by Mister Twisted

I started to write this article in the vein of the last couple, whereby I would give a rundown of the candidates and how ridiculously bad they all are, but I confess, I lost motivation — and creativity. The simple fact is, I’m sorry.

Why am I sorry? Because I work in politics. And the sad reality is that the political process and what it produces saddens the shit out of me. I talk to people on a daily basis that plead with me by saying things like “why can’t you send out plain, well-written arguments that lay out the facts in black and white?” You know what? I would love to. But the unfortunate truth of the matter is that politics is not about ideas; it’s not about who has the most logic on their side or who has the most well-reasoned argument. Very little of that even matters because it’s about something else entirely.

It’s about marketing.

I’m not joking. If you want to learn how politics truly works, watch a few episodes of the HBO series Mad Men. Now take out the hot red head and that’s what politics really is — sending messages to people through various sources of media that they will ultimately respond to.

It’s the exact same methodology that companies like Pepsi, Nike, Coors, and Ford use. They can’t make an advertisement that lays out all the logical reasons why their product is good because nobody would respond. Instead, they use hot girls, edgy photography, hip music, and a cool catch-phrase to get your attention.

The end result of all of this being, of course, that you see numerous commercials and receive countless emails telling you that the world will, in fact, come to an end if you do not vote for them or their cause. They operate on the premise that you won’t give them money or vote for them unless they scare the crap out of you.

Possibly even more depressing is the reason why political personalities and groups do this — because it works.

Consider that the average American does not study history, has little interest in politics outside their immediate realm, and was never part of the government or those charged with protecting it (hence the .45% Ranger Up shirt). The average American is not what we would call “informed.”

Another way of saying it is, if you’re reading this, you’re not an average American.

You were probably in the military or in law enforcement (or at least know someone who is); you probably take the time to read something every day; you like to be informed; you care about more than just the score of the game; you have drive to be better. If you didn’t have all of this, you wouldn’t come to a site named “Ranger UP!”
So where does this leave people like you and I? People who know that things can be better but are aggravated to no end about the process required to get it that way. I used to carry an M4 through crappy village after crappy village for my country, and now I’m writing fund-raising letters for political causes making less money than I was as an lowly NCO. And that’s saying something. I have to go to a Brazilian jiu jitsu class and have my 300 pound Black Belt instructor kick my ass on a regular basis just so I can feel like I’m doing something.

My point is this: We’re not normal. People who hang out on sites like this and find humor in things like Tim Kennedy answering his door with an M4 and having a plan to kill everyone in the room are a minority. Unfortunately, some of us start feeling pressure to change that “abnormality” in order to conform; to start down the long, dreary road of “compromise.”

Don’t.

Just don’t do it. Embrace the fact that you know more about the world and find “political incorrectness” funny as shit sometimes. Be arrogant about the fact that you know what’s right and you are willing to fight for it. And don’t let the marketing of politicians and interest groups tell you otherwise.

Be informed. Be smarter than the ones running for office and those helping them — it’s not hard, and you’re probably already there. Just don’t feel the need to change it when they say “well, that’s not how we do things here…” The reality is, it should be YOU who are telling them how “we” do things here.

Don’t accept the platitudes of politicians telling you that we need to “compromise” to get things done — we don’t. Call them out on their stances. Check out what they have actually stood for — and more importantly, voted on — in the past instead of listening to them speak or debate. Refuse to accept their fancy speak and slick campaign slogans — vote for what they’ve done, or don’t vote at all.

There will, as usual, be a huge campaign for people to get out and “just vote.” Nonsense. Here’s the blunt truth: crappy politicians who don’t represent you don’t deserve your vote. Make them know it.

Politics, in its essence, is about the adjudication of power. But here’s the ultimate irony: those who understand sacrifice, those who aren’t afraid of the world out there, those who challenge themselves to be better, we already have power. We just need to be careful in who we let share it.

Mr. Twisted

Moving sucks; there is no easier way to say it! Having grown up as an Army-brat and then joining the Army myself, I moved so frequently that it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Every 2-3 years, a moving truck with stinky, toothless crack-addicts would appear at my door, go to work with a flurry of activity…then haul all of my crap out to the truck and drive away, reappearing at my new location with my treasured items. Now, I have to pay for everything and it sure seems like a shitload more work. Why can’t I just hire Harry Potter to come and wave his wand with a “Movimus” spell and magically pack and move everything for me?

Now the time has arrived again. I have delayed the inevitable but it still has snuck up on me and now is the time for action not because I necessarily want to, but because I have to. I have to move. Not a simple move where I load up my car and simply drive a couple blocks over and then unload, but a full blown, pack everything in boxes and a big ass rental truck to drive across the country type move.

I’d rather chew on tin foil.

I have to admit, when I was still in the Army, I never had anything nice. Why? Because I knew that I was moving in a couple of years and it made absolutely no sense to buy nice furniture only to have it scratched or broken while on a boat going overseas. Ahh, the days of barracks furniture that were handed down from soldier to soldier, held together with 100-mile-an-hour-tape, and decorated with a newly bought flat-sheet from the PX. It made life so much simpler. It was cost effective and so worn out that it was comfortable at the most basic level.

A couple of weeks ago, Barrett wrote about how he has accumulated a certain amount of trinkets and collectables “because it’s cool.” I absolutely cannot say that I have trinkets, but I have a metric ton of crap! Why on God’s green earth am I still holding on to an old LBE magazine pouch? I don’t have an LBE to attach it to, not that I would wear it anyways. I was going through my bookshelf and found my Mortar Platoon SOP book. I think it is probably time to get rid of that as well. I really can’t see myself laying in a section of 120mm mortars in my backyard anytime soon or using BLACKHORSE to encrypt my grid location, the home owners association may have issues with that.

Have you ever noticed that higher quality furniture is A LOT heavier than the crappy ones? I am just now realizing this. I remember buying a $49 dollar dresser that I could easily wrap my arms around and lug wherever it needed to go. Now I have to have an extended furniture dolly, front and rear road guards with reflective vests, and clearance from the next higher echelon just to move it across the room. I am dreading trying to get that behemoth of wooden delight out of the bedroom and onto the truck and don’t even get me started on the armoire!

Oh how I want to go buy a rack of German beer (the Germans pack better when they have a buzz) sit back and just revisit the days of past as all of my crap just magically disappears and reappears. But alas, a job awaits me across the country and this shit isn’t going to pack itself!

Nick, Tommy, and Crigger love writing, but conquering the world takes time and effort, so we need help. Ranger Up needs new writers and we’re taking the Rhino Den up a notch by hiring 2-4 talented narcissistic assholes from any branch of service to join our team.

The Job:

1) Write no more than one article a week and no fewer than two articles a month.

2) Articles have to be over 600 words and under 1200 words.

3) Articles will focus on military/police/fire/first responder stories, current events and how they affect the military/police/fire/first responder community, or Emilio Estevez, as we believe he probably feels shitty now that Charlie Sheen gets all the love.

4) We have three flavors of acceptable writing: Funny, Funny, and Serious, but with a Funny Twist.

5) Payment: $100 or $100 worth of gear per accepted article.

The Contest:

Week 1:

By 20 March 2011, submit a Douche of the Week article to business@rangerup.com. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 4-6 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Week 2 assignment.

Week 2:

By 27 March 2011, submit a personal story of a ridiculous situation you were in to business@rangerup.com. Be funny. We’ll post any acceptable articles on the RhinoDen and pay each writer whose article is posted $100 for their work. We’ll allow our Facebook members to vote and the writers of the 2-4 articles with the most “Likes” will be offered a Job at Ranger Up and an additional $100 gift certificate.

The absolute winner with the most likes total will receive a $250 gift certificate in lieu of the $100 and the opportunity to embarrass him or herself in a Ranger Up Video.

Week 3:

Ranger Up announces the winners on 5 April 2011.

Perks:

1) Awesomeness.

2) A magical unicorn that will take you wherever you want to go*
*Unicorns only available while supplies last.

So, here’s how the story goes. In the heat of battle, a Gurkha, fighting alongside some Brits, decides that his life is in danger and he needs to skeedeaddle from the target area ASAP. But he also knows he has to positively identify the Taliban target his unit came to neutralize when he gets back to camp. With bullets whizzing by his head, he makes a decision and lops off the head of the already-dead Taliban they came to get. His unit exfiltrates the AO and all go home safely.

But upon hearing that one of his Gurkhas decapitated a terrorist, some snooty British Officer decides to punish the soldier. That’s the Cliff’s Notes version of the story. The full read is here.

So we ask, Ranger Up nation, what do you think? Did he do the right thing or is he a barbarian that doesn’t need to be in uniform? Was he merely administering the same treatment to the enemy that they’ve shown us, or did he go too far and violate the rules of civilized warfare? Was he following orders as he saw them or is he a bloodthirsty savage? Is he to blame or is his chain of command for not putting, “no beheading of bad guys is allowed” in the Operations Order?

And what if it was an American soldier? What would we have done if a US Army soldier cut of a head in order to E&E from a hot LZ?

Sound off.

“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.

I’m Not a Country Boy

“I’m guessing you’re not much of a golfer,” a suit says beside me.

“The only birdie’s I shoot don’t get up,” his newfound friend at the bar responded. I didn’t want to look, but the smooth, yet gruff Sam Elliot voice was wet with contempt and confrontation has always been my siren song. I kinked my head just enough to see a cowboy hat juxtapositioned against the bewildered expression of a businessman who was trying to make casual conversation, but instead found himself on the wrong end of an irritated Clint Eastwood. It was an innocuous comment between two people I didn’t know in an airport bar while I was half lit on bourbon and a cancelled flight. The curmudgeon in me pleaded with my reasonable side to start an argument, but luckily reason pulled a five-finger death touch and stopped it cold. Still…an inner struggle had begun and I couldn’t have stopped it with anything less than beating my head against the bar.

Is there something so thoroughly shameful about being bereft of bucolic instinct that we should feel ashamed for living in major population centers and not knowing if we’re driving by alfalfa, cabbage, or carrots when we venture into the countryside? When I drive by a farm and get a whiff of soybeans and cow shit, I think two things: Thank God for Farmers and Thank God I’m not a Farmer. Farming is a backbreaking, dusty crotch, ripped nails, unending suckfest work that makes grown men weep and barely earns enough scratch to keep it going, much less live off of. I respect the people who do it, but it’s just not me and I kind of get tired of people like this cowboy at the bar trying to make us concrete jungle dwellers feel like lesser men for not having any country in us.

I like the sounds and smells of Suburbia on a Sunday when I’m sleeping in and not going to church. I got a Swedish Husqvarna riding mover that I don’t even know how to change the oil on. If I were to tell that to this guy here at the bar, he would most assuredly disapprove, though I’m not sure whether it’s for my panty-weight mechanical skills or the fact that I didn’t buy American. He would look down on me because I don’t know the cud chewing side from the ass end of a cow and most of America thinks it’s funny stuff to emulate country folk and emasculate those of us who know the difference between houndstooth and tweed.

I think there’s a conspiracy between Cabelas, Ford, and Jeff Foxworthy to make us non-country boys feel like little Susie Homemakers for not being more outdoorsy. Every so often Hollywood gets in on the act with movies like, “The Cowboy Way” that makes city slicking sinners look like haphazard chumps. I got two words for you, Hoss – Brokeback Mountain. Denim and chaps do not provide you with testosterone, much less an infallible air of superiority.

Truth is, I think we need each other, though not in the way you’re clearly thinking after that Brokeback Mountain comment. It’s like the Yin and the the Yang, the balance in The Force, Obiwan Kenobe and Darth Vader. Who’s who? Not important. The point is country folk and city folk balance each other out. One isn’t greater than the other. If the great white hunter wants to spend twelve hours in a deer stand waiting for a buck to walk into his line of fire so he can make flavorless jerky and an antler hat rack, let him!

And if Armani over there wants to enjoy a frappucino and a scone while bitching about how he had to wait in line to get into a club and then his date with a microwaved sock fell short, well Lamb Chop be damned, this is America and he can do so. So what if he’s never run through a cornfield and felt the sweet sting of a sharp stalk leaf against his supple forearms and suffers PTSD from the sight of a tick. His keen eye for a Coach man purse deal helps define who the rest of us are not.

Us soldiers are even more at risk for having a redneck background than other demographics, but we temper our contempt with integrity and military bearing. The military mindset seems predestined to revert to the hunter-gatherer instinct and many of us go out to the field to train for weeks only to come back in, load the family SUV, and get lost in the Cascade Mountains. Some guys just can’t get enough rain and pine straw. Luckily I’ve beaten that side out of me and convinced myself that climate control is God’s way of saying ‘stay inside, my son.’ My concept of camping now involves a thirty-foot trailer, several propane bottles, and a flat screen TV with satellite hook up.

Sure, I’m no stranger to a torrential downpour, humping through the woods all night, or dragging my footlocker all the way from my Hummer to my GP Medium tent and to be honest, I abhor people who have no survival instinct in them. I’ve done it and I just don’t want to anymore, so I think it’s hypocritical to try to make a guy with hair plugs and four-hundred dollar shoes feel inferior because he doesn’t sit on a porch swilling homebrew while singing John Denver songs. This is America. Individuality and the pursuit of happiness is what makes us who we are, even if that happiness is being a chain smoking, bulimic gimp that you find morally reprehensible.

My inner daydream was suddenly interrupted when the cowboy gathered himself up to leave and reached to the ground for his bag, revealing a Manchu tattoo on his forearm (Manchu = 9^th Infantry Regiment) and turned to go.

“Want to settle up?” the bartender said, holding a receipt that hadn’t been paid. I snatched it like Bill Clinton feverishly scrambling after a discarded bra.

“I’ve got this.”

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

The New Year is upon us and it is time for Ranger Up’s New Year’s Resolutions.

While we don’t have them all ironed out yet, Tommy and I have firmly committed to defattifying ourselves.

Now it isn’t that we’re grossly out of shape and except for one drunken moment where we considered gorging ourselves for months in order to qualify, we’ve never considered applying for “The Biggest Loser”. We both can still easily make the Ranger five-mile time of 40 minutes and our combined bench, dead lift, and squat score is still north of 1000 pounds, but time away from active duty and consistent Jits/MMA competition has made us well…a little too squishy for our liking.

And it isn’t just that we’ve let our girlish figures slip (I think I am getting a muffin top). I found myself gassing a little too early when I grappled or running a little slower than I liked and Tommy failed to max the PT test for the first time in ages, coming in at a 286 in his guard unit. His Fran and Cindy records on Crossfit also slipped by 2-3 rotations.

Of course, it didn’t help to have Tim Kennedy walking around with his eight-pack, a constant reminder of what we once were (okay, maybe not, but we at least had the top four to six), but we’re busy dudes and we can’t really work out three times a day like professional athletes or two times a day like we used to in the military.

Tim has too many abs and we hate him for it.

So what’s a couple of chubby military t-shirt makers to do?

Enter P.R. Cole, or “The Pixie” as she is affectionately known, owner of FueltheFighter.com. Cole is the premier nutritionist in MMA, writing for Fight! Magazine each month, supporting such fighters as Tim Kennedy, Frank Trigg, Kenny Florian, Phillipe Nover, and Jorge Gurgel with personalized nutrition programs, and, if the rumors are true may end up with her own TV segment in the near future. As if that isn’t enough, she is also a seasoned gymnast and muay thai practitioner, and holds something like 107 degrees from Columbia University. When she started working with Tim, we wondered “What could she possibly do for him?” Well, he actually grew four additional abs, so he now has a twelve pack, which is just bullshit. In short, she is more than qualified to help the likes of Tommy and I get a little less fat.

Graciously, even though she is the busiest woman alive, she offered to build programs for us. We think she is doing so because of our incredible charm and good looks. Others claim that it is because I went to school with her brother and she pities us. You decide.

They key here is that this isn’t a diet. I was a wrestler. If I wanted to weight 135 tomorrow, I could probably pull that shit off. The plan is to fundamentally and permanently change the way we eat. My theory is that if it works for workaholic/alcoholic freaks like us, you guys ought to try it too.

Progress to Date

So here’s the deal. Tommy has been at it for 9 weeks. At 5’ 6” he has gone from 174 to 159. He wants to hit 155 before he starts building more muscle with an eventual goal of landing at a very solid 170.

I started ten days ago, so there is a lot of work to be done! At 5’8” I weighed in at 209 and as of last Friday (weigh day)was at 204.5. I want to drop down to 185/190 depending on body fat percentage and then add lean muscle and land at 195-200.

We will post updates every week or two because it will shame us into committing.

What’s In it For You? (Other than laughing at us)

1) We work better when we have other goals, so we’d like your help coming up with our other resolutions. Ideas on the table from friends: Run a marathon (time TBD), Actually try to get belted in Jits and get our Blue Belts from Tim Burrill (a tall order at Tim’s), Lift X, Win X Judo Tournament or Y Jits Tournament, Accomplish Random feats of Crossfit Awesomeness, etc. If we pick your resolution (and yes, there will be some voting involved once we vet the top ones) you’ll get a $50 Ranger Up Gift Certificate.

2) We need workouts to keep things interesting, and we’re so busy that we pretty much work out at RU or run and that’s it right now. At our disposal at RU: tons of kettle bells, a sledge hammer and normal-sized tire, a bench press, deadlift area, squat rack, lat pull down machine, pull up bar, dip bar, thai bag, and jits mats. We’ll pick one workout every week from the comments section here, our facebook group, or from email (nick@rangerup.com) to knock out. If we use yours, we’ll mention how it went in our updates, give you credit for life, and send you a free t-shirt.

Nick and Tommy getting their hair done before their PR Cole diet began.

“Gentlemen”, the boss said, “We are no longer going to Africa.”

Well, that was a bit surprising. A huge game-changer that wrecked months of planning and preparation by many, many Navy and Marine Corps officers & their staffs for our training mission in West Africa… but only slightly surprising.

We were halfway between Camp Lejeune and Little Creek, and had pulled the buses over for a quick break and some chow in some podunk North Carolina town. The CO had checked his command-issued Blackberry for email, then pulled all the SNCOs and officers off the buses to spread the good news.

On the plus side, we were ahead of the game: that afternoon, we were scheduled to embark on a small-deck amphibious ship that already had our vehicles & equipment aboard, as well as a good amount of humanitarian assistance and disaster relief gear ready to go. There were also several other ships gearing up or already underway to meet us in Haiti. The bad news was that we’d just gone from a secondary, “would be nice” humanitarian & PR mission to part of an urgent, real-world operation.

Had I known this would happen, my packing list might have been a bit different. And I sure as hell would have fought for better weapons & equipment for my Marines.

As I sit here anchored near Port-au-Prince, I’m anxious to find out specifics of our mission. We all want to know what the plan is going to be at our level, so we can accurately plan & prepare to execute. We sit here, looking over the rails and across the bay at still-smoking buildings, watching the jetsam and debris drift alongside us in the water, and we wait.

We’re not the only ones in the bay here, either – there’s a lot of ass sitting alongside us ready to push ashore. The past five or six hours seems like a lot longer. I’ve honestly never deployed anywhere without getting some guidance even before arrival and going full-throttle the minute I hit the deck. This time, the wait is killing me.

I’ve gone in the past four days from having a deployment training schedule so tight my new fiance could make reservations for my homecoming, to not knowing how long I’ll be ashore, how I’ll get back home, or even when.

I do know the chow here ain’t much better than MREs at any rate. And I know that I want to get the hell off this can and do something.

The “Greatest Generation” is often used to describe the generation of Americans who persevered through the Great Depression and subsequently fought in, and supported from home, World War Two.

Fast forward sixty years, and the driving political force (insert sarcastic sneer here) which is “Rock the Vote,” is taking political activism to new depths…er…heights. Corralling the hoards of mindless carcasses, wallowing in their cesspool of teenage and twenty-something angst, and branding them with the company logo “MTV,” Rock the Vote is taking individual thought to task. Don’t dare think for yourself, don’t have the audacity to have an opinion outside the liberal close-minded box, and don’t you dare “go against the family” (Apologies to Marlon Brando).

Rock the Vote has completely glossed over ostracism and rational dialogue, they’ve skipped ahead to the dreaded triple dog dare of getting your way, withholding sex.

“We pledge ourselves to the health and liberty of young Americans and to government for the people … and to never f—ing you if you are against us.” Ah, Rock the Vote, your militant liberal mothers must be so proud.

What is going on here? Has our political discourse really devolved into this? Sexual extortion? Do it my way or don’t do me at all?

This assumes, of course, that the threat of sexual withdrawal is enough to send conservative men scurrying about in search of Michael Moore’s latest documentary, knocking each other over in the frantic attempt to “liberalize” our minds.

Oh please, please, please! Don’t withhold your crusty, diseased Va**na from us! I’ll do anything! I’ll change my stance on anything you want; National Defense, Economic Issues, Health Care, ANYTHING!

And this also assumes that Rock the Vote speaks for all of young America, not just the mindless, spineless droves of drooling sycophants. Is this what Rock the Vote President Heather Smith envisions? Her army of sex-starved health-care “reform” opponents, being led to slaughter on her jewel studded leashes. Crying out for crumbs of sex from the liberal supply wagon.

Bad news Heather, HOT CHICKS DIG SHOOTERS! The metro-sexual men who frequent your peace rallies, sewing circles, Mary Kay parties, and vegetarian cooking contests may fall for this crap, but rest of us men don’t. Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen. We all give you a collective, Kiss my Ass!

But the old axiom applies here. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. So with that as my rallying cry, I sally forth, hands on the reins of my valiant steed (His name is Justice, by the way), trampling the opposition with discombobulated logic, whiny retorts, selfish demands, and self-serving motives. Talley Ho!