CAP Challenged by Rival Program

By ANN Staff

Behind the stockaded walls, one can hear the sound of the lumps of coal that are today’s slack-bellied youth being pressured into diamonds, cut and faceted by raw intensity, and buffed to a high polish with challenging kicks in the ‘nards.

“Here at the Ultra-Oohrah Centurion Extreme Cadet Camp™, we don’t do anything half way,” says Colonel Bob Powell. “We don’t even do anything all the way. We do it uber-plus extra too far, every time, all the time, twenty-four-seven, rain or shine, til death do us part, amen.”

Col Powell is the director, owner, CEO, and head cheerleader of the facility, which seeks to become the premier cadet organization in the U.S. “It’s all part of working harder. We have to! Everyone knows that the Civil Air Patrol is the 400 pound gorilla of the cadet world. But what we lack in size, we make up for in intensity,” Col Powell says. “And they need to watch their step, because I’m working hard to be a 500 pound gorilla!”

Col Powell points to a nearby group of young people who are struggling with a 55-gallon drum. “See those recruits there? They’re about to set themselves on fire for the priviledge of being elevated to the level of Maggot 2nd Class.”

“Each summer at Camp Red Blooded Warrior Hooah™, we host hundreds of proud young American patriots from countries all over the world who crave the adventure and elitism of our certified true-to-hooah American military hooah training. And to make that training happen, I’ve recruited every one-enlistment former E-4 jeep driver ranger-wannabee in a three-county area with delusions of grandeur and too many hours watching ‘Black Hawk Down’ and playing ‘Ghost Recon’. They are here for one reason: to give these cadets the lifelike military experience they just can’t get on a couch in Mommy and Daddy’s basement.”

A cadet runs by, blood spouting from a gash in his leg, screaming for a medic. Medics arrive, tackling him violently and cutting away his uniform, leaving him writhing naked on a fire ant nest while they work on his leg wound. The cadet begins to cry out for his mom.

Col Powell chuckles.

“I don’t think Mommy’s going to hear him,” he says. As the cadet continues to cry out for his mother, Col Powell approaches and says in a fatherly tone, “You know our motto, son: ‘Your Mommy Doesn’t Work Here, and She Doesn’t Love You.’™” The cadet stops calling for “Mom”, and begins to weep for divine intervention.

“Mom and Dad write a check and sign a waiver, and then they kiss Johnny or Suzy goodbye at the gate on Day Zero,” Col Powell explains. “Mommy and Daddy want us to turn their boys and girls into men, trained killers, and the best way to do that is to cut those apron strings and shut down those lines of communication.”

After a few moments, the medics finish with his leg and hoist him to his feet. The cadet still looks unsteady and unsure of himself. “Get back to training young man,” Col Powell says firmly. The cadet salutes and pelts off to rejoin his team. Col Powell watches him go with something like fondness.

“‘Earned, not given’™ is our motto! These kids have to work for everything. That is why we have obtained GP Tinys and an extra 10 acres of land to billet recruits individually. They are not authorized rain gear; rain gear encourages weakness. Recruits are required to be miserable at all times. It builds character, calluses, and a serious case of crotch rot. Some folks may complain it’s harsh, but that’s liberal mommy talk.”

“Among our most sacred traditions is the rapelling tower. Recruits aren’t cadets until they hit the ground at the foot of the tower, and only the cadre is priviledged to use the rope.” As Col Powell speaks, a recruit hurtles to the ground with a dull thud, then climbs blearily to his feet as a cadet. The instructor at the base of the tower congratulates him with a garland of flowers, a kiss on both cheeks, and a slap on the ass.

As the newly-minted Cadet staggers off to rejoin his squad, the instructor shouts, “Good game! See you out there!”

Col Powell’s voice drops, and in a hushed tone he says, “A few years ago we had a counselor who didn’t have enough hooah, and even having a rope wasn’t enough for him. Brings me near to tears when I think of him and how big of a mistake we almost made letting him near these kids. His hooah wasn’t mega enough, and the universe – and Camp Ultra Team USA Hardon™ – smote him.”

“You can still see the impact crater,” Col Powell laughs, pointing to a muddy trench at the base of the tower. “We roped it off as a lesson in the importance of putting forth 150% yipee-kai-yay. But we don’t waste anything here. The recruits in third tier swine status have to roll around in it to earn their way up to junior executive whale poop.”

“After earning the title of ‘Cadet’, each of these mega-titano-warriors is magically inoculated against quitting, cooties, STD, lying, premarital hucklebucking and, of course, COVID-19. Or as it says in our 72-color, 19-page fold-out brochure: ‘Moms, you definitely want to send your boy or girl here!’™”

“We’re kind of new, even though we’re carrying on a 100 year tradition here, so we work hard to get the word out and to protect what’s ours. That’s why we trademarked the phrase ‘The only easy day is yesterday’™. We found out the Navy seals didn’t, and we didn’t want some Chinese outfit to come over here and steal America’s intellectual property. I have an army of volunteer JAG Officers who do nothing but secure our trademarks.”

“I do this all for the kids. I wish my cadet career had been like this,” Col Powell says, wiping away a tear. “Hell I wish my three years shuffling paper in the Coast Guard had been like this. But I had to wait until I was an adult to be one of the cool kids.”

Col Powell settles into a thousand-yard-stare, his eyes seeing into a bright future.

“I have a vision of the world’s finest huge-awesome ooh-papa super triatha-patriot cadet corps, and I want to inflict that vision on every teen in America.”

Leaving the base, the back of the entrance sign holds a warning, and a challenge. It reads, “Hard Core, or [expletive] Off™.”