Jacob shook his head violently.  He was starting to spin now, eyes glazing over, dark circles threatening to overcome his blurred vision, as he grasped futilely for the handrail that led to the backdoor of his temporary quarters.  He spun and stumbled again, knee cracking painfully on the wet concrete step that led to the haven inside.  His legs buckled under the strain, and he spun a last 180 degrees, landing with an audible WHUMPHHHH, air forcibly expelled from his lungs from the impact, his left leg bleeding where he had hit his knee.  Jacob took a last ragged breath and cried out in pain as the knife wound in his stomach spilled another wave of fresh blood through his T-shirt and onto the back porch, mixing perversely with the rivulets of rainwater that ran down into the drain at the base of the building.

He grasped the gaping wound with his hand, vainly trying to pinch the edges together to keep his intestines from fleeing his body, but the strength in his hands fled, he gave in, and he let his arm fall to his side.   Searing pain kept him from taking another deep breathe, coughs and slight gasps now wracking his chest.  The last thing he saw before he went under was the dead girl on the picnic table, cherry blossoms covering her bloody face, tiny fingers grasping the chain he had given her that very morning.  She was smiling, he knew, underneath all that blood, and still the cherry blossoms fell, covering her face and body in a gentle caress, almost as if God himself was apologizing for her terrible life.  He thought he felt an aftershock from the earthquake weeks before, but he wasn’t sure if it was that, or the pounding of cherry blossoms, falling over Miho, falling over him.  Funny, how they kept falling.  After almost two weeks now, cherry blossoms were still falling…..

TWO WEEKS BEFORE

CPT Jacob Patrickson flipped the light switch to the living room with one hand, dumping his “A” bag with the other.  The switched let out a small click, but the lights stayed off.

“You’ve got to be flippin’ kidding me.”

He stepped back through the door and pulled his ruck and assault pack into the building; condemned, soon-to-be demolished Sergeant Major quarters, located in an abandoned corner of Camp Zama, right outside Zama City, Japan.  “Of course,” he muttered as dumped his assault pack, searching for his penlight.  The trip to Tokyo had been long and tiring, all 36 hours of it. Now, at 0200 on a sweltering night in Japan, the power to his temporary lodging was non-existent.  Jacob glanced out the window, hoping to see headlights from the douchebag that dropped him off without making sure his quarters were straight.  Nothing to see but swaying cherry blossom trees and more dark condemned buildings.   And I don’t even have a phone to call anyone, Jacob thought.  As soon as I see that ass clown again, we’re gonna have words…

Penlight in hand, Jacob found the fuse box in the kitchen and flipped the switches on, glancing around his new “home.”  He put his penlight on the kitchen counter, noting the absence of a stove, refrigerator, microwave or any other semblance of appliance.  White tile floors extended into the dining/living room, and echoed the sounds of his sandals as they snapped with each step, reminding him of all those old horror novels he had read as a kid.  The ones where the hero stops walking and the echoes of his steps continue, revealing some nefarious foe sneaking up from behind.  Just to clear the heebie-jeebies, Jacob took a step and stopped mid stride, keeping his food from hitting the tile floor.  He smiled at his fearful mind, shaking his head at his own peevishness.  A sharp CLACK startled him, and he spun around, hands in fists, eyes wide for that boogey man that was now haunting his imagination.  His penlight rolled to a lazy stop on the tile floor.

“Easy there stud, no boogey man here, you just need some sleep.”

Stacks of bound cots littered the living room area, and Jacob diligently put two together, one to sleep on and one to stow his gear.  With a perfunctory look around the rest of the house, Jacob collapsed on his cot and fell asleep.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – -

“Captain Patrickson?”

“Captain Paaaaaatrickson!”

Jacob both heard and felt the pounding on the front door, his eyes automatically going to his watch, a Timex Pathfinder his wife had bought him two Christmases ago.  0600.  Seriously?

“Captain Patrickson?  You in there?”

Jacob rolled off his cot, rubbed his eyes and stretched as he looked around for a shirt.  He pulled on his classic “I Club Hippies” Ranger Up T-Shirt and a pair of black board shorts.

“Captain Patrickson?  Hello?”

“Yeah, hold on, I’m comin’.  Give me a minute”

Jacob stumbled to the bathroom and released the four Jack and diet Cokes he drank on the flight in.  After glancing in the mirror and running his fingers over his two day growth, he walked into the living room and crossed to the front door.  As he opened the door, he interrupted a Soldier mid-knock, stepping back as the Soldier’s arm swung heavily where the door had been.

The short freckled officer jumped back startled, a giant foolish grin on his face.  “Oh, haha, sorry about that.  I almost knocked on your chest!”

“Who…are…you?”

“Oh, sorry about that, my name’s CPT Stillmore, I’m with Corps staff.  I’m here to take you in to meet everyone in the TOC.”

“Your name is CPT, huh?  Well, my rank is CPT, but my name is Jacob.”

“Oh…yeah….I’m Jessie.”

“Well, Jessie, what time am I supposed to be in today?”

“Well, really, right now.  Not sure if CPT Phen told you that last night or not, but you’re to start days in about an hour, you’re taking my spot as the Day Battle Captain.”

“No, CPT Phen didn’t tell me shit.  That turd dropped me off here last night, not real impressed with old CPT Phen.  So, your spot in the TOC?  Where are you headed?”

“I’m going up North, the hurricane site; I’ll be up there for the next two months or so.  A bunch of us are headed up North, that’s why they brought you guys in TDY.”

“All right, give me 30, I’ll be ready to go.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you here while you get ready.”

Jacob walked into the back bedroom, grabbed his shaving kit and yelled out of the bathroom while he let the water heat up.

“How’s the night life around here?”

“It’s okay, not much going on around here until you head farther North toward Machida and Tokyo.  There isn’t much in Zama City, its pretty low key around here.”

Jacob nodded his head as he lathered up his face and looked into the mirror.

That’s too bad, he thought to himself, I thought this trip would be interesting.

I have PTSD. We all know what it is, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I am one of millions who are affected by it each and every day.  Millions of men and women who have varying symptoms yet manage to maintain a normal lifestyle.   I, along with my cohorts, have been classified as a potential powder keg just waiting on that spark to set us off into a murderous explosion of ire. This is not the case as I am just as normal as you.

At the end of every day I lay my head down in an attempt to sleep.  That in itself is no different than you. But when my eyes close and I should be drifting off into a peaceful bliss, my mind takes over and I am tormented in my dreams with a vivid and exaggerated version of every combat encounter witnessed.  There has been nary a night that I do not have this, and have not had an uninterrupted night of sleep for years.  Yet in the morning, I rise with the consistency of the sun, roll out of my sweat soaked bed, and shake off the remnants of the nightly battles and start my day…just like you.

I am functional in society, but I am a little more vigilant than you, always on the look-out for danger, avoiding large crowds and loud places.  But somehow, I can still manage to go out to eat, shop for my clothes and drive my car.  I pay close attention to those around me, see the drug deal that just took place on my right and notice the people who just don’t belong in a certain situation.  You may not have evil intentions, but I will notice nonetheless.

I have guns. As a matter of fact I just about always have one on me.  You see, even though I have PTSD, I am still a Sheepdog watching out for my flock.  I don’t brandish my weapon and most of the time you won’t even know I have it on my body, but it is there.  I also carry a large knife in my pocket, one that could cause serious injury or death if used improperly.  I have never used any of my weapons in a malicious manner and never will, but in my duties as a Sheepdog I will not hesitate to draw down on you should the circumstance warrant it.  I am armed, but I am not dangerous.

There are times that I am medicated.   My PTSD comes in cycles and when things get bad I need that extra chemical push to regulate me.  I accept this and because of it I do not drink.  I have other physical problems that could easily warrant an addiction to pain killers, but just like most of us with PTSD, I avoid it.

I have never committed violence in the workplace, just like the vast majority of those who suffer with me.  My co-workers know I spent time in the military but they do not know of my daily struggles, and they won’t.   I can still communicate with my subordinates and supervisors in a clear manner.  I have never physically assaulted anyone out of anger or rage.

It pains me when I listen to the news and every time a veteran commits a crime (or commits suicide); it is automatically linked to and blamed on PTSD. Yes, there are some who cannot control their actions due to this imbalance in our heads, but don’t put a label on us that we are all incorrigible.  Very few of us are bad.  There are more of us out there that are trying harder to do good than the lesser alternative.

Do not pity me.  I know who I am and recognize the journey that has shaped me into what I am.  I have no regrets about anything that I have done in the past and look forward to many wonderful years in the future.  I freely take every step of life during the day knowing that there is something that will haunt me at night.

For those who are like me, there is help.  Seek it out.  You were strong enough to make it this far, don’t give up.  Dig a little deeper and make that final push.  If you do not know where to go or have fallen astray, contact me. I will help.  We are all brothers and sisters in this battle that will rage invariably for eternity and the one constant is that we have each other.

To the rest of society and particularly the media: I have PTSD!

Matt Gallagher doesn’t so much contribute to The Rhino Den in the traditional sense of the word. It’s more like we rip off his stuff because he’s a damn good writer and a combat vet. Here’s his latest – a review of the controversial book ‘The Operators.’

It’s impossible to read The Operators, Michael Hastings’s new book about the Afghanistan War, without contemplating the amount of adoration and contempt it is going to generate in the coming weeks. It’s a polarizing book about a polarizing war for a polarized nation. Despite that, it demands to be read by both audiences and everyone in between. Its origins reside in “The Runaway General,” Hastings’s 2010 Rolling Stone article about Gen. Stanley McChrystal and his inner circle, which led to the general’s very public resignation from the top position in Afghanistan. Like it or not, this is a book of great consequence, not a pop-culture puff piece, which some of its deriders claim it is. The Operators seems destined to join the pantheon of the best of GWOT literature, not just for its rock-and-roll details, but for its piercing chronicles of a world gone mad.

Though The Operators covers much more than Hastings’s drunken tour through Europe with “Team America,” that remains the heart of the narrative. Understandably so. Unlike in “The Runaway General,” Hastings identifies the sources of the lightning-rod quotes, from Joe “Bite Me” Biden (Jake McFerren, McChrystal’s longtime friend from West Point and top political adviser) to “We co-opted the media on [Iraq] … You could see it coming. There were a lot of us who didn’t think Iraq was a good idea.” (McChrystal himself.)

One of the overarching themes of The Operators is the growing military-civilian divide in an era of an all-volunteer force. Typically, writers and journalists explore this divide at the ground level, where returning veterans and the society that produced them struggle to reconcile. As wrenching as those stories may be, Hastings has higher aspirations—right at the top, where a new general’s team and a new president’s team vie for influence and only seem to find misunderstanding and distrust.

“The guilt that many felt for not serving was covered up by an uncritical attitude toward those who did,” writes Hastings, both about the disconnect at the highest levels of power and what he coins the media-military industrial complex. As embarrassing as some scenes are for McChrystal and his subordinates, it’s really some of Hastings’s comrades in journalism (I couldn’t help but think of Thomas Friedman’s infamous “Suck on this” clip) whom he most takes to task, lambasting their lack of critical thinking and hard questions in exchange for continued access to the movers and shakers of the war effort.

READ THE REST HERE

-More Douche of the Week

-Product reviews of veteran-owned businesses and stuff

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-Politics from Mister Twisted

-Dumbass Chronicles from the RU crew

-Profiles of military-friendly celebrities

What else can we bring you?

On Christmas Day 2007, David Belniak was involved in a horrific traffic accident in Florida.   David, who was estimated to be traveling at 75-85 mph in a 45 mph zone, slammed his truck into the back of a car which was stopped at a red light. Authorities say that Belniak was driving while intoxicated on alcohol, Xanax and cocaine.  Three people died as a result.

Last August, Belniak pleaded guilty to three counts of DUI manslaughter and was sentenced to 12 years in prison.  During the entire court proceedings Belniak never said a word, not even when the victims’ children asked for an apology.

But he is speaking out now.

Through court documents filed with the state, Belniak is now saying that he is not responsible for the crash and that he should be compensated for his suffering.

Yes, you read that right; Douchetastic Belniak is suing the estate of the victims for his “pain and suffering … mental anguish … loss of capacity for the enjoyment of life” and the medical bills he received as a result of the crash HE caused!  Hey dipshit, what about the “pain and suffering” you caused the families of the victims? Is it not good enough that you killed them because of your stupidity, but now you have to throw in another jab at the surviving families?

The case itself was filed by Belniak’s attorney who also just happens to be his sister. Hmmm, I am starting to wonder … is Douchebaggery hereditary? If so, can we call it Douchebagatosis? It appears to me this family may be infected with it. And since we are already speaking about the family, why don’t I go ahead and throw in the fact that Belniak was listed as an officer in the family construction company, one that has 12 properties in its name.  There is no shortage of money but the brains seem to be lacking in this family.

This isn’t the first time this fuck-nugget has been charged with DUI either. One time in 2003, a Florida police officer found a gallon of the date rape drug GHB in the trunk of Belniak’s car after his arrest for DUI.  Yes, I did say a gallon! For this crime of passion, (well maybe not passion) Belniak pled guilty and spent seventeen months in state prison for trafficking GHB and DUI.

In 1994 Belniak was involved in another “accident” when a pedestrian was killed after being hit by our favorite fucktabulous friend.   Somehow, Belniak was not charged for this event.

It is a good thing you will be driven to the court room by means of a jail transport van; otherwise we would probably be down another innocent family to your antics.  I have seen more responsible decision making in the gaggle of geese currently shitting on my car.

David Belniak, I can no longer speak on the retardedness of you or your family.  I hereby sentence you to Douchebagistan and coronate you Minister of Transportation and Population Control.  It is because of you that we will keep the population of D-Stan in check; all we have to do is give you a company car.

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

Our good friend, Jorge Rivera

There are some friends who you value so much it is really hard to qualify into words.

I met Jorge Rivera three years ago in the same city where he ended his career: Nashville, Tennessee. For that fight, RU was not his largest sponsor, we were a small company that very few people knew, and given the general state of the MMA industry even now, there was no reason to believe we would even exist for his next fight. Furthermore, while fighters are generally very reclusive and private during the buildup to a fight, Jorge had also just lost his seventeen year old daughter, a pain that I can only imagine, and hope to never have to go through. In short, I didn’t expect any of his attention when I arrived at his hotel door to drop off shirts. I wanted to give him his gear, shake his hand, and get out of his way.

Instead, when that hotel door opened, I was greeted by an incredibly hospitable, thoughtful, and giving person who treated me as if we had known each other for years. He refused to let me excuse myself, introduced me to people in the industry I would have never known otherwise, and was incredibly open about his life. By the end of the day before weigh-ins, I felt like I had known Jorge, Matt Phinney, and Tim Burrill for years. I could see in Jorge a man that had made mistakes in life, but through them had acquired incredible wisdom and perspective, and wanted to impart that on those around him. For a guy who had achieved this level as a professional athlete, I was truly amazed by his humility and kindness.

By the time he entered the cage with Nissen Osterneck, hiding a broken hand and partially dislocated shoulder I might add, I felt like my brother was stepping in there. I don’t remember wanting anyone to win so badly in my life.

And he did.

It wasn’t pretty. He gassed early on and we all thought he’d get finished as a result, but he kept on pushing and pushing and refusing to quit. He did what Jorge does best: he fought.

And I don’t mean that in the sense of MMA. Jorge’s had every reason to give up in his life – sometimes because of self-made bad decisions and sometimes because of chance, but I can tell you honestly, he’s had a rough go at it. What makes him special, and what makes me look up to him, even as I examine situations I’d never be in, is that he has never shied from the struggle. When life hits him, he hits back harder. When he can’t hit anymore, he still manages to stand up. He’s not afraid of the fight – he embraces it.

I can’t explain our relationship exactly. Sponsor is almost an afterthought at this point. For my part, I’ve received middle of the night calls about strategy, business, stress, and anything else you can imagine (Jorge, like me, let’s his mind wander at night and can’t sleep). I’ve been there for the highs like beating a very game Nate Quarry in Charlotte with 50 vets cheering him on. I’ve been there for the lows, like watching my friend get kneed in the head and then be disrespected in Australia. Through it all though, it’s just been an honor to be here, to be counted as one of Jorge’s inner circle and to support him as best I could.

So as I sat cageside and Jorge’s last fight started in the same city our friendship had begun, I just wished to God that he would come out on top. As the fight started, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as if I was the one about to fight. They began and Jorge had a bad start, but he hung in there, and although he lost the first round, he looked confident going into the second round. He shrugged off a takedown and landed a strong right hand. Moments later, Jorge Rivera’s last fight in the Octagon ended via TKO.

I can honestly tell you I don’t think I would have been happier if the win had been my own.

The first trip to Nashville saw us all go out to a swanky nightclub and party into the night around people we barely knew, seeing people and being seen and all that nonsense. This time around, it was just a small group of us renting out the top floor of a tiny bar: friends, family, and a few loyal vets that have supported Jorge for years.

“I just want to be around the people that matter, Nick,” was Jorge’s guidance.

I remember thinking simply, “I hope to always be on that list.”

Congratulations to a true warrior (in the Cav and in the Cage)on an incredible career. On to the next challenge, sir. We’re here every step of the way.

Love you, brother.

In today’s day and age, we are bombarded with a corrupted image of “peace.” Peace signs appear on clothes and every child has heard in school that violence never solves anything. When war does break out, we see hordes of people marching to oppose it (sometimes using violent means to do so); people who are oblivious to the results of retreat or surrender. Echoing the sentiments that cropped up during the War of 1812, we hear “peace at any price” over and over again, or even the naïve sentiment that there can be no negative results from retreat, only positive; while fighting on to win will be not only bad for the nation but also immoral. They ignore the sentiments of great military minds that understand war more than they ever could, such as Eisenhower who said, “When you appeal to force, there’s one thing you must never do – lose.” They care not that they might be helping people that intend to kill them, as George Orwell explained, “Pacifism is objectively pro-fascist. This is elementary common sense. If you hamper the war effort of one side, you automatically help out that of the other. In practice, ‘he that is not with me is against me.’”

It is easy to understand the repulsion that people feel to violence and war. Dave Grossman explains, with his analogy of sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves, that the vast majority of people are incapable of doing violence to others except under great stress or duress. For those like me, who have seen it first-hand it is horror enough to be described as hell on earth.

It is silent tears shed while standing in a hot metal building, staring at the rifle braced between two boots and holding up a helmet, representing a fallen friend. It is the same emblem tattooed on a back to mark the memory permanently on skin in ink, or a black bracelet with a name and date, or a simple memory of one who fought next to you and never made it home.

War and violence is dead innocents; men, women, and children. It is bodies shredded by a bomb with flesh and bone and guts scattered by the blast of some random explosion in a random and God-forsaken place while blood pools on hot pavement or soaks into thirsty ground. Its bodies pierced with bullets or blades and unbearable agony and fear, suffering and cruelty beyond what any normal person can imagine.

It is also acts of sacrifice, courage, and superhuman bravery and love. It’s the calm smile on an old NCOs face as he crawls over a rooftop for fear of snipers in order to offer his soldiers some more ammunition; or the slightly sadistic grin on his face as superior firepower pounds an enemy’s defenses into dust while he stands there offering his troops the first hot food they’ve tasted in days. It’s a soldier fighting back exhaustion to simply stand his post and watch for a threat that may or may not materialize in the dark. It’s an officer putting a brave face on an impossible situation; men sharing their last bit of water and food with each other along with the raunchiest of jokes to lighten the mood when anyone else would be screaming to be let out of this horror. Its men and women putting their own lives on the line for someone they’ve never met, to try to simply give that person a slight chance at a slightly better existence than what they enjoyed before.

In its simplest form, war is simply killing other people for the sake of one’s country. As General Patton put it, “The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his”. In its simplest form, violence is simply applying force to another to achieve a desired result. George Washington said, “War – an act of violence whose object is to constrain the enemy, to accomplish our will.” In Law Enforcement and the military it’s called “Use of Force”. It’s so effective that we create all sorts of necessary and sometimes self-defeating rules to govern it. If violence never accomplishes anything than why do we have to create rules to control it? “Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor and the contrary opinion are wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms.” -Robert A. Heinlein. For those who love to quote (and in the case of modern Libertarians, misquote) the founding fathers of America, I offer up the words of Thomas Jefferson; “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants”……

Keep reading “The Case for Violence”

First, let me say that in general, I wholeheartedly support the actions of our service members in their daily duties across this vast world. That being said, when a “grabtastic piece of amphibian shit” rears his ugly head only to steal the oxygen from us and besmirch those who so gallantly stand watch, it is my official duty to not only highlight the douchieness of said individual but to also provide a first class, fucktastic beat-down of epic written proportions.

So… let the games begin!

If you have never heard the name PFC Bradley Manning let me give you brief run-down of his alleged accomplishments, I say alleged as he has not yet been convicted of his endeavors. Bradley joined the Army in October 2007 as an (supposed) intelligence analyst and was initially assigned to Ft. Drum, NY where he worked, I refuse to say served as he was a self-centered twit, with the 10th Mountain Division. It was from there that he was deployed to Iraq in October 2009.

I...do solemly swear...that I'm a douche.

While in Iraq, Bradley–boy had access to top level reports, not just from the military but the entire U.S. This network of information was designed as a specific intelligence clearinghouse to those deemed “worthy” to access it. It was in this network which Mr.-I-do-what-I-fucking-want-without-regard-to-any-one-else-Manning took it upon himself to randomly browse and download to his personal data storage units, including overwriting a CD of Lady GaGa with Top Secret information from the State Department and other agencies. It was only a month into his tour in Iraq that Manning decided to leak all of the information collected to the infamous Wikileaks website (a similarly douchestastic organization).

The information allegedly leaked by Manning was a slew of randomly collected and extremely damaging documents from the U.S. relating to combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as communications from U.S. Embassies across the globe. And it wasn’t only written communiqués that Bradley was leaking, but also videos taken in combat zones.

Bradley’s ex-boyfriend ratted him out to the FBI (never piss off an ex) and he was arrested in May of 2010. He was immediately sent to the jail at Quantico, VA and the pussified activist community immediately started bitching about the quality of his detention as he was essentially placed in solitary confinement due to the structure of the facility. This was repeatedly dismissed by the military as they repeatedly sent numerous inspectors there who had the same conclusion, his detention was lawful and warranted due to the nature of his crimes.

Time has passed and earlier this week, an Article 32 (the military equivalent of a grand jury) found enough evidence to proceed to a Court Martial of PFC Manning. What this means is that this little floating turd is going to trial…yippee-kai-yay! His attorney’s argued that the charges should be reduced so that the Brad-meister would only face 30 years in prison as opposed to the prosecution who wanted life! Well, the extremely sexy, Lady Justice prevailed and Manning faces LIFE when convicted (yes, I carry a positive outlook on this issue) and is set to go to trial in the upcoming months. I will be one happy camper when this shit-tard is flushed into the custody of the Bureau of Prisons!

While I would really, really like to send PFC DipShit to Douchebagistan, I truly believe he is best kept right where we have him….bent over in the shower!