Business idea: Rent-a-Sergeant

Every so often, at completely random intervals, I take another stab at organizing my photographs. I know that encroaching middle age is a rite of passage I’m confronting when I look at the photos from my military days and realize there’s no way I could squeeze into the uniforms I once wore.

I feel like a slob.

(I think I’ll have a donut.)

I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.

(Cheeseburger? Thanks.)

As I was brooding over this situation, something came over my desk regarding business opportunities in the CNMI. Yes, even in a lousy economy there are opportunities to be had. But none of them could make me feel like I’m not a slob anymore.

Until I though of this: Rent-a-Sergeant.

Sergeants realize that fear and misery are the secrets to physical training (PT) success. It’s a time honored formula. It’s a total substitute for the self-discipline that a lot of us seem to lose over the years while we worry about business and profit lines instead of waist lines. Sergeants don’t care about profit lines, do they? Only pukes do, right? RIGHT? I CAN’T HEEEARRR YOU….

Indeed. That’s what a lot of us need. Me, anyway. Some fire-breathing Sergeant beating metal trash can lids together at zero-dark-hundred in the morning. That wonderful feeling of hitting the ceiling out of shock when awakened in such a manner, and the mad scramble to get up and out and ready to PT in roughly five nanoseconds.
There’s no turning back. There never is. Not when you’re at the mercy of the Rent-a-Sergeant.

Somebody might point out that there are “personal trainers” out there. They were everywhere in California. Personal trainers, however, are the opposite of sergeants. Personal trainers have blow-dried hair. They don’t eat pork. They don’t chain smoke. They don’t drink Old Milwaukee beer out of their boots. They don’t have tattoos of skulls on fire and that say “Kill A Commie For Mommy.” Some wear tight, stretchy pants. Some appear to be, uh, a bit light in their loafers, so to speak.

By contrast, I remember a Staff Sergeant from Indiana who could chain smoke while thrashing us on a five mile run. He kept the pack of cigs tucked in his sock. Where do we find such men? The way this guy smoked he probably only had a quarter of one lung working, max, and he still ground out one heck of a pace. He’d hack and wheeze and spit and cuss but he never missed a step. Off-duty, he dated women the color of mayonnaise who weighed over 200 pounds. They, too, had tattoos of skulls. Now that’s tough. That’s why America is numero uno.

As you can see, the Rent-a-Sergeant program is a natural. It can’t miss. So the next time you VFW types are swilling beers and swapping war stories at the Oleai beach bar, sketch out a business plan and get this program rolling.