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
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