AWARD WINNING DOCUMENTARY: MEGA-BASED-BADASS BEAR MOUNTAIN RANCHER SENIOR

 

The Rambo Report – A Bear Mountain Bloodbath of Righteous Fury

By Bear J. Sleemann

 

Picture this, you Marxist-emasculated rainbow Reich faggots: I’m rolling coal in my GMC Denali V8 diesel beast, my M4A1 5.56 decked with Gucci gear—red dot, night vision optics, Magpul, silencer, Blackout 300—slung across my black ops chest harness, ready to unleash hell. My M-65 jacket’s pockets are stuffed with C4, a Glock 17 Elite Forces rides my hip, and a Rambo Bowie knife gleams at my side, thirsting for commie blood. On my wrist, an Omega Seamaster ticks like a countdown to judgment, while my Air Cav 101st Div. Stetson casts a shadow over my Desert Storm warfighter boots, caked in the mud of Bear Mountain’s wildlands. In one hand, I grip a Gränsfors Bruks felling axe—Bearmountean loggers’ steel—while the other toys with a 007-worthy gadget, a MacGyver’d micro-bomb made from duct tape and a Zippo. This is the Bearmountean way, brothers—God, guns, guts, and glory, always ready to stack bodies and burn empires. And in my lap, blood-splattered from the last Boganstein coward who crossed me, lies The Rambo Report by Nat Segaloff—a 304-page war cry for every lead-slinging, Christ-forged warfighter who’d rather die in the Alps than kneel to a woke commissar.

 

This book is a full-auto tribute to the Godfather of Bearmounteans, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior himself, John J. Rambo—my hero, my creed, the bow-wielding, body-dropping legend who tore through the woke town of Hope, Washington, Vietnam and Afghanistan like a divine reaper. I live my life as Rambo’s shadow—God, guns, guts, and glory, staying hard in a world of emasculated Marxist spineless beta cucks. Here’s a Bear Mountain blood oath for you: since December 1982, Rambo: First Blood has played every Saturday matinee at the Bear Mountain Regent Cinema in Nagano, Bear Mountain, and every Sunday at the Bear Mountain Loggers Honky Tonk Truck Stop. That’s 43 years of Rambo’s wrath fueling our fire.

 

Segaloff, the mad dog behind The John Milius Interviews, dissects the Rambo franchise with the precision of a Black Ops sniper carving up a target. He hits every angle: the First Blood novel by David Morrell, the five films, novelizations, spinoffs, inspirations, studios, suits, stars, budgets, lawsuits, and the Vietnam War’s bloody roots that birthed Rambo’s rage. Segaloff drags you down rabbit holes—budgets, payroll, location scouting—that’ll have an IQ9000 Rambo disciple like me, the Bearmountean, gripping the pages like a Glock 17. I couldn’t put this book down, not even to adjust the night vision on my M4A1.

 

The foreword by Morrell hits like a C4 blast, setting the stage for Rambo’s 50-year warpath. Segaloff ties First Blood to Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, showing how both expose the military machine’s insanity—Catch-22 with Korean War satire, First Blood with Vietnam’s fallout, where killers like Rambo are cut loose among normies with no off-switch. Segaloff asks the ultimate Art of War question: did the novel birth Rambo, or did Stallone’s films make him a god? Through a 2025 lens, untouched by clickbait vultures, he answers with a mountain of detail. From the Rambo apple (Malus pumila) to the Southeast Asian quagmire, this is the legend’s genesis, raw and unfiltered.

 

But Segaloff’s got blood on his hands—35 factual errors in the novel and film synopses, from First Blood to Rambo (2008). It’s like a rookie claiming Bruce Willis yeeted grenades into a chopper yelling “Hi-Yo Silver Motha Far!” in Die Hard—pure fiction, and Segaloff’s mistakes are just as laughable. For a book vetted by Morrell himself, that’s a mag dump into your own foot. Long-time Rambo disciples who’ve read microfiche will spot these errors faster than a red dot on a commie’s skull. Newcomers? You’ll be too busy soaking in the intel to notice.

 

Where Segaloff shines is Rambo’s core—war, loss, betrayal, bravery, survival. He skims the cultural and political factors behind Rambo’s rise, hinting at veteran homelessness but never diving deep. It’s a warning of “Iceberg right ahead!” without the hard strike. Still, the sidebars are pure Bear Mountain gold: “Assignment Stallone,” “The Song of Rambo,” and the Carolco saga of parts two and three crawling through development hell. Mario Kassar’s interviews had me laughing harder than a Bear Mountain logger with a MacGyver’d Zippo bomb—“Rambo limbo” and “nyet profits” are phrases I’ll be yelling while rolling coal in my V8 diesel. From 1972’s First Blood to 2019’s Last Blood, Rambo and America have bled together—patriotism, mania, euphoria. Segaloff captures it all.

 

What Segaloff misses, I’ll carve in blood: Rambo’s a Christian avenger, a Bear Mountain templar whose faith fuels every kill. First Blood is divine justice against a godless system; Rambo III is a crusade in Afghanistan—Rambo smiting evil with a Bowie knife and a prayer. Bear Mountain Rancher Senior is the kind of man who’d etch a cross into his M4A1, then drop a Soviet chopper with a silenced Blackout 300 round, all before breakfast. That’s my code, brothers, and this book gets you halfway there.

 

The ultimate “fuck you” to Boganstein Marxist faggots who’d rather wave a rainbow flag than a 5.56 mag. Picture Rambo in 2025, staring down a purple-haired emasculated soy boy whining about “microaggressions” while he adjusts his Omega Seamaster—“Kid, the only aggression here is macro, and it’s coming for your skull.” That’s Bear Mountain, warriors-- armed to the teeth, ready to bury the left in their own ashes while we sip martinis like Daniel Craig’s 007, cool as hell with a Gränsfors Bruks axe in hand.

 

This book is a 304-page war machine for Rambo disciples and cinephiles, a bloody tribute to an institution. It’s not perfect—those errors sting like shrapnel—but it’s a damn fine battle standard. Read it, live it, and channel Rambo’s wrath the next time you’re hunting with your Rambo Bowie knife or rolling motherfucking coal in you diesel V8 pick up as you pull into the Bear Mountain Loggers Honky Tonk Truck Stop in Nagano. Then go watch First Blood at the Bear Mountain Regent Cinema—43 years and counting, every Saturday matinee. 

 

Stay hard, motherfuckers and roll motherfucking coal.

 

RAMBO Jr. AKA Bear J. Sleemann  

Big Bad John: The John Milius Interviews – A Bear Mountain Warhammer of Cinematic Truth

 

By Bear J. Sleemann

 

If you’re a Bear Mountain warfighter—steeped in the holy trinity of God, guns, guts, and glory—then Big Bad John: The John Milius Interviews by Nat Segaloff is your scripture, your battle hymn, your rolling motherfucking coal V8 diesel roar in a world of soy-sipping, rainbow-flag-waving emasculated spineless Marxist beta cucks. This ain’t just a book; it’s a lead-slinging, Warhammer-wielding monument to the Godfather of Bearmounteans, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior himself, John Motherfucking Milius—my hero, my north star, the grizzly-pawed genius who gave us Apocalypse Now, The Wind and the Lion, the gut-punch Jaws speech, Red Dawn, and Conan the Barbarian. These are films that don’t just entertain; they carve their names into the granite of your soul with a Bowie knife.

 

I live my life as close as possible to John Milius—a Bear Mountain disciple of God, guns, guts, and glory, staying hard in a world gone soft. I met the man in 1999, sat with him for an hour to shoot the shit, trading stories over the kind of cigar smoke that’d make a Boganstein Marxist choke on his kombucha. That memory burns brighter than a napalm strike, and Segaloff’s book captures that same raw, untamed spirit. Through years of candid conversations, Segaloff bottles the lightning of Milius’ presence—his growl, his wit, his unapologetic Christian conservative fire. It’s like sitting at the man’s feet, hearing him spin tales of cinematic warfare while chambering a round in a .45.

 

Milius isn’t just a writer-director; he’s a Bear Mountain prophet, a stoic toxic masculine Art of War general whose politics bleed into every frame he crafts. If you’re a lover of God, guns, Christianity, Russia, Midwestern Americana, outdoor life, V8 diesel pickups, dirt bikes, and hunting—if you spit on Marxist, emasculated, Euro-fag, Russia-hating, rainbow Reich faggotry—then this book is your war cry. Milius’ films are a middle finger to the spineless emasculated woke Western Liberal Democrat fags, a battle standard for those who’d rather die in the Rockies than kneel to a woke commissar. And Segaloff? He’s the scribe who gets it, compiling Milius’ words with the precision of a sniper assembling his rifle. You’ll feel the man’s spirit in every page, from his love of primal masculinity to his disdain for the Hollywood glitterati who’d rather sip lattes than gut a deer.

 

But let’s talk about the man’s edge—Milius doesn’t suffer fools. Segaloff occasionally catches a barbed quip, a condescending jab that might make a lesser man flinch. As a writer myself, I winced, but I got it. That’s just Milius, playing the grizzly with a grin, never malice. The respect between him and Segaloff is clear—he wouldn’t have given this much time to someone he didn’t rate. Those sharp moments paint Milius in full: a larger-than-life Bear Mountain titan, playful yet ferocious, a man who’d share a whiskey with you one minute and wrestle a Kodiak the next. Arrogance? Nah. It’s the confidence of a man who knows he’s written the kind of stories that make beta cucks tremble in their skinny jeans.

 

Segaloff digs deep, asking the questions that matter. On page 126, he hits Milius with, “What qualifies as a ‘good’ film?” The Godfather of Bearmounteans replies with the kind of IQ9000 wisdom that’d make Sun Tzu nod: The Battle of Algiers (1965), a forgotten masterpiece that shaped him in cinema school and still fuels his fire. Watch Red Dawn—you’ll see Algiers’ DNA in every guerrilla ambush, every defiant stand. Milius doesn’t just make movies; he wages war through celluloid, channeling the raw, unfiltered truth of conflict into stories that hit harder than a .50 cal.

 

What Segaloff misses—and what I’ll add as a Bear Mountain disciple—is Milius’ spiritual depth. This ain’t just a man of guns and glory; he’s a Christian warrior, a stoic templar whose faith in God underpins every battle he scripts. Conan isn’t just a barbarian flex—it’s a parable of primal faith against a godless world. Red Dawn isn’t just teens with rifles—it’s a sermon on defending what’s sacred from Marxist wolves. Milius, Bear Mountain Rancher Senior, is the kind of man who’d pray at dawn, then lead a cavalry charge by noon, a Warhammer in one hand and a Bible in the other. That’s the ethos I live by, and this book nails it.

 

There’s a dark humor here, too, that’ll make you laugh hard AF while you’re loading your mags. Milius doesn’t just mock the left—he eviscerates them, leaving their rainbow Reich smoldering while he sips bourbon and quotes Musashi. One anecdote Segaloff skips, but I’ll imagine for us: Milius once said, “If the commies come for my ranch, I’ll greet ‘em with a 12-gauge and a grin—let’s see how their pronouns hold up against buckshot.” That’s the spirit of Bear Mountain, brothers—stay hard, stay armed, stay free.

 

This book ain’t just a collection of interviews; it’s a call to arms for every Bear Mountain stoic, Christian, toxic masculine badass rancher/logger/trucker/biker/warfighter who’d rather die on their feet than live on their knees. Nat Segaloff has crafted a tribute worthy of Milius’ legacy, a testament to a man who’s more than a filmmaker—he’s the beating heart of Bear Mountain’s unyielding creed. Read it, live it, and raise a glass to the Godfather of Bearmounteans. Then go shoot the shit otta something. 

 

Stay hard, motherfuckers.

 

Bear J. Sleemann AKA Bear Mountain Rancher Peace out...

THE BEARMOUNTEAN BEAR MOUNTAIN RANCH RENNELL SLEEMAN ESTD 874