The Rip-it® case race

[helosailor]

I have never even heard of Rip-it.

http://www.ripitenergy.com/site/Find-It/

Post your results in the thread.

[BLAKE]

Hahah, that was pretty good.

[EW]

also wasps. lots of wasps

[mstng86]

I have never even heard of Rip-it.

[helosailor]

tl;dr=
Do NOT slam 4, 5, 6, or especially 7 Rip-it drinks. Bad gastrointestinal juju will ensue.

[helosailor]

PART 2:
This is what I imagined menstrual cramps were like; that is, if menstrual cramps are like a dragon inside your stomach clawing, spitting, and biting its way out of you. God, I was hot. Like, there was a damn furnace inside of me, hot. I decided that I could take the heat if I just stood up out of the hatch, to take in some of the winter air. I immediately felt better. That feeling lasted for about a half an hour, even though the sweats, farts, cramps and bodily hums continued.

Then it all just stopped. The body humming. The cramping. The disgusting farting. The sweating. They all stopped. The emptiness left by their absence, was soon replaced with fear. There was a sensation in my lower abdomen that is equivalent to a fork lift driver dropping a pallet full of marble tile. There was a split second of confusion. I realized that I was in trouble. All at once the cramping, sweating, humming and farting returned, along with an immense pressure. I know I had less than a minute before I erupted like Krakatoa. I told the driver to pull security and begin to disrobe like I was covered in fire ants and spiders. Also wasps, lots of wasps.

I managed to get my body armor undone but it wouldn’t come off. My helmet was still on. I ditched the helmet on the roof and threw my body armor up there too. Luckily, my ACU top unzipped and I got that off as well. I undid my belt, dropped my pants and pulled down both layers of snivel bottoms. I got my pants down at my ankles and every little shimmy was causing a very wet feeling fart to slip out. I knew I had very little time but for some reason I felt as if I was just too hot. I decided to take off my poly-pro top. This turned out to be the best decision of the last 24 hrs.

As I got off the top, I flung it to the ground and started to shimmy to the door with my ass cheeks clamped together. “I wont make it,” I remember thinking; the distance was too far. I accepted the fact that I was going to shit my pants, and all the guys would know. Miraculously, like a beacon of light in the darkness, I saw that my poly-pro had somehow snagged on the Velcro of my ACUs. It had formed a hammock underneath my nether regions. I said a silent thank you to whoever runs the cosmos, exhaled, and relaxed my anus. The violence of the evacuation startled me, but the sense of relief was almost orgasmic.

Then the smell hit me. It was like hate, anger, divorce, the movie Train Spotting, the way a perm smells, a hippie’s deadlock, old salad, and a trucker’s apple bag came together to create the ultimate smell. I was gagging. Hard. Every time I heaved, the convulsion caused the filth to rocket out of me like buckshot out of a 12 gauge. I felt like my ass was turning inside out. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to shit that much. I felt like my whole self had poured out of my booty hole. I just wanted it to stop. It wouldn’t. It burned now. Like I was shitting Saracha.

I realized that my body had begun to evacuate all liquids, including my stomach bile. I experienced true panic as I began to hear the Velcro losing it’s grip on my shit hammock. I summoned all my intestinal fortitude and clinched it off one last time. I gently pulled up all 4 corners of my shit basket, and managed to tie it all off. I decided this pile of sin is too toxic for the vehicle and hurled it underneath. I was exhausted and couldn’t hold back the final wave any longer. I reached up and grabbed the top of the vehicle’s door frame, leaned out backwards, and stuck out my ass like a quality stripper. I figured a good push should get it all out and over with. I let slip my o-ring and pushed like a mother in the 26th hour of labor. It sounded like a spray paint can going empty. I didn’t care because the end had arrived. I was an emotional wreck at that point. I took off my T-shirt and did my best to clean my ruined body.

About fifteen minutes passed and I returned to my former glory. With clothes, body armor, and helmet back on I returned to my post in the turret. I could see the Assault Force heading back. I smile and realized that I finished right in the nick of time. As they approached, the driver pulled up about 15 feet. There it was. My shit pile. Right in their path. While walking up, the really dude-ish FBI chick stepped in it. I couldn’t help but smile. She blurted out “Oh my f-ing god, is this camel shit? It’s huge!” As she was dry heaving, cursing like a veteran sailor, and scraping her foot across the sand the dog started whining and scratching at its nose. It wouldn’t get into the vehicle. The handler was cursing and trying to shove this Maligator into its kennel.

As we loaded up and drive away, I blamed Tom for all of this. But there was no way he could drink 7; that dollar was mine.

[helosailor]

** CAUTION, Everyone but UnicornJeff may find the poop discussion offensive**

http://www.havokjournal.com/culture/case-study-ramadi-a-ranger-looks-back/

“Case Study” Ramadi: A Ranger Looks Back

By Shane Snell

One of my favorite things in the entire world is watching people fall while simultaneously moving at a high rate of speed. Even more enjoyable is when they do it at night. Most everyone can relate. It’s the “glad that didn’t happen to me” factor. I think it’s likely that feeling will be alive and well for some of you during this story.

Rip-it: don’t try this at home.
This story plays out during late January, 2006. My platoon was in Ramadi, Iraq. In case you don’t know, the country is god-awful cold in the winter; especially being the top gunner of a vehicle. Multiple layers of fancy-pants military cold weather gear are what kept me warm. We got word that we were going to go bang another target for the eighth night in a row.

Typically, that many days in, the guys are ready for a night or two off. Everyone’s over it. Working that many days in a row without shenanigans starts to wear at your psyche. We began to prep all of our gear, body armor, and weapons. We were deep in the business of building charges and getting comms checks when we got the “stand down” call. For the whole night. Helllllllll yeah. I immediately looked at my buddy Tom and we both said the same thing at the same time. “Case Race!”

What is this Case Race of which I speak? Some of you may know what I’m talking about. Some may call it by another name. Some may not ever understand the glory involved which the victor receives. What a Case Race is, is a really bad idea. You and your squad, fire team, gun team, or any other team, try to finish an entire case/24 pack of Rip-its the fastest. If you have ever deployed, you are very familiar with Rip-its. As Vincent Vargas can attest, they cause bat shit crazy side effects. Every flavor has different ones.

The main one is your typical caffeine buzz. The original flavor steals all metabolic water from you and molests your kidneys while the sugar free one has pretty much the same effects as lit-gasoline would on your stomach lining. For some reason I always thought I could hear my teeth when I drank that god-water. The last flavor was citrus. Citrus was smoother drinking, better tasting, and made my insides less sad than the first two, even though there are around 67 grams of sugar in that tiny can. Therein lies the problem. You never see the storm coming….

As Tom and I downgraded from combat ready clothes into PT’s, we decided that no one else was game, we would have a one on one challenge. Whoever can drink the most, wins. What was the prize? Other than massive amounts of bragging rights, I think the wager was a dollar.Tom, being way smarter than I and a sneaky fricken Canadian, suggested that I go first. So, like a moron, I accepted. As I cracked that first pop-top of joy juice, I was confident I would crush him. Boom, one down. Cracked open another one. Slugged that one down too. I burped. I started working on number three. That one took a couple minutes because my belly was feeling full at this point. I still felt as if this is a good idea. Number four went down with little argument. I could see that Tom was impressed and the ego-boost powers me through can number five.

At this point, I had somewhere in the ballpark of 30-35 ounces of Rip-it sloshing around inside my stomach, all of which was ingested in under thirty minutes. I could tell that number six was going to be a bitch. It was. Every sip eroded my confidence in my drinking ability. The sixth can took ten minutes to finish. I regretfully cracked open number seven. As I finished with my first swig, my squad leader kicked in the door to the MWR, all Steven Seagal-like, but with less awesome ponytailness. He informed us that the mission is back on and it was now time sensitive. So, being the asshole that I am, I looked Tom dead in the eye and said “F-you.” Then I proceed to smash can number seven. Looking back, that final bit of arrogance is what probably screwed me over.

I began to put on my gear. Now, I had to put on about 4 layers before body armor which means I was jumping through my ass to be ready on time. As I was getting ready, I notice I was feeling pretty sick. I shrugged it off, and drove on. Everything felt fine as we did our final checks and rolled out.

Twenty minutes into the forty minute drive, I started to sweat. Not just a little bit, but a metric shit-load of sweat. There was a river of it from my neck, down the crack of my ass and dripping off of my coin purse. I was actually soaking my clothes. I knew it was because of the Rip-its. I shrugged off the notion that something terrible was about to happen.

While my menopausal style hot flash was raging, we reached our stopping point and the vehicles moved into the security positions. While I was riding up in the gun, the back of the vehicle contained 4 operators, a k9, and a really dude-like FBI lady. The vehicle came to a stop and as everyone jostled inside the crowded APC, I shifted and accidentally let go of a horrendous fart. Loud, and brutal, I didn’t even see it coming. The smell was awful, as if a cage of ferrets and the insides of a sick old woman combined like Voltron. Every one of the career shooters looked at me and one just shook his head. I was so relieved that it left my body that I cared not for their judgement. But I was worried. My stomach was starting to turn a bit.

At this point, everyone left to start walking to the target. I’m pretty sure I saw Tom walk by my vehicle and give me the finger, as if he knew exactly what was coming. I nodded and tried to return the bird. Nothing happened. My damn arm wasn’t working. I realized my whole body was humming. As my body started to do its own thing, my gastrointestinal discharge was destroying the paint job of the vehicles interior. The only reason I realized this, is because the driver was gagging. I could hear his dry heaves, and curse words being slung at me. Then the stomach cramps began.

...continued in part 2