC in a mushroom cloud of red dust. Of course, although we couldn’t have heard it, I imagined his breakthrough coming just as the cymbals were crashing on the final tuba blatz of “Stars and Stripes Forever” as if, Ernie’s landing hadn’t been dramatic enough. I also pictured “Charlie” applauding our accuracy and holding up Olympic grading cards with straight 10s from his hiding places near the camp.

What certainly was not comforting and now clearly apparent was our own death spiral now sickeningly close above the camp. At the same time as Ernie was bursting through the roof I must have snapped out of my hypnotic or target fixation induced trance and pulled the bejeezus out of the collective to prevent us from being a greasy stain across the compound. Pulling pitch felt like the controls were filled with concrete and we were dragging anchors, rocks and a thousand bowling balls of momentum and inertia. We came out of the dive with only feet to spare and “507″ screamed across the camp furiously dodging antennas and Mama-san laundry at 120 knots++, 50 pounds of torque (+ or – 25 pounds, + mostly), and pitchconed coupled ourselves off of the express train to Hell all the while trailing a graceful swirl of red and blue smoke.

As we passed over the barbeque pit I caught sight of 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s Teddy Roosevelt teeth. My immediate impression was he was less than ecstatic. He was also, however, the only one still standing, everyone else scattering for the bunkers or gone to ground like demented prairie dogs. Paper plates and beer cans swirled around on the ground like Titanic’s deck chairs on the ocean after the ship went down. We looked at the new hole in the roof at the TOC and said something hopeful like it didn’t seem too bad, maybe Ernie would be seen emerging this very minute dusting himself off and going over to the boys to get a beer. Although we chuckled, I began considering defecting to the North Vietnamese.

We landed and shut down. Before the blades had even stopped First Sergeant Swartzenhauer pulled up in his jeep amongst a cloud of more red dust. I thought to myself, how bad could this get? The Army had already condemned me to Vietnam. What else could they do to me? Maybe First Sergeant Swartzenhauer was only there to welcome us with “Nice try guys, we appreciated the effort.” His face revealed nothing but those teeth. I began to feel light headed.

After Red finished tying down the blades and me and Bubbles fumbled with the log book like nothing had happened I saw Swartzenhauer wiggling his finger at me to come over to him and I couldn’t ignore him, I had already made eye contact. My crew pretended not to notice and in a great show of support to me moved to the opposite side of 507, as far away from me as they could possibly get. I suppose I should mention at this moment that I also became aware that, “Stars and Stripes Forever” was still blaring over the speakers so wiggling his finger at me was more effective than trying to call me over the million decibel music of this John Phillip Souza classic pouring out over the compound.

He immediately, and with great waving arm motions and no shortage of saliva delivered unto me a nonstop soliloquy not unlike the one given by Gunny R.Lee Ermey in the movie, Full Metal Jacket. The only difference was 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s was even more colorful, louder, moister and involved a few more body parts that I hadn’t known we possessed. Rather than bore you all with the grammatical details, and as small children may be about, suffice to say that following this most impressive communication from this Top Sergeant I willingly agreed to his suggestion that I might want to consider starting to clean up the mess we had in fact perpetrated. NOW!

Walking behind Swartzenhauer’s jeep in his dust we proceeded through the camp looking very much like the condemned men we were to the not too happy throngs at the barbeque pit. We found out at that point that a good quantity of Ernie’s liquidy falling feces had pretty much ruined an otherwise nice side of beef.

As we approached the destroyed TOC entrance someone had mercifully pulled the plug finally on the “Stars and Stripes Forever” but the silence now made the scene all the more horrific. I knew then that I had seen enough to know that I had seen too much. You would really be surprised at how much stuff is contained inside a 15 pound spider monkey. We, on the other hand, had a terrific opportunity to be exposed to the answer. I can say this, though, that in my earlier fantasy of Ernie being seen to walk outside from the TOC, carefully brushing off the dust, well, the only way he would have been capable of doing that from what we now saw before us would have only been on a subatomic particle basis.

Monkey guts, fur, teeth, bone and copious amounts of blood, beer and bile covered every square inch of the TOC. All the radios, the map boards, the tables, chairs, cots, weapon racks, ammo boxes were covered in a kind of oily sheen of blood, bile, snot and God knows what. Most disturbing to me was the pleasantly framed desk picture of 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer and Mrs. 1st Sergeant Swartzenhauer, both showing their full set of teeth, covered now, not very tastefully, in blood and Ernie’s testicles.

We were told in no uncertain terms that we only had our hands, buckets and some sponges to clean the mess up. Swartzenhauer already had his men up on the roof and they were now hard at work fixing the small Ernie hole and sandbagging the whole roof and sides as per his original plan. Inside, with everyone else outside sandbagging, made us feel like we were Egyptian slaves getting entombed in alive with the Mummy for horrific crimes against the Pharoh.

We kept at it all afternoon and all night and into the next morning, taking time only to eat. (We passed on the barbeque side of beef). Although feeling like lepers by morning the TOC was clean and presentable. I personally had cleaned First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s and Mrs. First Sergeant Swartzenhauer’s picture twelve times, carefully. I got to know her so well I could have recognized her in the dark.

We placed (actually, poured) poor Ernie’s remains in a hole next to the camp flagpole at the new TOC in order to give the SF guys a way to get through what is now called the “grief healing process” by the touchy, feely types. At the 0700 brief First Sergeant Swartzenhauer declared the new TOC clean and once again made reference to the assembled parties of his opinion of Army Aviators in general and me in particular.

But the man was fair and the word was that we wouldn’t be seeing a hangman or Fort Leavenworth any time soon. He did, in fact, mention that although not up to the standards of Special Forces planning our meager and disastrous (for Ernie, mostly) attempt was somewhat appreciated.
Luckily there were only a few missions planned that day that our other platoon members could handle without us. We had been up straight for over 24 hours and some sleep now would be most welcome. We went to our bunkers and fell into exhausted shuteye. I remember having a fitful sweaty nightmare involving large breasted Norwegian women, bean soup and flying squirrels. (Don’t ask me, I have no clue what it meant and don’t care to know, I’ve got enough problems as it is). Hiding up in the corner was now a lonely and even more disgruntled Bert. I think he knew that Ernie had bit the big one. You could tell he was in an even fouler mood than normal. He started screeching at me waking me groggily alert and I threw a boot at him.

About a month later, after we returned to our main base near Cam Rahn Bay, Bubbles got his Kodak film developed of the “Ernie Incident” as it was now referred to. Over and over on the unit projector Bubbles would play that cursed reel to the howls of laughter from my sadistic brethren. He would run it regular speed, fast speed and slow speed just fascinated with his cinematic style while offering director’s commentary about focus and lighting. I would pretend to laugh with the others but inside I would cringe as I heard that clikkity sound of the film advancing off the spool. With cigarette smoke rising in the light of the projector and an occasional beer can hitting the floor for a brief and welcome diversion of my attention there was simply no getting away from the final ending of this reality film unreeling at 12 frames a second.

This incident was going to go deep, deep into my psyche, as if breasts, soup and squirrels wasn’t already bad enough. However, in time, the nightmare of this event would slowly fade and eventually be suppressed…. until a chance encounter with a dusty Kodak Super 8 at a flea market brought it all back.
Ernie, if you’re out there in monkey heaven and can hear this, I’m really, really sorry buddy. Those weren’t the wings we had intended for you.

Godfather 22, out.

Best regards to all our deployed gang in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan and everywhere else. Come home safe.

Read the full story here with some hilarious comments at the end

1) Fobgeneration. It takes 9 seconds from the time you die in Call of Duty until you regenerate. Most people waste that time sitting in a chair getting fatter. You can maximize it for an optimal workout. As soon as death is imminent, shift your weight out of your chair into a sprinters posture and push off. The chair spring will give you the extra lift you need to get up to speed quickly. Sprint to the fridge and slide on one knee as you throw the door open behind you with your non-dominant hand. Simultaneously, reach for a Red Bull with your non-dominant hand and use the whip of your slide to both close the door and pull yourself up. Sprint back. Should you encounter an obstacle be prepared to do a combat roll over it, maintaining the Red Bull in a safe position. Pop up and continue. Hurdle any chairs in your path. As you approach your chair, begin to turn your body 180 degrees so that you slide into your chair while opening your Red Bull. The chair will bounce off the adjoining wall or desk and the recoil will return you to playing position. Gain positive control over your remote control. You just completed one Fobgeneration.

2) Fobsit. Often times when sitting in your office on the FOB the stress gets the better of you and you just need to get in a 4-5 hour nap. A newb Fobbit will get caught by “the man” during this exercise, but a wiley veteran knows the importance of keeping his or head on a swivel and executing a flawless Fobsit. First, ensure you are not facing the door as you place your legs up on the desk and your hand cradles your keg-pack. Next, pretend your boss just came through the door. Flex your ab so your knees fire into your stomach while you throw your hands forward towards the keyboard. Your knees will bounce off your stomach and fall to the ground, forcing your hands forward and into perfect typing position. You’ve just completed one Fobsit.

3) Fobstralian Crawl or Reverse Swim Technique. This technique is similar to the one you may have seen in football. With the fast food restaurants coming back to the FOBs you need to have your game face on and beat the suckers that don’t realize that second Big Mac is first loser. With your near hand, trap the shoulder of the Fobbit in front of you (note, make sure it isn’t a grunt coming out of sector) while your far hand swims in an overhand motion past the shoulder. Next, push off from your food gathering nemesis and propel yourself past him, directly into the calorie bomb you so richly deserve. Mike Charlie my friends. Mike Charlie.

Fobstralian Crawl, part 1

Fobstralian Crawl, part 2

Fobstralian Crawl, part 3

Fobstralian Crawl, part 4

Read Page 1 Here

Read Page 2 Here

Whomever continually passes gas in my row of office cubicles, please stop. It’s not only impolite, but makes us less efficient since we have to vacate the area for a short period of time while your noxious fumes are slowly evacuated through the building’s ventilation system. It’s rude and distasteful, so please don’t do it anymore.

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
I’m not sure who keeps doing it, but they need to be blanket partied. That’s how we’d handle it back in the Army. The last thing I want to smell is the air that was recently inside someone’s colon unless they ate potpourri for breakfast and washed it down with a vanilla bean frappuccino before crop dusting our row. That would smell pretty sweet, even after intestinal processing, don’t you think?

-Jim

–

To: Jim Connors
From: Betsy Flanders

Jim,
I’m not sure that eating air freshener would help with this problem, nor would drinking coffee since this person probably already does (don’t we all? LOL). I also don’t think blanket partying is the right answer, though I admit I’m not really sure what it means. But it sounds scary. This person just needs to stop.

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
I don’t think I just heard you laugh out loud since you’re only three cubes away from me. Working in such close proximity to each other is like being on an airplane-it’s very easy to get into everyone else’s business (and easy to smell each other’s business too) LOL (did you hear me actually laugh out loud just now?).
Blanket parties were the vigilante justice that kept the Midwest together in the formative days of this country, but if you don’t like that method, how about getting torches, pitchforks, and other farming tools and running the “eau de toilet offender” out of the office like Frankenstein? Would that be politically correct? Or should we just make a false claim of sexual harassment and get them fired the way Peter was run out of here?

-Jim

–

To: Jim Connors
From: Betsy Flanders

Jim,
I don’t think you used “eau de toilet” correctly. That’s French for perfume. And what did you mean by that crack about Peter? You’re being rude, Jim. I just want the smell of man ass around my workplace to cease.

There it is again! Whomever keeps doing it just did it again! I didn’t hear anything or see anyone walk by because I was typing this. Did you see anyone?

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
I didn’t see anything just now except a polar bear pass by the northern window. This crop duster must be a ninja, so I’ll be sure to keep a suspicious eye out for anyone of Japanese descent. What makes you so sure it’s a man by the way? That sounds sexist. Can’t it be woman ass? Don’t females bubble the ghost occasionally? I know it’s not attractive to think about, but women take craps too, right? Unless you’re like a sloth and excrete waste through your skin as a defense mechanism to keep predators away (like Peter). In that case, you would be the perpetrator here, right?

-Jim

–

To: Jim Connors
From: Betsy Flanders

Jim,
This has gone too far. You’re being mean now. I’m easily emotionally traumatized. We have a problem that needs a solution. No one should have to put up with farters in the workplace. Even if this person just went to the stairwell to relieve pressure, that would be better than walking down our row and doing it.

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
I’m sorry if I caused you pain (isn’t that an 80’s song?). I sometimes forget how easily civilians are rattled, kind of like this reporter I knew in Afghanistan before he got injured (his name was Peter, ironically). I just want to help find the office flagellator before you’re permanently damaged.
It could be the person who’s releasing these air biscuits has Crones disease and is unable to regulate their bowel movements and is actually pooping his or her adult diaper at their desk. In that case it would be inconsiderate of us to label this person as a farter when in fact they’re sitting in a warm pile of last night’s corn and kielbasa, too ashamed to get up and go clean themselves. In that case they’d be the company pooper. What a nickname!

-Jim

–

To: Jim Connors
From: Betsy Flanders

Jim,
It doesn’t matter what we label him and the thought of someone sitting in their own…#2…is just sickening. Whether it’s solid, liquid, or gas, I don’t enjoy the odor this person is putting out and we don’t have to stand for it. If you have a solution to the issue, please say so. Otherwise, just let me get back to work.

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
Didn’t we all sit in our own poop as toddlers? Didn’t you make stinkies? And if by “work” you mean getting back to your chatting on Facebook, then go ahead. I’m going to take action. I’m going to set a trap for this person. You know that chemical they put in pools that makes pee turn green? I’m going to find a chemical that does the same thing to the air. When this person walks by stinking up the place, the air around him will turn a fluorescent green. Then I’ll throw a fishing net on him (or one of those man-trapper nets like in Planet of the Apes) and then you nail him with a baseball bat until he stops moving.

-Jim

–

To: Jim Connors
From: Betsy Flanders

Jim,
Your propensity for violence is disturbing. First the blanket party comment then advocating we beat a man (okay…or a woman) until they stop moving? Are you sure you’re recovered from your time in combat? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with sitting in your row anymore.

-Betsy

–

To: Betsy Flanders
From: Jim Connors

Betsy,
Recovered? Probably not. I once went to Dunkin Donuts and ordered a Boston Cream Pie doughnut, but instead I got a cream-filled chocolate one. It did terrible things to my insides. I tried to sit quietly in the store and enjoy it anyway, but the clerks kept going off in Arabic, saying something about the smell (of the doughnuts I assume) that was keeping the customers away. My friend (the one I told you about from Afghanistan) told them it was their own nasty body odor that made the place so foul, but they persisted. So I flipped out and beat them up pretty badly with a one-gallon milk carton (those things are heavy, huh?). It was really messy.

-Jim

–

MAIL DELIVERY SYSTEM FAILURE
YOUR MESSAGE HAS NOT REACHED THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS:

Betsy Flanders

THIS ACCOUNT IS NOW BLOCKED.

Overall, the G.I. Film Festival will feature a total of 35 narrative and documentary full-length and short films during the five-day event. Subject matter ranges from World War II themes of courage, sacrifice and brotherhood to present-day struggles including veteran homelessness and post-traumatic stress.

“This year, the G.I. Film Festival will put the spotlight on the full range of human emotions experienced by American G.I.s inside the arena of war and back on the homefront,” said G.I. Film Festival co-founder Brandon Millett.  “This is an exceptional line-up of films that will entertain, captivate and inspire,” added festival co-founder Laura Law-Millett.

Festival screenings include actress Glenn Close’s directorial debut in Pax. Pax is the story of Sergeant Bill Campbell who returned home from Iraq with post-traumatic stress and traumatic brain injury. Sgt. Campbell reclaims his life from an unlikely source: a dog named Pax, trained by an inmate at the Bedford Hills (NYC) Correctional Facility for Women. Following the screening, a panel discussion on post-traumatic stress will include Ms. Close, former ABC co-anchor and award-winning reporter Bob Woodruff and Brigadier Gen. Loree Sutton, Director of the Defense Centers of Excellence for Psychological Health and Traumatic Brain Injury.

The festival will also host the world premiere of Starting Strong, a new Army reality show created, produced, directed and narrated by actor Ricky Schroder as well as an advanced screening of the new documentary Lt. Dan Band: For the Common Good with special guest actor Gary Sinise.  Filmmaker and veteran of the 82nd Airborne, Jonathan Flora, directed Lt. Dan Band.

Another festival world premiere, Chosin, features the work of two Iraq War veterans, Brian Iglesias and Anton Sattler, who lived out of a van and operated on a shoestring budget to complete their epic documentary Chosin, which chronicles one of the most savage battles in American history, the Korean War’s Chosin Reservoir Campaign.

The G.I. Film Festival’s Filmmaker Boot Camp will return this year. Budding directors and other attendees will learn how to finance, market and pitch their own films during this all day event.

The G.I. Film Festival’s principal venue is the Carnegie Institution for Science, 1530 P St., N.W., Washington, D.C. The festival will host the post-traumatic stress panel at the Canadian Embassy and a congressional reception in the Russell Senate Caucus Room.  Media registration is encouraged, and available at http://www.gifilmfestival.com/credentials. Individual tickets and festival passes can be purchased online at www.gifilmfestival.com/tickets.

RU’s Kelly Crigger produced this video trailer to give you a taste of what you’ll see. Check it out and if it sucks, keep it to yourself.

View the full trailer here

Last night Jack saved the World again, and yet rumors abound that Fox is cancelling 24. Good call Fox. Maybe you can run more episodes of American Fucking Idol or Bones? I’ve never seen Bones, but after 24 the previews told me the two main characters are finally going to date…that’ll probably help ratings…after all it worked for Moonlighting…

Doth mine eyes deceive me or is he...aiming?!

Better yet, please run some more generic Lawyer, Cop, or Medical dramas. That would be fan-fucking-tastically original! Come on Fox! What else does this American Icon have to do to keep his show?!

Jack Bauer has been a staple of asskickery and military manliness since 9/11. In eight days and one fairly terrible two-hour movie, Jack has killed over 250 terrorists, tortured another 300, pulled a handful of Presidents asses out of the fire, saved the World a dozen times, lost his wife, lost his girlfriend, lost his next girlfriend, drove his most recent girlfriend virtually insane, been captured and tortured at least a baker’s dozen times, and had to rescue his dumbass daughter twice or thrice. Does he complain? No. He just Rangers the Fuck Up (Bauer is tabbed, as one would expect) over and over again.

This season, Jack was hung by his wrists, beaten, electrocuted, and stabbed. You know what happened next? He kicked the terrorist cocksucker in the face and triangle choked him from the air. That’s not only a 9 on the Badass Richter scale, it’s also an incredibly embarrassing way to die, and yet oddly plausible – what I like to call the Bauer Trifecta.

And this isn’t the first time Bauer has escaped from capture. Once when his torturer leaned in to whisper some tough guy sweet nothings into Bauer’s ear, he latched onto the assclown’s throat like a Vampire Pit Bull and spit his larynx across the room.

Jack will eat the fuck out of you if he has to...

You know what else Jack does? He realizes that sheet rock doesn’t stop bullets. He shoots dumb terrorists through walls. You know what that is? That’s outstanding is what that is.

Hey, I’m a woman terrorist. Jack can’t kill me! He’ll have to have his token female co-hero fight me or it won’t be fair and he’ll look bad!

Wrong, terrorist tartlet!

Jack Bauer is not sexist. He is an equal opportunity terrorist killer. You’ll never read this though, because you’re already dead. But he is currently wearing your face so he can pose as you and infiltrate another terrorist lair.

Wait for it…now they’re dead too…

Bottom line, Fox: For a decade Jack Bauer has kicked ass, taken names, and given us a hero willing to sacrifice anything to save the nation and defend the constitution. He was an island of creative terrorist destroying awesomeness in a sea of sappy emotional pap, canned jokes, and general unrestrained lameness and douchebaggery.

If you take him from us, Fox, and your only answer is Human Target, well…we’re probably gonna hate you.

And for those of you out there questioning Jack Bauer’s awesomeness and perhaps wondering why we’d allow a “fictional” character to be Hero of the Week, I leave you with this real life conversation with Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia at a conference in Ottawa, Canada:

During a panel discussion about terrorism, torture and the law, a Canadian judge remarked, “Thankfully, security agencies in all our countries do not subscribe to the mantra ‘What would Jack Bauer do?’ ”

“I don’t think so.”

No, sir, we would not. We’d have covered him while he moved.

Rhino Den, ATTENTION!

PRESENT ARMS!

ORDER ARMS!

Thank you, Mr. Bauer, for your distinguished service.

Jack Bauer’s Military Honors:

Combat Infantryman’s Badge

Kuwaiti Liberation Medal

This particular study highlighted the problems women (not all spouses; this one dealt with wives) experience while their husbands are deployed.  The report came to the following conclusions:

1.  Wives of deployed service members experience more stress, depression, and anxiety than wives of non-deployed Soldiers.  Duh.

2.  The longer the deployment, the more likely a spouse is to develop feelings of anxiety, depression, or stress.  Big Duh.

3.  A spouse whose husband returns from theater with an injury is likely to experience increased amounts of stress.  Seriously?  A thousand burning suns of DUH!

Each new fact was punctuated by an overdramatic pause by the reporter, like she was laying some kind of revelatory “There is no Santa” bombshell on a bunch of seven year olds.  I wanted to grab this reporter through my radio and slap her across the face.  Lady, are you kidding?!?  Of course they do!  Deployments suck for families.  The longer the deployment, the greater the suck.  Having your Soldier get injured in combat is NOT good for your stress levels.  Is this really news?  What’s next:

A recent study concludes that getting shot in the ass can be detrimental to your sense of peace and tranquility.

NO FREAKIN DUH!

Why do we need a study to spell out the obvious?  Is America really looking for these nuggets of wisdom and insight?  Well, maybe they are.  Maybe I’m giving my fellow Americans too much credit.  It was, after all, a family member of mine who once remarked, when I told her about our extended lunches so we could do PT at the gym, “Is this what my tax dollars are paying for?”

So, maybe these studies are necessary.  Maybe the American people need to know what our amazing spouses go through behind the lights.  Backstage in that big, beautiful drama we call warfare.  Because the reality, though most of us will never admit it, is that we love that drama we are a part of.  We love the simplicity of our time “downrange.” There are no sports schedules to work around, no midnight trips to the emergency room for a child’s high temperature.  There are no meetings with teachers, principals or counselors.  No three hour homework marathons before a project is due.  Life downrange is simple, though simple of course is a very relative term.  I mean simple in the context of single-minded focus, one purpose, one mission.

There are far too many pissing contests between deployed Soldiers and spouses about who has it worse.  I’m not trying to jump-start that argument, but the reality is that while we Soldiers are focused on mission, our spouses are focused on keeping the house running, all the while wondering if today is the day.  The day that the Army visits in an official capacity.

It’s another level of suck, not greater not lesser, just different.  But that’s what they do, those awesome spouses who batten down the hatches and weather the storm of life while we play Soldier.  It’s because they keep us grounded, keep us focused on where we are, rather than where we think we need to be.  It’s a perverse kind of freedom they give us, knowing the whole time what it could lead to, but giving us that little gift to return to the fight, return to our comrades, return to our own world of suck.

And when the darkness of doubt creeps in, when the little voices whisper that we need to be home, need to forget the mission, forget our friends, it’s then that we realize how important our loved ones job is.  We may be holding the wolves at bay, but they hold the darkness at bay by keeping the home fires lit.

Prologue

It was a miserable summer day in the mountains for Ranger Class 7-99. Just like most days, I was the Alpha Team Leader. We’d been moving uphill for the entire God-forsaken patrol and the blistering Georgia heat and stagnant humidity was sucking our collective will to live. Ranger “Smith”, a PFC from Ranger Regiment trying to earn his tab, was having another rough day. Smith had been recycled once already for failing patrols and this was his last shot before he’d be kicked out of Ranger School. He was a sharp kid, but he stressed out a lot when he was in charge, and didn’t have the greatest constitution despite his large stature, so he was often teetering on the brink of falling out. Regardless, he never quit, even when we could tell he was hurting and he improved every time, even though he wasn’t the strongest guy when it came to patrols. Frankly, we all liked him and were rooting for him.

At this point, Ranger School hadn’t really gotten to me. I had wrestled or fought since I was eleven years old so not eating wasn’t a big deal, and West Point taught me to operate on no sleep, so that wasn’t so bad either. When I saw Smith falling back, I pulled some ammo out of his ruck, traded his SAW for my M4, and helped him get up the hill. Over the course of the next month, I remember doing this at least three times. After all, teamwork was one of the key components of Ranger School. It is with that spirit that Ranger Up hit the Bataan Death March.

Our Latest Dumb Adventure

Kelly Bruno is a bad ass

500 meters into the race one of Tommy’s Camelbacks busted, draining water down his back into his boots. This was very funny at the time.

We took the first drink of Wild Turkey around Mile 1. I believe this helped with energy.

We took the second drink of Wild Turkey around Mile 3. All the better.

My bottle of Maker’s garnered many comments sticking proudly out of the back of my ruck. Outstanding.

By Mile 5 we were moving along nicely and at a great clip. All was good with the world. We passed the Wild Turkey on to passersby. They were happy to meet Ben Franklin’s recommendation for the National Bird.

Then something happened. We were going uphill and it wasn’t ending. Mile 8. Still uphill. Mile 10. Still uphill. There literally was no respite as we continued to climb a 6% grade. My hamstring, which I tore break dancing at a wedding, was starting to cramp. Goddamit. Something in the body chemistry was lacking. I hammered back some Gatorade and ate some Gu and hoped for the best.

Tommy noticed my gait was off and asked if I was okay. In my younger years I would have pretended nothing was wrong. Having just turned 33 the day before (yeah, Happy Birthday to me) and having been on both sides of this coin in the past I told him exactly what was up. “We need to slow down?” he asked. “Nah, man. I should be good,” I gamely replied.

Tommy knew I was hurting, but also knew there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do, so he nodded. When we hit Mile 12, the desert sun had sucked me pretty freaking dry, my leg was killing me, and I had a slight case of the fuzzies. Not ideal. Kelly Bruno, along with the freak of nature that is The Dave (he has a racing stripe tattooed to his leg…seriously), were basically running laps around us for fun because they are weirdos designed by God to do things that are truly miserable and somehow enjoy it. I kind of hated them.

That’s when Tackett looked at me and said, “Dude, you are completely covered in salt. That can’t be good.” Tom and Whitney looked at me like I was on my death bed. I was hurting pretty bad, but didn’t fully grasp how much salt I had shed until Kelly Bruno told me I looked like “a salt encrusted tuna”. I punched her in the face…in my head…but thought it was real…and that’s when you know things are going south.

Tackett told me to watch his feet and stay with him. In retrospect this would have been a good time to give some of my 55 pounds to someone carrying 20 less, but of course, the idea never occurred to me. The next mile and a half was a festering bag of dog shit. I was pissed off that my body was crapping out. I was frustrated as I knew that this was the outlier – I could do this race 20 times and only have this happen once, but BAM there it was. Most of all though, I was in pain: my hamstring felt like it was tearing all over again, I had a splitting headache, and I was cramping up. I adopted the old Ranger School standby of just putting one foot in front of the other and following Tackett. Life sucked.

Finally we got to the 13.5 mile mark where there was a water refill point. I had the fuzzies something fierce. “I’m way low on electrolytes,” I stated. Suddenly, I realized my team must have knocked off a CVS drug store before starting this race because there were about 107 pills suddenly in my hand. I vaguely remember them all blathering on about calcium delivery systems, electrolytes, and caffeine, but in all honesty they could have given me a vial of crack cocaine, two Viagra, and Iocane Powder and I would have downed every bit of that shit. With God knows what now swimming through my system, I refilled the camel backs (why was I still Muling at this point?), rucked up, took a pull of Wild Turkey, and moved out.

At this point I was expecting to be in for a miserable second half of the race, but with the amphetamines, opium, and paint thinner that my team had given me I started to feel way better – strong even. With every mile, I increased my pace with my proud Ranger Buddy John Tackett right beside me. Things were looking so good in fact that in my newfound exuberance we did mile 18 in just over ten minutes – a blistering pace with the 55 pound rucks. I was good to go now – fully revived. Nothing could go wrong!

That’s when Tackett broke his foot.

We were running on a downhill and something popped. At first he suffered through it without slowing, but his face had definitely changed. I knew where we were heading. Shortly thereafter he was turning his foot so that he wasn’t putting pressure on the injury. Now it was his turn to dig in. He took a nice pull of Wild Turkey as he grimaced on.

I looked around at the rest of the team. Tommy still looked strong. Whitney’s face showed some nice misery, but she was kicking ass. Kelly and The Dave had picked up juggling pins along the way and were throwing the pins back and forth to each other over our heads as they frolicked. I still hated them, and I am pretty sure John did too, mostly because he told me he did.

At mile 21 we hit what Bataaners affectionately call “The Sand Pit”. While much of the course is off road, up until this point the sand had been packed pretty well. The Sand Pit, however, was a foot to a foot and a half of loose sand. You couldn’t help but sink into it, which was just awesome six hours into a race, especially if you had a broken foot.

A mile and a half later, we were through. Whitney looked worse, but still good to go. Kelly and The Dave had somehow added a poodle to their juggling act. Tackett was hunkered down into miserable Ranger mode. Tommy, however, had gone from looking strong to looking ghost white.

“All my blisters popped dude.”

That water that had seemed so funny at 500 meters, had turned Tommy’s feet to hamburger (later the nurse would ask him if she could take a picture of his feet) and all of his blisters had gone at once. The spring in his step was gone. We Rangered on.

At Mile 23 it was Whitney’s turn to fall back a little. She looked bad and I was worried about her. By Mile 24.5 she was slipping back a little further. We slowed our pace to check on her and she motioned to keep moving. We did, but we kept a watchful eye. By Mile 25 she was really slipping back. Tommy turned to walk towards her when all of a sudden she let out some sort of Ginger grunt and took off running. She ran past us and we called for her, but she didn’t stop or slow. She just ran the ugliest run we had ever seen and disappeared. The Dave and Kelly were doing cartwheels while riding unicycles. We all still hated them.

Our group limped on to Mile 26. Whitney the Ginger was waiting there. She screamed something unintelligible and we, as a group turned the corner. There were two tenths of a mile to go. John, broken foot and all, started running. We all ran with him.

Team Ranger Up finished the God-forsaken race as a team in what can only be described as a day when everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong. Murphy had his way with us and kicked us out without even asking for our phone number. We were hurt and a bit disappointed. We all knew we could have done a lot better. I personally felt very guilty for slowing us down for a few miles in the middle stretch. It sucked.

We opened the bottle of Maker’s Mark that I had carried carefully on our excursion and pretty much killed it inside of ten minutes.

Right about that time we found out that we beat the old record by one hour and twenty minutes. About forty minutes later, the second place team, sponsored by Crossfit, would finish. We were well into our cooler of beer by that point.

Full Circle

Ranger Smith made it through the Mountain Phase and was now with me in the final phase of Ranger School in the swamps of Florida. There were about 96 hours left in the school and I already had a GO. All I had to do was physically make it to the end and I was going to have the coveted Ranger Tab. Life was as good as it could be. Ranger Smith was doing okay. We still helped him a lot, but he was continuing to improve. I hoped he was going to pass.

We had a miserable patrol that night and my Ranger Buddy had been in rough shape. I took his guard shift and sat on a rock in order to keep from getting comfortable and stay awake. When the shift was over and I went to move, I fell to the ground. I couldn’t feel my leg. At first I thought that I had just cut off the blood supply and that my leg would wake up, like when you fall asleep on your arm, but after thirty minutes there was no improvement. I couldn’t even walk without tripping. My mind raced. How the hell was I going to make any of the movements? The worst started entering my mind – I was going to fail Ranger School this close to the end. My eyes actually welled up.

Fuck that. I was going to figure this out. After several attempts, I realized that if I turned my foot sideways, I could lock it out and use it almost like a crutch. I spent much of the morning mastering this walking technique as I knew we had a long movement that evening.

Evening came quickly and we moved out. I did well for a while, but try as I might, I started slipping back. The Ranger Instructor was right in my face. “Do you want to quit Ranger?”

“No sergeant,” I said with disdain.

“It looks like you want to quit, Ranger.”

“Fuck that, sergeant.”

This took him aback because generally students, myself included, were extremely subservient to RIs. I was in a bad place and didn’t care anymore so anger got the better of me.

“Ranger, if you fall back too far, you’re done,” he snarled.

I put everything I had into moving forward. I pushed so hard off of that bad leg that to this day I still have knee pain from that night, but even with that effort, I knew I was in a losing battle. We had a long way to go.

Suddenly, I felt a hand under my ruck. At first I thought it was the RI pulling me out and my heart sunk but then I realized it was Ranger Smith, pushing me forward. Pride forced me to tell him I was fine. For the first time that any of us had ever seen, Ranger Smith got fierce. He leaned in and said, “You don’t have to do everything yourself Nick. You’re sucking and you’re getting my fucking help whether you want it or not. We’re a fucking team. Keep walking.”

I shut the fuck up. Ranger Smith got me to the end of the movement. That night I got some feeling back in the leg. I graduated Ranger School a week later. Ranger Smith was there with me.

Epilogue

As we walked through the chute at the end of the Bataan Death March, we shook the hands of the veterans who had lived through the real event in the Philippines. During the real Death March there were no water stations, no electrolyte pills, no support of any kind. If they fell out they were bayoneted on the side of the road and left to die. When they did stop for brief rests they were tortured. These men had nothing in the world except for two things: their indomitable will to survive and their buddies to their left and right. And they did it.

The race was awful in every conceivable way. And it damn well should have been.

God Bless the Battling Bastards of Bataan!

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