Being tased is as fun as tattoo removal by skin abrasion (just ask Tommy Batboy, who still holds the record for tasings in the state of Indiana). Anyone that volunteers to be shot with 50,000 volts of electricity will tell you that shit hurts. Of course when you’re the one doing the tasing, it’s just plain old funny, especially when it’s a celebrity like Latoya Jackson or Erik Estrada convulsing on the ground. Arron Barringer was an Albuquerque police officer who laughed his way through a slew of tasings, but never made it onto COPS, depriving us on the opportunity to sing “Bad Boys” to fuck with him. Whatcha gonna do?

Aaron started his military career off right, enlisting to be a paratrooper in the 1/501^st Airborne at Ft. Richardson, Alaska so he could hunt moose on his off time. But a tragic curling accident left him brain dead after he broke through thin ice and when he woke from his coma, Arron left the Army for the Marine Corps, where he served in the 1^st Recon Battalion just before the Iraq invasion. That sport should be banned! Why else do we like him? Glad you asked.

Arron once took a case of whiskey and a full terrabyte of porn with him on a deployment while on the USS Tarawa. When questioned by his superior officer, Arron claimed they were critical components of his job as Fight Club coach. No one objected.

Arron spent two years working a beat in the scariest town we’ve ever known-Albuquerque-while training at Greg Jackson’s MMA. So did Forrest Griffin.

Arron worked as a “contractor” running security for Cochise Consultancy in Iraq until he was released for taking an unauthorized trip to Bangkok without leaving the ground. Think about it.

After Iraq, Arron moved to Houston after hearing about its legendary blues scene and became a fat musician / fat college student / successful rocket surgeon until his lethargy caught up with him and he was accepted onto The Biggest Loser…without sending in an audition tape.

After losing 247 pounds, Arron became a session bassist (whatever that is) for Joey Fender and the 55’s, based out of Northern California, and several blues and rockabilly bands in Houston, begging the question, “What’s a 55?”

Arron stabbed himself in the eye in Recon school while demonstrating how to open a tuna fish can with a machete. True story.

Arron was on the debate team in High School. To this day he shouts, “You, sir, are out of line!” whenever someone mentions a ring tailed lemur.

Now that we’ve busted his chops, Ranger Up is proud to sponsor former paratrooper, former Marine, and former cop Arron Barringer this weekend at some fight show that we can’t remember. Ranger Up!

Captain Elias Donker has walked on the dark side of the street and emerged into the lamplight with scars. And by dark side of the street, we mean the seedy world of male cheerleading. The way he puts it, a bevy of blonde haired, blue eyed future maxim models insisted he become a cheerleader so they could feel his svelt rippling hands on their thighs. We suspect he was just another red-blooded American boy looking for an excuse to let loose his Roman eyes and Russian hands. Nothing wrong with that…until the cheerleading team makes you wear a skirt and a wig because they need one more female to complete “The Pyramid of Death.” We draw the line there.

In defense of his manliness, Eli was forced to lift weights like a young Corey Everson and graduated high school at 220 lbs, got scholarships for academics and cheerleading, and was on two consecutive top 10 cheerleading teams in the nation before giving it up for Rugby. Sounds like over-compensating, but we can’t bust his balls too much since rugby is the second manliest sport in the world.

Eli has never been seriously injured during MMA or Rugby, but suffered a separated shoulder, a broken eye socket, and 16 total stitches from college cheerleading. Juggling chicks doesn’t sound like so much fun all of a sudden.

Eli had to deal with an evil moniker issue growing up. Kind of like being named Fabio, having the last name of Donker is just rife for pubescent jokes and schoolyard teasing. The upside is it makes you tough as nails because repeatedly being called “Donkmaster” predisposes one to after school meetings in the parking lot of 7-11 for pugilistic conflict resolution (ironically most of the male cheerleaders on Eli’s team were in fact, named Fabio).

A fellow Officer in Iraq thought it was funny to imitate Shrek and yell “Donkey” at irregular intervals until Eli urinated in a cup, lean it against his door at a forty-five degree angle, and knocked. His barracks learned the drawback of Persian rugs – though soft and durable, they hold an aroma for months.

The brutish enforcer in Crocodile Dundee 2 (because one wasn’t enough) was named Donk and it’s believed he was modeled after Eli. Tommy Batboy’s favorite catchphrase is, “I don’t need a gun. I’ve got a Donk.”

Eli knows a thing or two about insurgency. His grandparents were very active in the Dutch resistance in WWII and maintains an old chest in the attic filled with bloody trophy swastika arm bands and daggers and were awarded a couple of Dutch Orders of Orange. Makes my dad’s North Vietnamese flag look like a party streamer.

Eli was a proud member of the Rakassans (3BCT 101st ABN) for 4.5 years and 2 tours. As he puts it, “I got into a debate on the merits of Democracy vs. Islamic fundamental theocracy with some boys, conducted with small arms and explosives. I won, of course, but they had a pretty formidable argument.”

Eli is such a bad driver that he is responsible for the term “Vehicular Breech” being added to the Army doctrinal vocabulary. He once parked a Humvee with a .50 cal and a spotlight in someone’s front yard in Iraq. We can’t wait to see what he does when his daughter starts dating.

Eli is a full time Guardsman in Indiana and works in a training center that was converted from an insane asylum (complete with a dungeon and electroshock therapy equipment) and is, of course, haunted. Contrary to popular belief he does NOT have flashbacks, shiver uncontrollably, and piss his pants when someone whispers, “Get out!”

Eli just returned from Iraq and will be in the cage fighting this weekend. That’s “Fuck you, I’m Alexander the Great” self-confidence, so we’re happy to sponsor him. Rakassan!

RU fighter Kenny Jackson took time out to make us a video of a few of his favorite moves.

Jorge Rivera rules.

The recently released Hollywood film, Dear John, is inspired by the life of a current Mesa student and his story of finding romance during a leave from the Army.

Todd Vance, 28, is Nicholas Sparks’ cousin, the author of Dear John. Vance said Sparks based the novel-turned-film on his life while serving in the United States Army.

“There a few things he [Sparks] changed to make the story more interesting, but it is a pretty accurate depiction of what really happened,” said Vance.

The film is set in South Carolina where John is on leave from the army, meets a girl, and falls in love. The two are inseparable and continue dating and writing letters to each other, though he deploys back to Germany and she goes back to school.

“I came home on leave for two weeks and met a girl on the beach,” said Vance. “We spent every minute together and wrote to each other after I left.”

Vance, a San Diego native, enlisted with the Army in 1999, where he served as a Squad Leader in the Army Infantry as well as the 3rd Striker Brigade. Prior to Sept. 11, he had four months left on his contract, but re-enlisted and served in the war that ensued.

“We flew to Kuwait, and then the striker unit drove to northern Iraq,” said Vance.

While the romance follows Vance’s life more closely, the combat scenes are portrayed quite differently.

“In the movie John is in the Special Forces, which I was not,” Vance said. “He is also shot twice in the back. I was never shot, but pieces of metal flew into my back after a grenade explosion.”

In the film, while he is in combat, John learns that his dad is dying, and is sent back home to be with him, which is similar to the happenings in Vance’s life.

“My step-dad had a cyst behind his pancreas and had surgery to have it removed,” he said. “He passed from complications with the surgery.”

While this happens when John is in combat, Vance says it actually happened when he was on his two-week leave in San Diego, when he initially met his girlfriend.

The movie also shows John being broken up with in a final letter his girlfriend sends him telling him she’s engaged to someone else.

“My girlfriend never cheated on me, we stayed together the whole time,” said Vance.

Vance was let out of the Army in 2005, and came back home to San Diego, where he returned to his girlfriend, though they broke up after his homecoming.

“Being away from each other was really tough, and it created a lot of tension,” he said. “I also had a lot to deal with and it didn’t make the relationship work.”

In the end of the movie, John and his ex-girlfriend reunite after he comes back home, but similar to real life, the couple did not stay together in the movie.

“After the movie came out, we started talking again, but we’re just friends,” concluded Vance.

“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.

We at RU know that all kids think their parents are full of crap until they become one (see…Jamaican degrees in action), so it was inevitable that Pat’s disdain for his dear pops would come to a screeching halt. One night he and his dad were working in a bar (his dad got him a job there-nice) when Senior Miller dropped three guys in one fight. Suddenly Patrick ate all his veggies and cleaned his room without being asked. That’s one reason we like him – respect for his elders.

Another reason we like him is he’s the freakshow circus strongman of his unit. Pat has wrestled since he was four years old and got into MMA by watching wrestlers like Dan Severn destroy guys in early UFCs. Now when his unit combatives training is done he frequently gets jumped by guys who think they can pin him. As a result Pat has become proficient at tying humans into knots like party balloons. The down side to being a wrestler atrociously bad striking skills. Pat has never thrown a straight punch in a fight and has only thrown three kicks in his career. That would probably get him knocked out like Damien Maia, but we like to think of him more as a larger BJ Penn, who also only throws kicks when they can end fights (ask Diego Sanchez).

Here are some other fun facts about him:

-Pat was trying to look tough at his first fight and was doing well until his kid asked, “After the fight can we get some candy?” Randy Couture once had the same issue.

-When his wife was pregnant, Pat figured it would be okay to fight in New Mexico on Halloween night. Baby girl had different plans. That’s right – early labor and a baby girl on Halloween night. Guess she knew daddy was about to dole out some pain.

-Pat’s toughness only goes so far – he has to wear a mask to change dirty diapers so he doesn’t throw up. Awwww…muffin.

-Pat is incapable of breaking 100 while bowling and frequently falls down on the slippery lanes. His friends asked him to join their bowling league just so they could laugh at Bozo the Clown on ice and put up the gutter bumpers.

Staff Sergeant Pat Miller will be headlining the South Texas Fighting Championships this weekend against Ricco Rodriguez.

What exactly, or rather who, is a Warrior?

The word “warrior” literally means “one who wages war.” The American Heritage Dictionary describes a warrior as “One who is engaged aggressively or energetically in an activity, cause, or conflict.” In the Army, every Soldier is a warrior, or so they tell us. I am of the belief that we use the word “warrior” rather generously in the Army, bestowing it upon anyone who wears an ACU and pair of desert boots (don’t get me started on the black beret, perhaps the most functionally deficit article of common Army wear). Before I receive the hate mail responses to this, let me assure you of one thing. I am not MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) bashing. The Army works as well as it does because we have so many talented, dedicated individuals who have volunteered to put their lives on the line in defense of the common good. Every MOS contributes and has an enormous impact on the success and support of worldwide missions. But are we really training our Soldiers to be warriors?

One of my favorite lines from the Soldier’s Creed is this:

I stand ready to deploy, engage, and DESTROY the enemies of the United States of America in close combat
Maybe it’s the simplicity of the statement, the utter conviction of the words, or just the absolute aggressive gusto you shout the line out with, but I love that sentence! It’s a warrior’s mindset, an ass-whooping, take no prisoners attitude. But is it a reality? Are we really training our Soldiers to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat? Are we training our Soldiers to be battle ready, or are we training them to pass their APFT and pass their monthly board. There are Soldiers in my Battalion who can’t shoot to save their lives (literally). I’ve tapped out Soldiers, grown men, six and seven times in a two minute combatives sparring session, and I’ve seen others who can’t kick a heavy bag hard enough to made it budge. I’ve seen some of these same Soldiers wilt under the weight of a 35 pound ruck, and that’s one mile into a five mile hike.

Shoot, Move, Communicate…Kill.

We have Soldiers who can’t shoot, can’t fight, and can’t ruck. For all intents and purposes, they can’t defend themselves, can’t defend others, and sure as hell won’t throw me onto their back and firemen’s carry me out of dodge if all hell breaks loose. Don’t get me wrong, these are some GREAT people! It’s not an issue of desire or passion on their part, it’s not an issue of “you got no heart!” It’s an issue of poor training objectives and unrealistic measures of success.
But whose fault is it? It’s ours, officers and senior NCOs who are unwilling to train Soldiers the way they need to be trained. Combatives, ranges, commo training. All very basic Soldiering stuff that we tend to check the box on. Instead, we make sure they can do enough pushups and situps in a two minute period, that they can run two miles under sixteen minutes, and that they know which direction to point a weapon (Downrange baby, downrange.)
Of course I’m not talking about every unit, everywhere in the United State Army. But not every MOS has a RAW PT program, and not every unit puts rounds on target once a month. A great many units are checking the block, even during deployment preparation. Until we change our mindset and honestly subscribe, as an organization, to the tenants of “Shoot, Move, Communicate, Kill,” we’re not building Warriors, we’re building professionals in ACUs. Before you know it, the new uniform will be a three piece suit with ACU pattern tie, and a leg holster holding a laser pointer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what she said,” offered Post.

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

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

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

And Ranger Up marches on.