Rambo Quotes

Did you think he was just some lazy pure-blood who needed protection?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Well he looks like one! How was I supposed to know he was secretly Rambo in Dockers?

Rambo was a Green Beret," Hannah said. "Please. We eat those army boys for breakfast.

Aiden has gone Rambo on us.

His name was Rambo, and he was just some nothing kid for all anybody knew, standing by the pump of a gas station at the outskirts of Madison, Kentucky.

What's with the cute shoelace on your head?" "What this?" He flicked the end of the cord with his finger. "Yeah. Rambo called, he wants his bandana back.

I took the stool next to him, raising an eyebrow at the coffee and cruller on the counter. "Thought you weren't into internal pollution," I said. Lately Ranger'd been on a health food thing. "Props," Ranger told me. "Didn't want to look out of place." I didn't want to burst his fantasy bubble, but the only time Ranger wouldn't look out of place would be standing in a lineup between Rambo and Batman.

She was like John Rambo meets Polly Pocket; Dakota Fanning crossed with Death Wish 4.

Faelan made Romeo look like a girl. Heck, he made Rambo look like a girl. - Bree Kirkland

He had a lot of muscle and a skill level somewhere between Batman and Rambo.

As we watched the soldiers and the Rambo disappear I remember feeling preternaturally calm. This is what deep, deep fear does to you. It turns you into a state of unfeeling.

The getup, sort of mad scientist meets Rambo, would have made me smile, except that I believe in showing respect for someone carrying that much hardware.

That woman needs protecting like Rambo needs a bodyguard.

I'm also good." Rambo said. "You seem to be suffering from an intense anxiety disorder. But that is fine. We are all unique. Victor is asexual. Giovanni is old. And I have sociopathic tendencies that manifest themselves in dangerous situations." "Hooray!" Rambo squealed.

They tried their best. Shayna and Emme crawled along their bellies in true Rambo-meets– Bridget Jones style

How did you escape? (Syd) I fought my way out in a manner that would have made Rambo proud. And when I got home without his body because I couldn’t pull him out without getting myself killed, I got slapped in my face by everyone around me. So don’t talk to me about death, little girl. I wrote the book on it. (Steele)

Rambo looks, my heart is Romeo

She’d made it a game. Hide-and-seek, Rambo style. The most epic game of hide-and-seek ever.

She beeped rudely at him. "I have noted in your file that you are refusing medical assistance against my advice. If you die during the night, your surviving family will not be able to bring a lawsuit against me." He laughed wildly. "You're my surviving family." "Oh. Well. Engaging Empathy Protocol. That was very nice of you to say. You are wonderful. Disengaging Empathy Protocol. Idiot. I am going to sleep now. Do not bother me unless you are on fire. Even then, I will do little to help you." She plugged herself in next to Rambo and was silent.

What about God? The idea embarrassed him. It was only in moments of absolute fear that he had ever thought about God and prayed to him, always embarrassed because he did not believe and felt so hypocritical when he prayed out of fear, as if in spite of his disbelief there might be God after all, God who could be fooled by a hypocrite. When he was a child, then he believed. He certainly did believe when he was a child. How did it go, the nightly Act of Contrition? The words came hesitantly, unfamiliarly to him. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for—For what?

Cat Rambo: Where do you think the perennial debate between what is literary fiction and what is genre is sited? Norman Spinrad: I think it’s a load of crap. See my latest column in Asimov’s, particularly re The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I detest the whole concept of genre. A piece of fiction is either a good story well told or it isn’t. The supposed dichotomy between “literary fiction” and “popular fiction” is ridiculous. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Mailer, did not have serious literary intent? As writers of serious literary intent, they didn’t want to be “popular,” meaning sell a lot of books? They wanted to be unpopular and have terrible sales figures to prove they were “serious”? I say this is bullshit and I say the hell with it. “Genre,” if it means anything at all, is a restrictive commercial requirement. “Westerns” must be set in the Old West. “Mysteries” must have a detective solving a crime, usually murder. “Nurse Novels” must have a nurse. And so forth. In the strictly literary sense, neither science fiction nor fantasy are “genres.” They are anti-genres. They can be set anywhere and anywhen except in the mimetic here and now or a real historical period. They are the liberation of fiction from the constraints of “genre” in an absolute literary sense.

I want, what they want, and every other guy who came over here and spilled his guts and gave everything he had, wants! For our country to love us as much as we love it! That's what I want!

And when Rambo whispered to me, assuring me of my nearest death, I was relieved at my parents' absence, for my death like all death should be a death and an end- no memory, no photograph, no stories and no mother's tears. In death everything should cease. All else is nothing but human vanity and make-believe.

Language falters in the abyss; it fractures at the site of trauma. We need to find a different way of speaking from the depths, reclaiming the notion that language about God is always fractured language, always broken, and never complete.

Every city has its own customs, and Tabat is no different. They grow from and are shaped by the circumstances around them, the history and the geography and what is plentiful or scarce, which exert a much greater influence than any individual ever will, even the Duke.

Victor, deep breaths. Rambo, stop being weird.” “I don’t know how not to be weird,” Rambo said. “That’s like asking the birds to stop flying.

The challenge of trauma is the challenge of witnessing to a phenomenon that exceeds the categories by which we make sense of the world.

You should never attack a necromancer in a cemetery; it’s like chasing Rambo into a building full of loaded guns. Some people seem to help you kill them.

Learn to respect a craftsman’s talent, to realize that a task done well seems easy but is terribly difficult.

He felt like Rambo even though he was built like Dumbo

I don’t know how not to be weird,” Rambo said. “That’s like asking the birds to stop flying.

Acknowledgements! My thanks to Hollywood When you showed me John Rambo Stitching up his arm with no anaesthetic And giving them “a war they won’t believe” I knew then my calling, the job for me Thanks also to the recruitment adverts For showing me soldiers whizzing around on skis And for sending sergeants to our school To tell us of the laughs, the great food, the pay The camaraderie I am, dear taxpayer, forever in your debt You paid for my all-inclusive pilgrimage One year basking in the Garden of Eden (I haven’t quite left yet) Thanks to Mum and thanks to Dad Fuck it, Thanks to every parent Flushing with pride for their brave young lads Buying young siblings toy guns and toy tanks Waiting at the airport Waving their flags

Once, we came home to find Rambo in the sink, washing a tiny sliver of soap that had been a new bath-size bar that morning. He looked exhausted, and like he wanted someone to stop him and put him to bed, but when we tried to take away the last bit of soap he growled at us, and so we let him finish, because at that point I guess it was like a vendetta, if raccoons had vendettas.

As soon as she was out of sight, I sent a silent prayer upward that she emerged from this situation unscathed and that Drill didn’t spot her. If anything happens to her, I swear to God— Whoa there, feisty britches. —they won’t find the bodies. Okay. Settle down. No need to pull the Rambo card.

Except that it was no more home, just the place where he had grown up, and that first day back, touring the once familiar places only made him realize that he had already lived close to half his life.

Coming under others has a power to do what laws and bullets and bombs can never do—namely, bring about transformation in an enemy’s heart. This is the unique “Lamb power” of the kingdom of God, and indeed, this is the power of God Almighty. When God flexes his omnipotent muscle, it doesn’t look like Rambo or the Terminator—it looks like Calvary! And living in this Calvary-like love moment by moment, in all circumstances and in relation to all people, is the sole calling of those who are aligned with the kingdom that Jesus came to bring.

If he had really wanted to control himself, he could have. He simply had not wanted to control himself. To live his way, he had been determined to fight anyone who interfered. So all right then, in a way he had fought for a principle. But it was not that simple, because he had also been proud and delighted to show how good he was at fighting.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was a cross between Indiana Jones and Captain Jack Sparrow, with perhaps a little piece of the warrior-poet Aragorn from Lord of the Rings thrown in for good measure. Or maybe I should rephrase that; all these swashbuckling film heroes, including probably John Rambo, may well have been loosely based on Burton and his life

The blond's booming voice was well-educated British, but his outfit didn't match it. His hair was the only normal thing about him--close cropped and without noticeable style. But his T-shirt was crossed with enough ammunition to take out a platoon, and he had a tool belt slung low on his hips that, along with a strap across his back, looked like it carried one of every type of handheld weapon on the market. I recognized a machete, two knives, a sawed-off shotgun, a crossbow, two handguns--one strapped to his thigh--and a couple of honest-to-God grenades. There were other things I couldn't identify, including a row of cork-topped bottles along the front of the belt. The getup, sort of mad scientist meets Rambo, would have made me smile, except that I believe in showing respect for someone carrying that much hardware.

Hap?” Rambo asked. “What?” “I love you.” Hap scowled at him. He turned to stalk away, but paused at the last second, face twisting. He turned back around again and bent over Rambo. Vic was stunned when he said, “I t-tolerate your existence.

If we can fix what's broken, we should always try." "Why?" Rambo asked. Vic chose his words carefully, trying to find the right ones in the right order. "Because all beings deserve a chance to find out what life could be when they don't have to serve others.

The central attitudes driving Rambo are: Strength and aggressiveness are good; compassion and conflict resolution are bad. Anything that could be even remotely associated with homosexuality, including walking away from possible violence or showing any fear or grief, has to be avoided at any cost. Femaleness and femininity (which he associates with homosexuality) are inferior. Women are here to serve men and be protected by them. Men should never hit women, because it is unmanly to do so. However, exceptions to this rule can be made for my own partner if her behavior is bad enough. Men need to keep their women in line. You are a thing that belongs to me, akin to a trophy.

It’s okay, Vic,” Rambo said, bumping against his foot. “I promise. I know it seems hard, but we have to be brave. Your brain is telling you that you can’t, but you don’t always have to listen to it. Sometimes, it tells you white lies. I know it does to me. It says, ‘No, no, you aren’t brave.’ ‘No, you’re scared of everything.’ ‘No, you won’t make it because you’ll die a horribly painful death where your entire body will be crushed and all your innards will fall out.

when Ove heard their creaking steps in the snow he would not immediately think to himself, Guests, how nice! but rather, Well, I’ll be damned! And they’d probably also know that Ove, wearing nothing but socks and underpants, with a three-quarter-century-old hunting rifle in his hands, would kick the door open like an aging, half-naked, suburban Rambo.

Live for nothing die for something!!

One day you’re a college graduate, in love with Mr. Right and looking for a job. The next day, your Rambo.” “Your timeline is off. And can we lose the Rambo part?

You don’t have to see Jesus as a white, AR-15 carrying, pick-up driving, Rambo-Republican wrapped in the American flag, you choose to.

First Blood Rambo knife by Jimmy Lile. It features a saw, a guard with straight and Philips screwdriver heads, holes in the guard for a wrist lanyard,

Ou seja, total capitulação da empresa à força da greve. A empresa começa com cara de Rambo e termina com jeitinho de Clodovil.

Nobody wants to enter the jungle, but everyone wants to be called Rambo.

He was military-trained, dummy. A stone-cold badass. He had a walk-in closet full of sawed-off shotguns. The man was Rambo compared to you.

They drew first blood not me!-Sylvester Stallone-First Blood Rambo

Do you feel better?” Nurse Ratched asked. “Yes,” Rambo said promptly. “Tell me more white lies.

Do I have an anus?” Rambo asked. “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “But you are one, so.” Rambo beeped in confusion. “I thought I was a vacuum.” “You are. An anal vacuum.

We still use our mouths for that purpose, but we also use them to kiss, speak and, if we are Rambo, to pull the pins out of hand grenades.

Rambo was, naturally, some kind of terrier-based mutt that weighed about five pounds soaking wet. The name had given him a Napoleon complex, complete with territorial issues.

Organs evolve to perform a particular function, but once they exist, they can be adapted for other usages as well. Mouths, for example, appeared because the earliest multicellular organisms needed a way to take nutrients into their bodies. We still use our mouths for that purpose, but we also use them to kiss, speak and, if we are Rambo, to pull the pins out of hand grenades.

How can we distinguish what is biologically determined from what people merely try to justify through biological myths? A good rule of thumb is ‘Biology enables, culture forbids.’ Biology is willing to tolerate a very wide spectrum of possibilities. It’s culture that obliges people to realise some possibilities while forbidding others. Biology enables women to have children – some cultures oblige women to realise this possibility. Biology enables men to enjoy sex with one another – some cultures forbid them to realise this possibility. Culture tends to argue that it forbids only that which is unnatural. But from a biological perspective, nothing is unnatural. Whatever is possible is by definition also natural. A truly unnatural behaviour, one that goes against the laws of nature, simply cannot exist, so it would need no prohibition. No culture has ever bothered to forbid men to photosynthesise, women to run faster than the speed of light, or negatively charged electrons to be attracted to each other. In truth, our concepts ‘natural’ and ‘unnatural’ are taken not from biology, but from Christian theology. The theological meaning of ‘natural’ is ‘in accordance with the intentions of the God who created nature’. Christian theologians argued that God created the human body, intending each limb and organ to serve a particular purpose. If we use our limbs and organs for the purpose envisioned by God, then it is a natural activity. To use them differently than God intends is unnatural. But evolution has no purpose. Organs have not evolved with a purpose, and the way they are used is in constant flux. There is not a single organ in the human body that only does the job its prototype did when it first appeared hundreds of millions of years ago. Organs evolve to perform a particular function, but once they exist, they can be adapted for other usages as well. Mouths, for example, appeared because the earliest multicellular organisms needed a way to take nutrients into their bodies. We still use our mouths for that purpose, but we also use them to kiss, speak and, if we are Rambo, to pull the pins out of hand grenades. Are any of these uses unnatural simply because our worm-like ancestors 600 million years ago didn’t do those things with their mouths?

If you hurt her, I will kill you.” She pointed her finger at me for emphasis. I was perfectly still, giving zero fucks about this five-foot-four gnome firing threats at me like she was Rambo. “Cock-blocking me first and threatening me? Should I remind you that the only reason you’re not living in a sewer with that rat who trains the Ninja Turtles is because of my generosity?” I

The dead raccoon’s name was Rory. I fell in love with him the instant I saw him because he looked exactly like Rambo, the rescued, orphaned raccoon who lived in my bathtub when I was little. Rory hadn’t been lucky enough to be adopted by a small child who’d dress him up in small shorts sets and let him turn her sink into his own tiny waterfall. Instead, Rory had fallen in with a bad crowd and ended up as roadkill, but my friend Jeremy (a burgeoning taxidermist) saw great potential (and very few tire marks) on the cadaver and decided that Rory’s tiny spirit should live on in the most disturbingly joyous way possible.

Call me Ozzie, doll,” he called back. He hunched over the keyboard like a starving man hunches over a plate of food. “And there’s no need to conceal my weapons. I figure everyone should see what’s in store for them should they attempt to fuck with me.”“ Oh man.” Dan groaned and rolled his eyes. “Next thing you know he’ll be coming to work shirtless with bandoliers strapped across his chest and a red bandana tied around his head.” “Ah, so you have seen a movie or two.” Ozzie swiveled in his chair, his eyes sparkling with devilish glee. “Rambo, huh? I can give you Rambo.” He lowered his voice. “‘They drew first blood. Not me…’” “What a crock of bullsh—uh, crap.” Dan scoffed. “Are you sitting there dissing Stallone?” Ozzie demanded, making like he was about to stand in defense of the Italian Stallion. “No. I’m sitting here dissing you, you stu—

He pauses, swipes a matchstick on a column. It bursts into flame. “I tell you, you must take risks in my studio.” He finds a cigarette behind his ear and lights it. “I tell you not to be timid. I tell you to make the choices, make the mistakes, big, terrible, reckless mistakes, really screw it all up. I tell you it is the only way.” An affirmative murmur. “I say this, yes, but I still see so many of you afraid to cut in.” He begins to pace, slowly like a wolf, which is definitely his mirror animal. “I see what you are doing. When you leave yesterday, I go from work to work. You feel like Rambo maybe with the drills, the saws. You make lots of noise, lots of dust, but very few of you have found even this much”—he pinches two fingers together—“of your sculptures. Today this changes.” He walks over to a short blond-haired girl. “May I, Melinda?” “Please,

What do we do?” Rambo whispered. “We stay quiet,” Nurse Ratched said. “If they find us, we kill them.” “But I don’t know how to kill.” “I do,” Nurse Ratched said. “I will protect you.” “I love you, Nurse Ratched.” “I know.

El Lindo tastes like the line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” when Nicolas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a man to call Taco Bell Mexican cuisine." I love a good romance.

Because a designation is a gift," Rambo said. "It's an identity. It sets us apart from others like us. It's unique. In all of existence, there has never been someone named Rambo before me. But even if there were, I'm the best one.

Pain and the Man Every man hides his pain. They seem to take some macho pride in showing they're not human. I've got bad news for you, Rambo ~ a real man must have the courage to cry and expose his humanity. How else will he be healed?

I don't like it," Rambo said. "What if it's a dragon?" "Dragons do not exist," Nurse Ratched said. "That was a story I told you to scare you. They are not real." "Are you sure?" "No," Nurse Ratched said. "You should go first and find out.

Mouths, for example, appeared because the earliest multicellular organisms needed a way to take nutrients into their bodies. We still use our mouths for that purpose, but we also use them to kiss, speak and, if we are Rambo, to pull the pins out of hand grenades.

The media in our modern information society have done much to perpetuate the myth of easy killing and have thereby become part of society’s unspoken conspiracy of deception that glorifies killing and war. There are exceptions—such as Gene Hackman’s Bat 21, in which an air force pilot has to kill people on the ground, up close and personal for a change and is horrified at what he has done—but for the most part we are given James Bond, Luke Skywalker, Rambo, and Indiana Jones blithely and remorselessly killing men by the hundreds.

The pizza at Brick Oven tastes like that classic line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” where Nicholas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no bowl of duck soup, sloshing around in a hurricane." Rambo II is even more romantic.

No!” Rambo cried. “What if we take him home and he pretends to like us and stays with us for years and we are all happy but it’s part of his plan and when we least expect it, he murders us all while we’re in our shutdown mode?” He beeped frantically. “I couldn’t stand that level of betrayal.

Priests create a smoke screen around our anxiety, our despair, our terror and our demons. They paint mind-blowing pictures that make us jittery, unhappy and afraid. Priests are nothing but alarmists, pessimists and doom merchants. Calamity Jane personified. But at this stage, they’ve got us. We’ve been knocking off our neighbour’s wife or robbing post offices and we’re just about ready to turn our faces to the wall and abandon hope. We want someone with the power to grant us amnesty from our immorality, and to us the priests appear as Sir Galahad, Boadicea, Rambo or Joan of Arc. Stout fellows, all of them. “I have the fucking answer,” they cry, “Sign here, you plebs.” And we do! 2.2 billion of us! Why? I’ll tell you why. Because we’ve been sold. We feel plagued by conscience and answerable to God only. And the only way we can get to God is through Her second in command ….. the priest.

My work as a theologian does not take me into courtrooms, but studying trauma has changed the way I move in the world. I feel the fragility of the world more acutely than I did ten years ago. I view persons as more vulnerable in it, and the earth more wounded by our heavy footprints. I feel its weight.

The front door slammed and Dad said, “Aurora, sure you aren’t expecting a package?” I leaned back to find him army-crawling under the window in the living room. Like all dads do. “Already told you no, Rambo.” “The new mailman is back.” Dad reached up and pulled the curtains closed before standing up and peeking out. “Won’t come to the door.” “M shot a tranquillizer dart at the last guy.” Mom gave a tired look at M who shrugged unapologetically. “The fact that there’s a new one willing to be on our sidewalk is a miracle. Don’t scare him off, Clyde.” Dad tried to block me when I went for the curtains. “He won’t let me sign for your package. Demanded you come out in person.” “I’ll get my tranq gun!” M made for her room. “Don’t you dare!” Mom chased her. I swished back the curtains to get a look at the petrifying postman. “I find his interest in my teenage daughter creepy,” Dad grumbled. Oh, he had no idea.

There is an eight percent chance that the power source has gone critical and will cause an explosion that will level the surrounding area, killing all of us in the process." "It's not going to explode," Vic told Rambo. "She would never have let us get this far if she thought that was going to happen." "So I let you think," Nurse Ratched said, a skull appearing on her screen. "You have fallen into my trap. I wanted you to get this far. Prepare for death." The skull disappeared, replaced by DON'T FORGET TO RATE MY SERVICE! I APPRECIATE A 10! It took Vic longer than he cared to admit to realize she was kidding.

Life is dangerous,Gary," Gregori said softly. "You are Rambo, remember?" Savannah's laughter rang out, rivaling the jazz quartet playing on the corner. Heads turned to listen to he, then to watch her, stealing away the attention of the audience gathered in a loose semi-circle around the quartet. She moved in the human world, completely comfortable in it,a part of it. Gregori had walked unseen, and that was how he preferred it.She was dragging him into her world. He could hardly believe he was walking down a crowded street with a mortal wwith half the block staring openly at them. "I didn't know you knew who Rambo was," Savannah said, trying not to giggle. She couldn't imagine Gregori in a theater watching a Rambo movie. "You saw a Rambo flick?" Gary was incredulous. Gregori made a sound somewhere between contempt and derision. "I read Gary's memories on the subject. Interesting. Silly,but interesting." He glanced at Gary. "This is your hero?" Gary's grin was as michievous as Savannah's. "Until I met you, Gregori." Gregori growled, a low rumble of menace. His two companions just laughed disrespectfully, not in the least intimidated. "I'll bet he's a secret Rambo fan," Savannah whispered confidentially. Gary nodded. "He probably sneaks into movie theaters for every old showing.

[…] Stallone and I had been feuding for years. This went back to the early Rocky and Rambo days, when he was the number one action hero, and I was always trying to catch up. I remember saying to Maria when I made Conan the Destroyer, “I’, finally getting paid a million dollars for a movie, but now Stallone’s making three million. I feel like I’m standing still.” To energize myself, I’d envisioned Stallone as my archenemy, just like I had demonized [bodybuilder] Sergio Oliva when I was trying to take the Mr. Olympia crown. I got so into hating Sly that I started criticizing him in public –his body, the way he dressed- and I was quoted as badmouthing him in the press.

I just want to make things better. You deserved it. Nurse Ratched deserved it. He does too. If we fix what's broken, we should always try." "Why?" Rambo asked. Vic chose his words carefully, trying to find the right ones in the right order. "Because all beings deserve a chance to find out what life could be when they don't have to serve others.

I just want to make things better. You deserved it. Nurse Ratched deserved it. He does too. If we can fix what’s broken, we should always try.” “Why?” Rambo asked. Vic chose his words carefully, trying to find the right ones in the right order. “Because all beings deserve a chance to find out what life could be when they don’t have to serve others.

What is it?" Vic asked. "I do not know," Nurse Ratched said. "Consider leaving it where it lies. It was discarded for a reason. Malfunction. Corruption. Faulty coding. It has obviously served its purpose." "You said the same thing about Rambo," Vic said, never looking away from the hand. "I did. And you did not listen to me then. Look what happened.

WOG - WAIT ON GOD

MAY GOD'S PEACE AND ANGEL'S WING SURROUND YOU...

Why do you care so much?” Rambo asked. Vic blinked. “What do you mean?” “You found him,” Rambo said. “And you’re trying to fix him. You did the same for me and Nurse Ratched. Why?” Vic shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t know. It’s just…” Nurse Ratched beeped. “It is as Gio said. Searching for a connection. Making something out of nothing so the spaces between us do not seem so far.

Move,” I hear Tony say.  “I want to see her.” “No,” Charlotte bites, the whole exchange getting louder.  I groan into Maddie’s pillow and pull her princess blanket over my head.  I hear a scuffle and I’m not surprised when the door bursts open.  When I peek, Tony’s standing there with my sisters, Gabby and Leigh looking in from behind.  He takes another step in and shuts them out as I hear Sophia let out a little, “Hey!” He doesn’t pay her any mind as I watch him walk to me and sit on the side of the bed.  He doesn’t say a thing, but leans his elbows down to his knees and looks at me. “Please go away,” I say, my voice small. He stays silent, but shakes his head. I roll my eyes.  Of course he won’t go. “He didn’t do anything to me.  There’s no reason to go all Rambo Big Brother on him,” I explain. “Doesn’t look like he didn’t do anything to you,” he says. “He

Vic pointed up toward his room. “There. That’s mine. That’s where I sleep.” “Oh yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “Good idea. Point out where you will be defenseless to the murderous revenge machine. That is clear thinking.” “It’s going to be a bloodbath,” Rambo moaned. “I’ll have to try and clean up Vic’s remains.” He sniffled. “At least he’ll always be a part of me then. I love you, Vic, even when you’re in pieces, your flesh hanging from the ceiling—

Organs evolve to perform a particular function, but once they exist, they can be adapted for other usages as well. Mouths, for example, appeared because the earliest multicellular organisms needed a way to take nutrients into their bodies. We still use our mouths for that purpose, but we also use them to kiss, speak and, if we are Rambo, to pull the pins out of hand grenades. Are any of these uses unnatural simply because our worm-like ancestors 600 million years ago didn't do those things with their mouths?

The pressure to get over, to forget, to wipe away the past, is often reinforced by one particular way of reading Christian redemption. The narrative of triumphant resurrection can often operate in such a way as to promise a radically new beginning to those who have experienced a devastating event. A linear reading of cross and resurrection places death and life in a continuum; death is behind and life is ahead; life emerges victoriously from death. This way of reading can, at its best, provide a sense of hope and promise for the future. But it can also gloss of the realities of pain and loss, glorify suffering, and justify violence.

No hay un solo órgano en el cuerpo humano que realice únicamente la tarea que realizaba su prototipo cuando apareció por primera vez hace cientos de millones de años. Los órganos evolucionan para ejecutar una función concreta, pero una vez que existen, pueden adaptarse asimismo para otros usos. La boca, por ejemplo, apareció porque los primitivos organismos pluricelulares necesitaban una manera de incorporar nutrientes a su cuerpo. Todavía usamos la boca para este propósito, pero también la empleamos para besar, hablar y, si somos Rambo, para extraer la anilla de las granadas de mano. ¿Acaso alguno de estos usos es antinatural simplemente porque nuestros antepasados vermiformes de hace 600 millones de años no hacían estas cosas con su boca?

Why do you care so much?” Rambo asked. Vic blinked. “What do you mean?” “You found him,” Rambo said. “And you’re trying to fix him. You did the same for me and Nurse Ratched. Why?” Vic shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t know. It’s just…” Nurse Ratched beeped. “It is as Gio said. Searching for a connection. Making something out of nothing so the spaces between us do not seem so far.” “Are you going to connect with him?” Rambo asked. Vic felt his face grow hot. “That’s not—I’m not trying to—” He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm, breathing in and out. “I just want to make things better. You deserved it. Nurse Ratched deserved it. He does too. If we can fix what’s broken, we should always try.” “Why?” Rambo asked. Vic chose his words carefully, trying to find the right ones in the right order. “Because all beings deserve a chance to find out what life could be when they don’t have to serve others.

Sí, cabe reconocer, con respecto a las primeras obras de Dante, que en el tratamiento de la violencia prevalece una asepsia, una suavidad usual en tantas producciones Amblin: cuando los criminales asaltan los laboratorios haciéndose pasar por reparadores de teléfonos (sic), atacan con gas y no con pistolas; armas de fuego y explosiones escasean en la película. Sin embargo, esta gestión de la violencia responde, en paralelo, a la personalidad del director: Dante puede triturar a un soldado en Pequeños guerreros, explotar a un gremlin en un microondas, recrearse en el cadáver de Igoe corroído por el ácido en El chip prodigioso o en cómo niños son devorados por pirañas; en cambio, a la hora de exhibir armas de fuego objeta contra la proliferación de disparos, revólveres y ametralladoras. La banalización del efecto destructivo de la munición despoja de su significado a artilugios con una función homicida, que se convierten en meras imágenes sin sentido. Todo el metraje de Pequeños guerreros patentizará la postura del director, que en El chip prodigioso refrenda el pasmo del niño ataviado a lo Rambo ante el disparo (real) que hiere a Ozzie.

Entonces esta gente se sometió a un examen muy especial que puede llevarse a cabo sólo en unas pocas universidades del planeta. El examen se hizo en una de las universidades más prestigiosas de los Estados Unidos y costó 5000 dólares por persona. El resultado fue que cada uno de ellos tenía en su cuerpo 101 sustancias altamente cancerosas, principalmente dioxinas, pero también cianuro, arsénico, plomo, mercurio, etcétera. El resultado fue exactamente el mismo para todos – incluyendo a la mujer que mantenía la ilusión de ser la más saludable por comer sólo macrobióticos. Digo que era una ilusión, porque la pobre mujer cosechaba su propio arroz en el jardín de su propia casa al Noreste de Frisco, en esos bosques que pareciera que nunca acaban en donde se filmó la película Rambo, donde no hay ninguna planta industrial importante, donde no hay cables de alta tensión, y donde no hay contaminación atmosférica significativa. Por supuesto, no usó ningún tipo de químico en su jardín, y no entendió cómo era posible que todas las veces que llovía su jardín se llenara de dioxina, cianuro, arsénico, plomo, mercurio, etcétera. ¿Qué podemos aprender de esto? Primero que cada uno de nosotros tiene las arriba mencionados 101 sustancias altamente cancerosas en nuestro cuerpo (con leves fluctuaciones individuales). Segundo, que no podemos expulsarlas. Para darles una idea, el nivel de contaminación hoy en día es mucho más alto del que sufrieron las víctimas de la nube tóxica de dioxina en el desastre de Seveso. La gente solía ver esas imágenes en el noticiero de la TV en 1976, pero en nuestros días ya estamos más contaminados que esa pobre gente. Así pues en breve esto es lo que pienso: creo que con tan espantosa contaminación en nuestro propio organismo, al menos a aquellos que tienen más de 50 años, aquellos que están entre los 55 y los 60 como yo – nos va a dar cáncer a todos. Todos – significa todo el mundo, cada uno hasta el último. Por otro lado también estoy convencido de que la ciencia médica ha hecho progresos notables, por lo tanto una buena cantidad de aquellos afectados por un tumor maligno se salvarán.

The testimony is followed by another montage of Team Impact feats of strength. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” an amped up announcer voice a la Monster Truck Rally proclaims, “We are Team Impaaaaact. Standing on faith tonight let’s give it up for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the one, the only, the Risen Warrioooooor!” Are they talking about Jesus? Is he a cage fighter or the Lamb of God? If ever there was a cross-denying tribute to a theology of glory, it would be Team Impact. As is the case with the rest of TBN, the scandal of Jesus’ birth, life, teachings, death, and resurrection are ignored entirely in favor of a Jesus-as-Rambo theology; here the Lord just kicks ass and takes names, much like the freakishly muscular Team Impact guys. Taking one’s Christology from a couple of chapters of Revelation (ignoring the central Christ image, that of the Lamb who was slain) rather than the gospels is baffling to me. I recently saw an “inspirational” self-mocking emerging church poster. The word “incarnational” rested below an image of a heavily tattooed guy wearing a crown of thorns made of barbed wire. The caption read “What would Jesus do? I’m pretty sure he’d do stuff I think is cool.” We all wish to make Christ in our own image because the truth of a God who dies is too much. We’ll believe anything but that, and if that anything happens to bring us power and victory and glory then all the better.

Living in America exposes a citizen to the refined genteelness that draws some people to public services as well as the glad-handing politicians and their bucket brigade of minions fervidly running interference for their party’s headline hunting political agendas. The clash of social tension, imagery of racial and class outrage, and frequent raucous celebrations inundate America. Americans are also targets to the ceaseless wave of propaganda spewed out by national and international companies hawking their plastic products. The unadulterated grotesque mélange spit out by the American publicity machine exposes its citizenry to more meaningless mental pulp than other any other county’s citizens must tolerate. Public debates, scandals, violence, political grandstanding, and crisis management drive much of the public discourse. American politics is an oily affair, akin to watching a pack of overfed, flushed face, and breathless contestants chasing a greased pig at a county fair. Politics is class warfare and American politics contains its share of Rambo politicians. Warring American political parties include Taliban subgroups, people who would prefer to cut the heads off their ideological enemies.

Rambo food?

Advantages of the ASP I have already explained how the ASP is advantageous with regard to its compactness and ease of carry, but there are other advantages. Carrying an impact weapon gives you the ability to counter a threat with less than lethal force, which may save you a long stint in prison. The compact ASP has advantages over the 28-inch stick of the traditional Filipino martial arts. When you are chest-to-chest against an opponent, it's difficult to hit him decisively with a 26-28 inch long stick. Filipino martial artists practice raising the arm and twisting the wrist to snap the tip into an opponent's head, but these flicking strikes can't be counted on to drop an attacker. Also, because of the stick's light weight, space and distance are needed to wind up and generate power. At very close range the short, heavy stick –such as a blackjack, sap, or an 8-inch steel bar-- is a better weapon. The striking tip of the ASP is made of steel, and the middle section is high-grade aluminum. This solid construction means that the ASP hits hard. The unexpanded ASP can be used like a metal yawara (palm stick), which is devastating in close. The Knife The second weapon in Steel Baton EDC is a knife carried at the neck. The knife should be compact and relatively light so that it is comfortable enough for neck carry. Get a light beaded chain that will break away, so that you aren't strangled with your own neck lanyard. The knife should have a straight handle without loops or fingerholes, because you want to be able to access the knife with either hand in an instant, without having to thread your fingers into holes or work to secure a grip. Avoid folding knives. You want a knife that you can draw in an instant. No matter how much you practice drawing and opening your knife, or even if you get an automatic (switchblade) or assisted opener, you will always be slower getting the folding knife open and into action, particularly under stress. Keep in mind that “under stress” may mean somebody socking you in the face repeatedly. Once again, you want open carry. Open carry is almost always legal and is more easily accessible if you are under attack. You can get a neodymium magnet and put it in the gap between the seam of your shirt, in between the buttons. The magnet will attract the steel blade of your knife so that the knife will stay centered and not flop around if you're moving. My recommended knives for neck carry are the Cold Steel Super Edge and the Cold Steel Hide Out. The Super Edge is small, light, and inconspicuous. It also comes in useful as a day-to-day utility tool, opening packages, trimming threads, removing tags, and so on. Get the Rambo knife image out of your mind. You only need a small knife to deter an attacker, because nobody wants to get cut. And if your life is on the line, you can still do serious damage with a small blade.

He who smelled the rifle is one, he who watched Rambo is another.

We did eight hundred push-ups every goddamned day, some days over two hundred chins, and they ran us. Christ, we ran ten miles every morning and another five at night, and sometimes even more than that. We weren’t big guys, like badass football linemen or any of that, you know, Rambo with all those pansy protein-shake muscles bulging. We were skinny kids, mostly, all stripped down and hungry, but, hell, we could carry hundred-pound packs, four hundred rounds, and a poodle-popper uphill at a run all goddamned day. You know what we were? We were wolves. Lean and mean, and you definitely did not want us on your ass. We were fuckin’ dangerous, man. That’s what they wanted. Recon. That’s what we wanted, too.” —excerpt from Young Men at War: A Case by Case Study of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, by Patricia Barber, Ph.D. M.F.C.C. Duke University Press, 1986

When you are part of a group, then you have a common purpose. A common goal. Your resolve is increased and you can do marvelous, marvelous things together that would not be possible if you were left to your own devices. It’s okay to think Rambo is great. But Rambo with a dozen other Rambos can accomplish tremendous things.

Ready to get out of here, or would you like to punch me again? Maybe try a kick or two?” She crossed her arms. “I’m ready when you are, Rambo.

What’s your name?” He didn’t answer. “Fine, I can call you Rambo.” He shot her a grumpy look. “Shep.” “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Shep, but it’s not, really.” “Ditto. Now move.

If you look, you might be able to make out my two pit bulls, Rocky and Rambo. Not very creative names, I know, but I’ve never been good with names. They’re vicious. I trained them well so they only respond to me. There’s nothing I like more than taming a wild beast.” He throws his head back and laughs. “I can’t believe people actually keep them as pets.