Hey, I have my excuses, for they are legion. However, as a proud George Washington once so poetically versed whilst surveying the battlefield, "tough titties, Holmes". Instead of giving you a full blow-by- blow recap for the gala, instead, I'll give you my thoughts and observances whilst I illegally. . . I mean, totally view said fights through a legal, paid-for manner. Yes, that is what I mean by such a declaration.
Hey, how funny is it that the subtitle for tonight's show is also "Declaration?" Get it, because it's emanating from Philadelphia? You know, the Hall of Independence and Benjamin Franklin and the Liberty Bell and all that shit? Well, that's marketing under the decree of D.W. for you.
Didn't see the opening, but it probably involved gladiators fighting to the tune of "Baba O'Reilly", you know, like every other UFC show since the second W. administration. As always we are coming to you LIVE from the quaint and cozy. . . Well, actually, not tonight, we aren't. Anyhoo, we are coming to you LIVE from my dormitory in beautiful West Cartersville, Georgia! (I hear next year, we'll be getting our first black person! Hoo-ray for societal advancement!)
To open the show, that guy from Fear Factor and Mike (insert anti-Semitic joke) Goldberg talk about stuff and. . . You know what? I don't really feel like talking about Ultimate Fighting right now. Instead, let's talk about MY life and MY wants. I mean, I come in here, pretty much every other week and take time out of my busy schedule to give you satirism and you gobble it up like insatiable piglets and shit out my integral observations as if my musings and whims are disposable a la an empty bag of cheese sticks. I think I have earned that right to "shoot" on the world at large, have I not?
Anyway, I finally received my damned Associate's degree this week, and all it cost me was my family, the hand of the only girl I'll ever love, my sense of moral conscience, every friend I've ever made and a good 80 percent of the contents of my soul, plus about a 20,000 dollar hospital bill from when I tried to off myself because I resented the man that gawped back at me in the mirror for partaking of such a trivial squandering of my lifeblood. But now that I have that flimsy sheet of paper that takes me absolutely NO steps closer to insuring an authentic job in the field of journalism, all I can say is IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT, EVERY SECOND. And that my friends, is the truth. Well, no, it isn't, but it's either that or talk about Josh Neer and let's face it, having your dick clawed off by an irate meerkat is more enjoyable than that, so let's keep yapping, shall we?
Anyway, this is the most boring fight in the history of boring, so I'm going to talk about my week, instead. I reread "Johnny Got His Gun" by Dalton Trumbo Wednesday night in one full sitting and all I can say is that I am ashamed to call myself a "writer" when such a superlative work as his exists in the literary domain. I don't care if this is a satirical site centric to guys with single-syllabic names pounding each with plastic furniture, anybody that even remotely considers themselves human should be required to read that tract. It changed my life, and it will change yours, too. Well, if you're capable of reading anyway, because there are some troglodytes out there that just scan this site looking for "funny Intranet pictures" of them- there wrestling-folk. To those people I urge, do not trek down Trumbo's pacifist masterpiece; instead, I suggest drinking paint. Please, for all our sakes.
Fight's over, Kurt Pellegrino wins it by unanimous decision over Josh Neer. Because it is such an important aspect to be aware of, I am sure.
Next fight, with Ric Alameida taking on Kendall Grove, a former TUF winner. Alameida comes out to Social Distortion, so by proxy, that means he's going to win the fight, so SPOILER. God, ANOTHER snooze-fest. Ambien ain't got shit on this dozer.
Hey, you know what song has been stuck in my head for the longest time? The theme song from that show "The Big Bang Theory". I was over at one of my friends' abodes this weekend and we watched like five and a half hours of stuff on her DVR. Also, her dog breathed its Alpo breath in my face and we watched like four episodes of The Simpsons. I drove home that night with "Nothing With You" by The Descendents playing in my mind, and that's a really nice feeling to have. There's no punch line coming, it's just that I rarely experience such moments of unfettered blitheness, and I wanted to share it with you as to demonstrate that I am not a completely morose, jaded asshole with the personality of Mr. Freeze.
Winner: My Own Fleeting Twenty-Something Existence And With It My Sense Of Integral Joviality
Huh, wait, what? Yeah, the guy I said was going to win won. It's fairly awesome to be right in one's prognosticated musings. Sometimes.
Up next, newcomer Johnny Hendricks beats the shit out of some guy named A Mere Sand Dollar in like half a minute and then everyone started booing because the referee kind of stopped the fight early or something. YES, HOW DARE WE HAVE EXCITEMENT ON TONIGHT'S SHOW. Fuck that guy and hard for such.
Anyway, in the downtime, we're going to talk about things that ARE truly important, like how great "The Iron Giant" is. Honest to God, I didn't cry at my father's funeral when the crane lowering his casket into the dirt snapped and the lid swung open and his corpse rolled out and his tongue hung out like a flattened cat and everybody in my family started crying and shrieking and vomiting but when Goliath saves humanity from nuclear devastation I bawl like a toddler finding out he's to be babysat by Michael Jackson. Hey, somebody told me he died, recently. First I've heard of it. So yeah, the entire movie is kind of a Messianic reinterpretation, with the role of Jesus Christ being played by a hundred foot tall robot voiced by Vin Diesel. You know, there actually are a lot of similarities betwixt Jesus and Goliath, like them both being fictitious characters. . . yeah, that's right, I'm bringing atheistic rhetoric into my column. Go ahead and scoff, but consider it retribution for having to listen to Shawn Michaels' proclaim that the ghost of Eddie Guerrero is headlining Heaven-a-Mania that one time. Bunch of fundamentalist fucks. So what, by proxy, does that mean that God screwed Bret likewise? Oh yeah, his life after 1997. . . I should say so.
Well, anyway, we've got the fight of the night coming up. No, not Shane Nelson taking on Aaron Riley, the fight that went down in the stands. Seriously, check this shit out:
Dude, how awesome was that Superman punch that one chick landed? Well, I guess in reality, that would be a "Superwoman" punch, but I digress. Philadelphia fans behaving in an uncivil manner? (channeling the voice of the announcer guy from Joe Montana Sports Talk Football on the Genesis) I DON'T BELIEVE IT!!!
You know what I want for Christmas this year? A Sega fucking Nomad. That's right, the portable Sega Genesis with like eight minutes of battery life from 1998. I mean, yeah, the price tags on EBAY are kind of steep now, but with an AC adopter and a copy of Kid Chameleon in my possession? THE TIME, IT SHALL FLY BY. Seriously though, I want one, so pool your money together and procure one for me or else I fucking walk from this site. I already got a call from that guy that runs Wrestle Crap, and I don't mind leaving you ruffians behind for the greener pastures of PG-13 humor for retards. That's your warning shot, folks.
Oh yeah, the boring vanilla gatekeeper won that last bout.
Enough with the mid-card-ery! Now it is time for Andersen Silva versus Forrest Griffin, which in actuality, is kind of like watching Forrest Gump thrown down Bubba. You know, the black Forrest Gump from the movie. I know he has a last name, but I care not to Google it.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT! You mean Griffin drops after eating the pussiest love-tap this side of, uh, the other pussiest love-tap one wishes to compare such to? This was an absolute bush-league anti-fight, with Andersen doing his trademark "what the hell is he doing" karate bobbing before stinging the original TUF winner with a couple of hooks. That last shot, though, I don't know' FIX? Could be. . .
All right, time for BJ Penn to save this show, and he does. It's kind of common knowledge that BJ is my favorite current MMA fighter, mainly due to the fact that he reminds me of myself in so many regards, except for the part about being a sort of fat rich-ass Hawaiian guy that lives in a tropical fortress with like fifty other dudes.
He's a guy with all the talent in the world that knows it and just doesn't give a shit. He knows he's fighting substandard competitors and if he moves up a weight class, he just can't survive, and if he loses there, he'll say the other guy was lubed with Vaseline and mind fuck his way into getting people to believe he was robbed. So in other words, if I were a brown guy that looked like a turtle and fought in the UFC, I'd probably be BJ Penn.
Kenny Florian sucks. Fuck him. He also looks like Milhouse from the Simpsons.
After eighteen minutes of something that ACTUALLY resembles an athletic competition, BJ says enough fun for one evening and starts kicking the dog fuck out of Kenny's spleen and hooks in a sleeper hold to retain the title. Post fight, Kenny runs out of the octagon crying and BJ tells people to use the Internet. MONEY WELL SPENT, ASSUREDLY.
Well, this was a shitty article, but that's what you get from such a shitty show. Outside of the BJ Penn fight, this card was absolute dog shit wrapped in a cat shit tortilla with owl pellets in lieu of bean paste. Truth be told, between all of the vanilla fighters, minute long non-fights and fans that smell like tater-tots and diesel fuel, I'm beginning to wonder if its time to abandon ship from this entire MMA thing altogether and focus on things that are more future proof, like 20th century non fiction and dry wall critiquing. At least that last one is more fun than tonight's show.
On a scale of one to five, I give tonight's show a "Fuck you, Dana".
I can do that, you know.
THE TWF "MENTAL WELLNESS TEST!"
With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).