THE MARTIAL ARTS HALL OF SHAME THE WEAK AND THE LAME, THE WASHED UP AND INSANE part 1.
“THE MARTIAL ARTS HALL OF SHAME (THE WEAK AND THE LAME, THE WASHED UP AND INSANE, JUST A PERMANENT SHIT STAIN ON THE MARTIAL ARTS WALK, CRAWLING IN THE SHADOWS OF TRUE MASTERY, LEAVING NOTHING BUT EGO, EXCUSES, AND EMBARRASSMENT IN THEIR WAKE).”
1. Don Roley: The Ninja Nobody Asked For
Don Roley struts around the internet like a self-appointed gatekeeper of ninjutsu, yet somehow manages to be the only ninja who could get winded typing a blog post. He’s the martial arts equivalent of that guy who “used to be in a band” — always living off a vague past no one can verify, while the rest of the world has moved on.
His whole persona is built around pretending to be the guardian of “real” ninjutsu, but the reality is he’s just the final boss of Facebook comment threads. Every time someone disagrees with him, he acts like they’ve dishonored his ancestors, when really, they just had the audacity to exist outside of his tiny echo chamber.
Let’s be honest — if ninjas were supposed to be invisible, Don’s doing a terrible job. The only stealth he’s mastered is disappearing from in-person events where someone might actually challenge him to prove his skills. He talks about being a warrior, but the only war he’s ever fought is against typos in his own angry rants.
If “overcompensating” were a martial art, Don would be a 15th-degree grandmaster by now. The man’s main weapon isn’t a sword or shuriken — it’s passive-aggressive blog posts. And while he claims to expose frauds, the irony is he’s built his entire identity on being relevant in a martial arts community that stopped caring about him a decade ago.
Don, you’re not a ninja. You’re the HOA president of a dying style, yelling at anyone who dares step on your lawn.
Don Roley’s “credentials” are like Bigfoot sightings — blurry, questionable, and mostly talked about by him. He’ll lecture you for hours about lineage, scrolls, and historical accuracy, yet if you ask him to actually show a legitimate certificate from anyone relevant, he suddenly pulls the ninja’s ultimate technique: the disappearing act.
He’s spent so many years gatekeeping rank recognition that you’d think he was the IRS of martial arts, except the IRS at least has proof they exist. Don will call you a fraud for not bowing to his imaginary council of “real ninjutsu masters,” yet when pressed, his own legitimacy comes down to “trust me, bro.”
The truth is, Don isn’t defending tradition — he’s defending his monopoly on being the only one who thinks he’s special. He’s the martial arts version of that bitter old diner cook who’s furious that people go to McDonald’s instead of his greasy spoon. He hides behind “purity of the art” because if anyone actually looked past his lectures, they’d realize the emperor has no gi.
For all his talk about protecting the art, he’s done more to scare people away from ninjutsu than any fraud ever could. His idea of teaching is less about helping students grow and more about making sure they never surpass him — which, judging by his actual skill level, is the lowest bar in martial arts history.
Don, your whole shtick is roasting others as “fake,” but the only thing faker than the frauds you hunt is the myth that you’re some kind of respected authority. You’re not the guardian of ninjutsu… you’re just the guy on the porch yelling at kids for running by with a shinai.
Don Roley struts around the internet like the self-appointed Sheriff of Ninjutsu, but in reality, he’s the martial arts equivalent of a mall cop with a badge he bought off eBay. He’s built an entire persona on “protecting the art” — which really just means talking down to everyone while never stepping on a mat to prove he can actually do what he preaches.
His “credentials” are like Bigfoot sightings — you only ever hear about them from him, they’re never clearly documented, and when you ask for proof, he vanishes faster than his cardio during warmups. He’ll talk for hours about scrolls, historical accuracy, and his sacred lineage, yet his own rank recognition is shakier than a cheap katana from Wish.
Don has mastered exactly one ninja skill: the art of the Facebook Flame War. Every time someone doesn’t bow to his imaginary council of “real” masters, he pulls out his favorite weapon — passive-aggressive blog posts — and swings them like they’re going to knock anyone out. Spoiler: they don’t. They just make him look like the HOA president of a dying style, furious that kids are playing on his lawn.
For all his gatekeeping and accusations, the biggest fraud in Don’s orbit might just be the idea that he’s a respected authority. His entire relevance comes from attacking others, because without an enemy to criticize, he has nothing to offer. And while he loves to pretend he’s defending “purity,” the truth is, he’s just defending the tiny, shrinking echo chamber where he’s still somebody.
He’s not a ninja — he’s the angry old diner cook mad that people go to McDonald’s instead of his greasy spoon. He’s not a warrior — he’s a hall monitor in a black belt. And he’s not protecting the art — he’s strangling it, making sure no one gets in unless they worship him.
Don, you call everyone else fake. But here’s the twist: the fakest thing in ninjutsu today might just be you.
2. Randy “Gerald Greysmith”: The Keyboard Assassin Nobody Feared
Randy or as he likes to call himself online, “Gerald Greysmith” — is the martial arts world’s bargain-bin Bond villain. The only thing more fake than his name is his sense of importance. He struts around acting like an investigative journalist, but in reality, he’s just a guy with too much time, too little skill, and a Wi-Fi connection his mom pays for.
This is a man who’s built his entire identity on trolling forums and Facebook groups, pretending to “expose” people while never once stepping out from behind his keyboard. You know why? Because in the real world, Gerald wouldn’t last two minutes in a dojo — not against a seasoned martial artist, not against a white belt, maybe not even against the dojo’s vacuum cleaner.
His idea of “research” is Googling names until he finds something that fits his conspiracy du jour, then twisting it into some half-baked theory that wouldn’t hold up in a middle school debate club. He hides behind aliases like he’s some covert operator, but really, it’s just because no one in their right mind would take him seriously under his real name.
Let’s be clear Randy doesn’t have followers; he has a small audience of equally bitter armchair warriors who get their kicks watching him stir the pot. And while he thinks he’s feared, the truth is he’s just pitied — the loud drunk at the end of the bar, except sober and somehow more annoying.
If Don Roley is the HOA president of a dying style, Randy is the creepy neighbor peeking through the blinds and writing angry letters about it. His “missions” don’t protect anyone, they just waste time, and his “findings” are worth less than a dojo flyer in a strip mall window.
Randy, you’re not a threat, you’re not a hero, and you’re sure as hell not an expert. You’re just the internet’s answer to the question: What if a troll thought he was a secret agent?
Gerald Greysmith, better known as “Randy” to the handful of people who haven’t muted him yet, is what happens when you give a gossiping high school kid a fake name and an internet connection. He’s the self-proclaimed watchdog of the martial arts world, except the only thing he’s guarding is his own insecurities.
This is a man whose idea of combat training is fighting his keyboard’s space bar. He plays at being some hard-boiled investigator, but the only cases he’s solved are “Who ate the last Hot Pocket?” and “Why is my Wi-Fi slow?” Gerald isn’t an operative — he’s an operation in wasting time.
He hides behind pseudonyms like some deep-cover spy, but the reality is less Jason Bourne and more basement-born. Gerald doesn’t go to martial arts events, not because he’s “undercover,” but because showing up in person would mean actually proving he can do something besides copy-paste screenshots.
Every “report” he puts out is just a mix of recycled internet rumors, half-truths, and personal vendettas dressed up as journalism. He thinks he’s feared, but nobody fears the mall kiosk guy handing out conspiracy pamphlets — they just walk faster to avoid eye contact.
Here’s the truth he’ll never type out: Randy isn’t dangerous. He isn’t powerful. He’s not even relevant. He’s the martial arts community’s background noise — static on a broken radio that keeps sputtering the same bitter tune over and over.
If Gerald ever actually stepped into a real dojo, the only black belt he’d see would be holding up someone’s jeans. And if his “mission” is to expose frauds, he might want to start by looking in the mirror, because the biggest fake in his stories is the idea that he matters.
Gerald, you’re not a hunter of truth — you’re a mosquito with Wi-Fi. And just like a mosquito, you’re annoying, you’re loud, and you get swatted the moment you get too close.
3. Dr. Dale “Belt Collector” Dugas: The Legend in His Own Mind
Dr. Dale Brian Dugas loves to parade himself as the real-deal martial arts master, healer, and guru — but let’s be honest: if overinflated ego were a martial art, he’d be a 20th-degree grandmaster with a gold-plated participation trophy.
This is a guy who has so many “titles” and “ranks” that his business card probably folds out like a medieval scroll. The only problem? Half of those ranks sound like they were handed out by a secret society that meets in a Denny’s parking lot. He’s the human equivalent of those jackets covered in patches — impressive at first glance, but when you look closer, it’s just embroidery hiding a whole lot of nothing.
Dugas talks like his knowledge is so rare and precious that the world should feel honored to even hear his voice. In reality, he’s just the martial arts version of a guy selling “genuine” Rolex watches from a trench coat. He’ll tell you about his decades of study, exotic training, and secret lineage — but somehow, no matter where he trains, he’s always the most important guy in the room… at least in his own head.
Let’s not forget his favorite pastime: tearing other people down. He’ll call out frauds, phonies, and “fake” martial artists as if he’s the chosen one sent to cleanse the community, but the irony is that his own credibility looks like it’s being held together with duct tape and self-promotion.
The truth is, Dr. Dale thrives on two things:
- Talking down to people who know less than him.
- Pretending the people who know more than him don’t exist.
If arrogance burned calories, Dugas could eat at buffets for life and still lose weight. But since it doesn’t, the only thing he’s cutting is his own reputation every time he opens his mouth.
Dr. Dale, you’re not the savior of martial arts. You’re not the keeper of some sacred flame. You’re just another loud, self-promoting belt collector who mistakes his own reflection for respect. And here’s the kicker — the more you try to convince the world you’re the real deal, the more you look like the bargain-bin knockoff.
Dr. Dale Brian Dugas talks like he’s the pinnacle of martial arts mastery, but the truth is, he’s built his entire persona on puffed-up titles and hollow bravado. He’s the guy who treats belt ranks like they’re personality badges, yet when it comes to real responsibility — like keeping his own life together — he falls flat.
Let’s talk about that divorce with Michelle. Here’s the punchline nobody says aloud: if he can’t even maintain the one relationship that mattered most in his personal life, what hope does he have of being a “guru” for anyone else? The guy spends more time polishing his ego and listing credentials than learning how to communicate like an adult. Meanwhile, his personal drama is on display for anyone paying attention — a glaring contradiction between the master he pretends to be and the man he actually is.
Dugas is obsessed with exposing “frauds” and protecting martial arts purity, but maybe he should start by reflecting on himself. He’s the kind of person who points fingers at everyone else while his own house is literally falling apart. Divorce? Check. Ego out of control? Check. Reputation built on self-promotion? Check.
In the dojo of life, Dale is the student who peaked in middle school — all flash, no substance. His divorce is just another confirmation: the man can talk the talk about discipline, honor, and mastery, but he can’t walk the walk when it matters most.
Dr. Dale, here’s the brutal truth: the belts, the titles, the “guru” persona — they’re all smoke and mirrors. The real lesson you’ve failed to master? Responsibility, humility, and keeping your own life from collapsing while pretending you’re teaching the world.
4. Judo Barron Shepherd The Belt Doesn’t Hide the Record
Barron Shepherd loves to flaunt his martial arts skill like it makes him untouchable, but here’s the reality: no amount of belts, medals, or dojo stories can erase the fact that he’s a walking criminal record. Three domestic violence cases. Three. Let that sink in. This isn’t “bad luck” or a misunderstanding — this is a pattern, a literal red flag waving over his entire existence.
He pretends to be a disciplined martial artist, yet the man can’t control himself in the one arena that matters most: his own home. Every “technique” he learned in the dojo apparently disappeared the second he walked through the door. That’s not martial arts mastery — that’s just pure, unchecked aggression. And the scary part? People still listen to him like he’s some authority on self-discipline. The irony is toxic.
Shepherd struts around like his rank makes him a role model, but let’s be real — his belts don’t make him honorable. They make him dangerous in the hands of someone who thinks violence is the solution to every problem. Anyone who elevates this man as an example of “martial virtue” is either blind or willfully ignorant.
Barron, your so-called dojo skills don’t erase your criminal record. They don’t make you enlightened, respected, or trustworthy. They just make you a threat disguised in gi fabric. You talk about control, respect, and honor, but the only thing you’ve consistently mastered is repeating the same violent mistakes — like some tragic, slow-motion training montage from hell.
You’re not a martial artist. You’re a cautionary tale. Every time someone mentions your name, it should come with a warning label: “Highly dangerous. Not for emulation.”
Barron Shepherd loves to flaunt his belts and dojo stories like they somehow make him a hero, but let’s be honest: the only thing his belts prove is how good he is at covering up his failures. Behind the gi and the “discipline” act is a man who has repeatedly lost control of his own life — three domestic violence cases don’t just happen by accident. That’s a pattern. That’s a lifestyle. That’s a man who thinks he can punch first and think later.
Every time Barron opens his mouth about “respect” or “honor,” it’s a lie so big it could earn a black belt in deception. He pretends his martial arts make him disciplined, but the truth is he’s the opposite of what a martial artist should be: reckless, dangerous, and emotionally bankrupt. The man can’t manage relationships, can’t manage his own anger, and somehow thinks that teaching others makes him credible. Newsflash: a criminal record does not make you an instructor — it makes you a hazard.
Barron’s violence isn’t hidden — it’s on his record, in black and white. That’s not a mistake or a rough patch in life; that’s a choice repeated three times. And yet he struts around, like his rank shields him from accountability. It doesn’t. The gi doesn’t wash off the past. The belts don’t make him wise. Every time he tells a student to “respect others,” it’s a punchline — because the last three households he lived in would laugh at that advice… if they weren’t terrified.
Let’s get real: Barron is a man who can’t see past his own ego. He is not a role model. He is not a master. He is a warning sign wrapped in dojo propaganda, a man whose life screams “do not emulate.” His legacy isn’t skill or honor — it’s a series of violent mistakes that haunt him publicly. His name should come with a footnote: “This is what happens when aggression goes unchecked.”
Barron Shepherd, the truth is simple: you are not admired. You are feared — for all the wrong reasons — and deservedly so. And every time you think your martial arts make you untouchable, remember: the only thing your belts guarantee is that people are watching closely, waiting for you to fall.
5. Benjamin T. Lacey the Hilliard dumpster fire that was unwanted anywhere
Benjamin T. Lacey fancies himself a “troll extraordinaire,” but let’s call it what it is: a sad man trying desperately to feel important online. He hides behind screens and social media handles like a wannabe puppet master, thinking his comments, memes, and passive-aggressive posts are scary. Spoiler: they’re not. They’re pathetic.
Lacey’s trolling isn’t clever. It isn’t strategic. It’s like watching a toddler throw spaghetti at the wall and declare victory. Every “expose” he posts, every jab he throws, is a shallow attempt to get attention, because the one thing he can’t troll is real life. Step into a dojo, and the only thing he’d be good at is tripping over his own ego.
He acts like he’s striking fear into the martial arts community, but the reality? People roll their eyes and scroll past him. He’s the human equivalent of pop-up ads: loud, annoying, and easily ignored. And the irony is thick — he thinks he’s influencing others, when in fact, he’s just providing everyone else with content to mock.
Benjamin, you’re not a master manipulator. You’re a background noise troll, a clown in a cheap mask who mistakes disruption for dominance. Every attempt to intimidate or “call out” someone online only proves how small your world is and how desperate you are to matter.
The truth is simple: trolling is your art, and in your hands, it’s tragic. You’re not shaping anyone’s opinion. You’re not exposing frauds. You’re not feared. You’re just another sad footnote in the story of martial arts drama — a cautionary example of what happens when someone confuses typing with power.
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