As the debris of the rebranding rained down on West Point like bits of the Chinese space program, it became clear that something as simple as remembering what West Point is called couldn’t be left to the likes of the History Department or some billionaire shoe jockeys. Decisions of this magnitude can only be handled by amateurs. Professionals get paid too much to screw it up.

Fortunately, the good folks at Center Stall have moved ahead in secret with a little-known backstop project. Designed as an insurance policy to protect the Academy we hold dear, Operation “They’re Gonna F%&# This Up So We’d Better Fix It” was a closely guarded effort to ensure the sanctity of the West Point brand now and into the future. Their efforts were not in vain. With the brainpower of one thirty-something dad and low-priced graphics guy from Pakistan, they have brought to us the ultimate in West Point rebranding. Behold…Army Point Academy!


Revel in the awesome power of the crest. A tank, for grinding commies into freedom grease. An airplane sorta-thingy, for delivering freedom bombs to the godless heathens of Krasnovia, Centralia, and…Cortinia? I don’t really know, I never paid attention to these briefs. But bombs away, godless hippie swine! There’s even a soldier guy for attending sexual harassment and water safety briefings. And to get a flu shot. Gotta have a flu shot.

The uniforms drip with iconic tradition. Words. Letters. Gold stuff. Prison stencils. MacArthur. Congo Bar. SAMI. Asbestos gymnasiums.


Reaching into the future, while never forgetting that Nike made a metric shitpile of money to screw this whole thing up. Thank your sweet tax dollars for Army Point Academy.

But no new brand would be complete without a mascot. A swayback old mule isn’t going to cut it for the sharp new look that APA brings to banks of the Hudson. So while Raider, Trooper, and that other one are on their way to a “nice farm upstate,” we’ve offered to help the Academy choose a mascot befitting its proud new image. Here are a few options…



Greasy Garrison CapGrease-O the Borrowed Garrison Cap. The best thing about this anthropomorphized tribute to the erstwhile cadet headgear is that it doesn’t have to be yours for you to love it. Who cares if it’s two sizes too big? Or if it has so much oil soaked into the band that you could pull it over your eyes and still see well enough to walk? All that matters is that it’s on your head and you’re cruising back to your room to take advantage of 55 minutes without your nosey roommate. Did you hunt around the hooks of Thayer Hall like some hapless Donner party in the vain hope of finding your smeared name on limp hat tag? No, you grabbed the first cap within arm’s reach and moved out smartly. That’s the kind of initiative that wins championships. Or at least 5 games out of 12 (okay, 4). So throw on your headphones and loosen that Sta-Bright© buckle (yeah, I knew you didn’t shine that thing). Greasy says you’ve earned an hour of satisfaction.



The Donkey Dick. If you don’t know, don’t ask. The explanation really doesn’t make it any better. DonkeyDick

Army v Navy

Pedro the Hotcart. Majestic.

Mess Hall Serving Cart. What’s bigger than an Army lineman? If you said “every other team’s linemen and many waterboys” you’re correct. But the answer we were looking for is the humble Mess Hall Serving Cart. If you think an Army lineman can plug a hole (and I don’t know why you would), then you have to respect the way the waitstaff makes those monstrosities dance with the grace of an East German swimmer in a quest to block every effective route to your table. Our defense may not be able to stop a Canadian kid in a Yale jersey from getting 5 yards per carry, but Ramon the waiter can make a plebe go through the steam tunnels to get to his seat in E wing (only to find out he’s been floated). Let’s hear it for the serving cart. We should have one thing on Blaik Field capable of stopping forward progress.




4. Boardy the Mock-E Tent. Imagine a tent made of Mock-E fabric who only appears when a first-hour Plebe Math instructor says “Take Boards.” Male fans will argue that Boardy is almost certainly bigger than average. Female fans will say “surrrrrrre he is” and sigh. Think of him as a pop-up mascot. There when you least expect him.


Dirt Man

Dirt Man

Dirt Man. Simply in the hope that Army someday plays Michigan State and the Dirt Department’s chowderhead major in a globe hat gets what he has coming to him. Seriously, Dirt, you’re not even a real department. You know who cares about the longshore current and the alluvial plain? People who live in countries that export mud and intestinal worms. Cram your cumulonimbus up your Humid Continental zone, Dirt Man. Also, Washington Hall sucks. Were you guys playing Magic when they handed out classroom space?







Derpy the Class of ’18 Eagle. What the hell is that thing? Yellow eyes? He looks like a villain from a Bollywood superhero movie. The expression is equal parts apathy and “I just farted and hope no one in this meeting figures out it was me.” If he’s the mascot, our turnover margin won’t be the ugliest thing in Michie Stadium.

Shame on you.

Shame on you.



fiveflybirdFive-n-Fly the Emerging Leader Falcon. One good bird deserves another. Being the assistant to the assistant marketing manager for store brand adult diapers beats searching the back forty of Fort Drum for a missing DR-8 reel. Five-n-Fly pays homage to the b-school futures of all the short timers. Get that MBA and move up a few tax brackets. Don’t forget to be a good old grad and take every chance to bitch on LinkedIn about how football is antithetical to USMA’s “sacred mission.” While you’re at it, make sure to “accidentally” list your Army service time from your grad date 30 years ago to present.




Mop & Glo. The Mascot of Shammers. You could spend hours shining your low quarters. Or you could just swipe your way to success with a cotton ball and some floor wax. If Nike can take 18 months just to phone it in with that garbage branding, we can all half-ass a haircut inspection or two. Go Army West Point, Beat Elbow Grease.Mopglo



Black Jack Hammer. He’s tougher than granite. He’s louder than a .50-cal. He’s a one man homage to West Point’s ethos of “Building New Stuff Using Only Jackhammers.” He’s also creepier than that guy who volunteers to be CCQ over Plebe Parent Weekend. Gotta love a two-fer.


Arms by DPE.



This Terrible Hat. Transported here from 1991 along with a Days of Thunder collector cup and some Jorts. No further comment needed. PS: Jorts available at C-Store, as usual.thunder2

Let us know your favorite in the comments. Because seriously, those mules are about to be glue.

Be sure to check out and snatch up some decent merchandise. You don’t want to be stuck with any of that Army West Point crap.



About The Author

Rob Paulsen. Old Grad staying young, staying hip to the fresh jive. Hating Navy around the clock. O-H. I-O.