To reiterate the words of that great, Shakespearean thespian “Rowdy” Roddy Piper in the 1988 Best-Picture winner “They Live”, I too, have come here today to do two things: sell copies of my first book, and cover overpriced, shitty pay-per-views…and I’m all out of overpriced, shitty pay-per-views. Wait, you mean there’s a UFC show on tonight? Really? Well, fuck, since I’m here, and I already have my reviewing pants on, I might as well stay awhile.
All right, first things first. A lot of you (OK, none of you) have probably been wondering where I’ve been for the last, what is it, five months now? Well, that’s actually a multi-tiered question you’re lobbing at me, so I’ll answer it the same way The Undertaker makes it to the ring: gradually.
For starters, I’ve been using the last four months to finish up my second book, which should be out sometime this fall. Note that I use the term second in that last sentence. I mean, you, dear faithful TWF reader, are aware that I have a book out NOW, right? Well, if you aren’t, please allow me the opportunity to do what I do best: expound.
Right now, you can head on over to Iuniverse.com and pick up a copy of my debut novel, “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”. You can also pick up copies from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and for some odd reason, a lot of online retailers from Southeast Asia. Anyway, I suggest you scoot on over to Iuniverse.com for a number of reasons (which totally have nothing at all to do with the fact that I get double the royalty sales from direct site sales. Nope, not at all.), primarily the fact that you, fair, economically-hampered reader, can pick up an E-book (read; PDF) copy of my book for just SIX AMERICAN DOLLARS. Now, it would be nice if one or 481 of you decided to spring for the $44.95 hardback version, but I’m kind of presupposing here that the SIX DOLLAR PDF version is more conducive with your economic lifestyle. Now, for just one second, I would like you to think about this: every time you go to Taco Bell, you spend, what, seven, eight bucks on stuff that you’re just going to poop out a couple of hours a later? Well, for the same amount you spend on burritos that incite oily discharge, you can OWN one of the 21st century’s FIRST truly great works of post-economic collapse, American-independent literature. SIX DOLLARS. That’s like, what, 2 and a half Euros? Three Canadian dollars? There is NO excuse for you to pass up on this ridiculously great deal. In fact, if I don’t sell at least ten e-book copies after this article’s been posted, I officially retire from satirical, combat-sports entertainment journalism. SIX DOLLARS USD. Hell, how about this; you buy and E-book copy of my book, and THEN you go get a fat sack of tacos and eat them while reading my literary debut? You win, I win, your stomach wins, and the future of independent media wins. I’m not saying you’re a terrorist if you don’t buy my book, but yeah, you probably are.
So, what’s the book about, you may be pondering? Well, waltzing into a website dedicated to mocking the world of professional wrestling and offering a coming-of-age tale about societal stratification, personal ideology, and cultural identity is sort of like going into a PETA convention sporting a Michael Vick jersey, but I say, hey, give it a try. It’s a deep, profound, thoroughly engaging look at how I went from being a twenty year old, working class ne’er-do-well to becoming a twenty three year old, autonomous human being that’s sure of his personal ideological and moralistic convictions. It hits upon a lot of deep issues, but it still has an undeniable sense of humor. Simply put, if you enjoyed the books written by Mick Foley, Chris Jericho, or Bret Hart, than I think this book will appeal to you. You don’t have to be an expert on Sartre or C. Wright Mills to dig the book; if you’ve ever felt alienated, or if you’ve ever felt like you were fighting against the world, if you’ve ever wondered if you’ve had in your heart what it takes to fulfill your dreams, than you can relate to this book. Hell, it might even give you a little inspiration to keep trucking along in your own life. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m just another guy hawking his wares to you, but I say this: for that initial 6 dollar investment, you’re getting WAY more than your money’s worth in the long run.
So, anyway, what are you waiting for? Hit up the Google. Type in “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College” (for God’s sake, remember, to use the quotation marks), and find the book in a format that is most conducive for you and your wallet. There’s a preview of the first chapter up at the Barnes and Noble site, and you know what would be nice? If one of you, I don’t know, went on over to the Amazon page, and gave my back a glowing, five star review, or something along those lines. Now, I’m not saying that you have to, but hey, it would make my day if you (and twenty of your closest friends and relatives) did so.
So, to reiterate: “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, available now from I-Universe Publishing! Also available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and a whole lot of other retailers, according to my last Google search! E-book copies are just 6 dollars! (Insert Howard Dean scream)
Well, that’s all I have to say for this week’s installment, and. . .oh, wait, I see Sean Carless standing outside my window holding a shotgun and a picket sign that reads “WRITE OR DIE!” Jeez, he always gets so aggressive after the post-Mania traffic dip. Oh well, I guess that leaves me no option; as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to hit that little green button on my remote and pay the $49.95 to watch UFC. . .hell, we’re up to 113 now? Jesus, there are more UFC events than there are Friday the 13th sequels and Final Fantasy spin-offs COMBINED.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, James, I’ve heard from several reliable sources that you have genitalia large enough to qualify for equestrian status. And also, didn’t you say in your last article that you were never going to cover MMA for this site, ever again?” Well, in riposte to that first statement, the allegations, I assure you, are indeed true. And as far as that second inquiry goes, all I can say is…
Well, shit, there goes my annual Christmas card from Chavo and Vickie. Let that be a lesson to all of you out there reading this: if you begin experiencing cardiac arrest, then yeah, you’re probably brushing too hard.
All right, since this IS a pro wrestling site, I suppose I at least owe it to you to air out my sentiments about the current state of the industry. Long story short, it sucks, and rather ironically, the same two things that are chiefly responsible for making existence suck in general are the culprits behind the modern not-a-sport’s decline: politics and religion.
WWE is being hampered by politics, and I’m not talking about the backstage, Triple H variety, either. You see, a couple of years back, Vinnie Mac converted to the faith of Republicanism, and since a majority of his ideological brethren frown upon such things as necrophilia, gay marriage, abortions performed by foot fetishists and the advancement of black people (just kidding…or am I?) he’s made it a serious initiative to MORALISTICALLY cleanse the promotion of all of that vile, reprehensible filth that the Tea-Party crowd can’t stand, like obscene language, sexual themes, mindless violence, and above all else, rationality. So anyway, Vince is running the promotion pretty much the same way the Republican Party is being ran these days: very, very retardedly.
So, Smackdown is being moved to the Sci-Fi channel (no doubt to get away from those godless liberals that ran UPN \ CW \ My Network \ whatever the hell that channel was called), and. . .
. . . Holy shit, when did they change it to the SyFy Network? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I live in Atlanta, so that’s saying something. So yeah, Vince’s preoccupation with courting the red-state viewing audience is what’s undoing his company at the present. Shit, he might as well go all out and move Raw to Fox News and book Bill O’Reilly as World Heavyweight Champ. Maybe he could feud with Glenn Beck, and he can super kick him though that chalkboard like Shawn Michaels did to Marty Jannety that one time. Hell, they can even get some generic black guy from OVW, dress him up in presidential garb, and port him about as a bumbling caricature of Obama and. . . You mean they ACTUALLY did that? God help us.
Hey, speaking of the Notorious G.O.D., what do you know, he’s the reason TNA sucks! Well, not him, exactly, but his number one fan, Vince Russo. Now, I know it’s old hat to criticize Russo at this point, but at the same time, fuck him. I mean hard, no lube, and with a porcupine’s dick.
This is a guy that, in a shoot interview form 2002, claimed that he hated the industry with everything in his heart and was willing to do anything to get out of it. This was eight fucking years ago, and what do you know? That same guy with a decade’s worth of self-loath and steaming hatred for the craft is booking the #2 promotion in the country! Oh shit, it’s like giving a convicted arsonist a job as the city fire marshal, a flame thrower, and the key to the match factory. You would have to be a bona fide mongoloid to put someone like that in charge fo your company’s future, and if you’ve ever seen Dixie Carter’s high school pictures, she had the prettiest floral gown and foam helmet ensemble of anyone at her senior prom. Shit, out of all of the Designing Women to get their own wrestling company, it had to have been that one. Delta Burke, she is a-frowning.
(Ed. Note: And as soon as I finish that last paragraph, TNA moves back to Thursdays. Apparently, someone slipped Planet Panda the war waging schema from the Grenada military.)
So anyway, until the top companies rid themselves of such idiotic, ideologically driven product, I’ll be keeping my distance, thank you very much. . . The same way I kept my distance from the mundane, banal trappings of mainstream literature in my first book, “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, available now from I-Universe Publishing!
E-book copies are just $6!
All right, so here we go, UFC 113. It’s really been a tale of two promotions so far this year. The first three shows of the year were awesome, but the last three practically fucking swallowed. Our main event for the evening is a rematch between Lyoto Machida and Shogun Rua, two guys cut from the same proverbial cloth. I mean, sure, Rua is a former underwear model and Machida is a guy that kind of looks like he has Down Syndrome, but they’re both Brazilian, so I guess that makes them similar enough. The undercard is, well, passable, so on paper, this looks to be a fairly lackluster show. Then again, the UFC is booked so that everything you think is going to be awesome ends up sucking and everything you think is going to suck ends up being awesome, so. . .
And like L.T. on a child prostitute, we are ALL over this one right here. We are coming to you LIVE from Montreal, Quebec, Canada, where against all odds, the fucking Habs are STILL in the playoffs. If the venue looks familiar, well, it SHOULD, since it was home to UFC 83 (which featured GSP getting the craziest reaction since Ron Simmons beat Vader in Baltimore that one time), as well as UFC 97, which was headlined by the absolute shittiest Anderson Silva fight of all time. . .and yeah, you best believe that’s saying SOMETHING.
As always, our hosts for the evening are that dude from Fear Factor and some Jewish guy. As they desperately try to cover up their oh-so-obvious sexual yearnings for one another, the strings of Jimi Hendrix pump out of the arena PA. Alan “The Talon” Belcher is a guy that’s probably best known for kicking Yoshiro Akiyama in the sack that one time at UFC 100. Since then, he’s cut his hair, and as a result, looks about 50% less white trashy than he did this time last year. Color me the Crayola hue marked “disappointment”.
His opponent for the evening is Patrick Cote, who hasn’t seen the inside of an octagon since October of 2008. In his last match, he broke his own leg in a losing effort against Anderson Silva, which yeah, was probably the right idea at the time. This Quebecois crowd is PUMPED. As Cote makes his way to the cage, the crowd is hooting and hollering as if Montreal finally received its first shipment of soap. It’s got to be deafening in there, I assume.
There’s this one dude towards the entrance gate that has a Canadian flag unfurled with the words “GSP 4 Prime Minister” scrawled upon it. Yeah, nothing like defacing the emblem of your homeland to show support for a guy that’s not even fighting on the same card you paid money for. And shouldn’t that mother fucker be printed in French, too? And why didn’t you use a Quebecois flag, asshole? You don’t see American fans running around with Old Glory painted to read “Go Chuck Liddell!” do you? Exactly. And I think we all know why that’s the case: because Americans can’t read.
Our match-up is being brought to you by some airline no one has ever heard of. And believe you me, I think I would know a little bit of something about aviation, considering my current employer (Subway).
The opening bout begins, uh, rather kicky, with both men trading low body shots early. The commentators make it an effort to say “hey, those things kind of hurt”. Now, that’s not because one of those dip shit judges that ruled the first match in favor of Machida said that leg kicks were “harmless”, right? Of course, not, America, of course not. SLEEP! BREED! VOTE REPUBLICAN!
Well, since this IS an Alan Belcher match, we don’t get very far into the first round before “The Talon” lads his patented inside toe crotch buster, and ref Mario Yamasaki (his middle name is Gunter, making him the crosspollination of all of the Axis powers in one human being) gives Cote some time to pulls his testicles from his small intestines.
After somewhat moving his genitals to where they were originally genetically positioned, Cote comes back with both guns a blazing. The two trade punches, and Patrick sweeps Belcher to the ground and comes dangerously close to locking in a NASTY kimura (as opposed to the hypoallergenic ones found on sale at K-Mart). Calling up the unholy energy found within his Johnny Cash tattoo on his bicep, Belcher manages to sneak out the backdoor and lock in an arm-triangle. He fights to sink it in, but like a Christmas gift for naught, it’s all for, well, you know.
Before the bell sounds, Belcher drops a couple of fist bombs on Cote. I think it’s pretty much a given to say that this was Alan’s round.
Round 2 begins, and before the first fist is thrown, Yamasaki calls for a time-out. Using his X-Ray vision, he notices that Belcher doesn’t have a mouth guard in place and orders him to pop one in. Damn dude, that Yamasaki guy has eyes like a fucking robotic eagle. He totally would’ve kicked ass on “Funhouse” back in the 80s.
We’ve got more kicks, a brief exchange of punches (like the last time I went down to the community swap meet), and Cote has Belcher pinned against the cage. At one point, Belcher has Cote trapped in a sort of under hook suplex position, and I think aloud “Now, why doesn’t he just pick him up and tiger drive the mother fucker?” Then, in one of the most awesome things that has ever happened in the history of humanity, Belcher does precisely that. HOLY SHIT, THE PEDIGREE ACTUALLY WORKS IN A REAL FIGHT. While Cote tries to find where his nose is now situated on his face, Belcher seizes the opportunity and locks in a rear naked choke to secure the victory.
Winner: Alan Belcher, R2, 3:25 (Submission)
After the bout, Cote complains that he was pile driven, which is a big no-no in the UFC. After looking it up in the official rulebook, play-by-play jockey Mike Goldberg tells the audience that while dropping an opponent on their head is illegal, it is TOTALLY all right to just drop them on their face. This of course, has huge ramifications, since it means that the F-5 is a LEGAL MOVE according to the NSAC legislature. When Brock finishes off Shane Carwin with it at UFC 116, just remember: I called it first.
All right, we have some downtime, so I’ll just reach into the patented J. Swift mailbag of, uh, mail, and fish out a letter real quick. Hey, if you have an inquiry you would like to submit, be it on MMA, pro wrestling, or whatever the hell else, feel free to drop me an e-mail with the subject line “ASK J.SWIFT STUFF” and who knows? You might just get featured here on the Rocktagon. . . at some point.
OK, here’s one from Tyler Sanbagguah, from Troy, Michigan. Hey, that’s the same hometown of Pastor Jack Van Impe, who last time I checked, is still a major league scrotum.
I don’t really follow MMA all that much, but I’ve heard that a lot of people are mad at Anderson Silva for, well, something. Since you are the resident MMA expert, and also since you have an actual book on the marketplace (EDITOR’S NOTE: “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, from I-Universe Publishing. E-book copies are just $6, if you’re wondering), I figure you’d be the best guy to ask.
Well, Anderson Silva is a guy that’s probably the best middleweight fighter on the planet, and instead of being given the opportunity to duke it out with guys in the 205 division (like he’s stated NUMEROUS times that he wants to), good old Dana White decided that it would be in his BEST INTERESTS if he stayed at 185 and beat the living crap out of guys that are WAYYYY beneath him. So basically, in his last three middleweight fights, Silva has been putting on, well, less than enthusing performances, more than likely as a means of saying “Dana White, please sit on a male reproductive organ.”
Really, Silva is pretty much in the right here, and if you want to blame anybody, blame it on the UFC brass for not booking him in competitive fights against people that are, you know, actually in his league. It’s like being an Ivy League graduate asked to do a thorough analysis of a literary offering, and instead of being given Tocqueville or Durkheim, they give you a copy of Dr. Seuss. If you don’t give people serious challenges, don’t expect them to challenge them seriously. Discussion, end of it.
Thanks for the letter, Tyler. Your complimentary tee shirt should be in the mail, but since your mailman is back on the dope rock, I make no promises that it’ll ever get to you.
All right, back to the show. Up next, we have a heavyweight match-up between media creation Kimbo Slice and former lineman Matt Mitirone. Now, I’m not quite sure where Mitirone was a lineman, but I can only assume he was one for the county of Wichita. Speaking of outdated country-western references, Matt chooses to come out to Skynyrd’s “Simple Man”. I don’t know, I guess that could kind of be construed as a nod to Mother’s Day or something. Yeah, nothing says southern regionalism like having your matriarchal figure encourage you take up a life of uneventful lowliness. . . And being PROUD OF IT. WOO, TAKE THAT NEIL YOUNG AND ALL YOU FREE MEDICINE LOVING CANADIANS!
Of course, Kimbo gets a star reaction, even though he has a record with more L’s on it than the ‘08 Detroit Lions. But he’s marketable, don’t you see! Yeah, nothing puts asses in the seat like a dude with a brick-sized mouth guard, a Macho Man Randy Savage beard, and baroquely styled chest hair. That, and the dude has the absolute HUGEST outtie belly button I’ve ever seen. I’m surprised that sumbitch doesn’t have a doorknocker hanging from it.
As soon as the bell rings, Matt lands a nasty head kick on Kimbo, and Kimbo retaliates with a jab right to the face. Matt goes in for another head kick, and Kimbo POWERBOMBS the motherfucker. Kimbo is doing everything in his power to pick him up for another one, and in the process, Mitirone locks in a triangle choke. The crowd is FUCKING molten for this shit. Kimbo fights his way out of the submission attempt, only to find himself trapped in yet ANOTHER submission attempt. Kimbo breaks out of the kimura, and we’re standing again. Kimbo secures a single leg takedown, Matt locks in ANOTHER triangle attempt, and we find ourselves standing AGAIN. With about two and a half minutes to go, Mitirone absolutely DEMOLISHES Kimbo’s legs with some shots that would make Tajiri proud. Matt fucking chainsaws through Kimbo’s leg, and the former Elite XC top draw drops to the canvas like a redwood. A redwood, that is, with a really, disgustingly large belly button.
For about a minute, Matt tries to lock in an anaconda choke. Although Kimbo survives (just barely), it’s obvious that this dude is beyond gassed at this point. The S.S. Kimbo hit an iceberg in round one, and in round two, we’re going to see this motherfucker sink.
In between rounds, Kimbo looks like a half-dead World War I shock trooper while Matt is all smiles. Seriously, this Mitirone guy has the LEAST heterosexual smile I’ve ever seen. Between the wispy mustache that makes him look like Michael Cera in “Youth in Revolt” and the fact that he’s a two sport star in the field of getting all sweaty with other guys, I’m prognosticating that somewhere in Illinois, this guy has a log cabin with his name ALL OVER IT.
Round 2 begins, and Mitirone continues to DECIMATE Kimbo’s legs with some brutal kicks. Remember how earlier, we were talking about how leg kicks “weren’t harmful?” Well, I believe it’s safe to put that theorem up there with the heliocentric and flat-earth theories, because Slice is getting positively butchered by them. Kimbo’s knees buckle, Matt lands a knee strike, and Slice goes down like Leo DiCaprio. Matt lands some sledgehammer shots from the full mount, while Kimbo uses the peek-a-boo half-guard to feign “activity”. Matt tries to lock in a key lock submission (basically, a move in which you twist a dude’s wrist like a doorknob), but he can’t even do that yet, so he just starts punching him again. The ref should’ve stopped this match a LONG time ago, and while Kimbo gurgles through whatever teeth he has left, the match, mercifully, comes to finality.
Winner: Matt Mitirone, R2, 4:24 (TKO - punches)
Post bout, Mitirone continues to smile like a junior Senator at a San Francisco bathhouse, and you better believe that the rag in his back pocket is of the most yellow hue in existence. Matt thanks his mom for the win, and Kimbo Slice is quickly rushed to the nearest funeral home for immediate cremation. You know, because he’s FFFFFIIIIIIRRRRED!
(Ed. Note: And yep, that’s exactly what happened to him the next morning. Hey Kimbo, with all of that downtime, you may need a source for inspiration, a sort of treatise that will emotionally and spiritually get you back in a healthy mindset. Well, I know just the thing for you, it’s “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, which is available at iuniverse.com for just $6 in e-book form!)
We’ve had two fairly exciting fights so far this evening, and up next, we have something that is, well, a little different. If the last fight was the kind of monster mash we all secretly love to intake, than the upcoming battle is sort of like the technical, grounded luchador fight we all admire and appreciate the technicality of, but don‘t enjoy as much on a sheer primitive level. Let’s just call it like it is, though: we want crazy, outlandish bullshit involving power bombs and face plants, and no matter how “good” the 155 pound fight ahead is going to be, it’s not going to equal the awesomeness of the two bouts before it. Well, unless the two guys decide to break out a plancha here or there, I guess.
A lot of times in MMA, you really don’t need antithetically colored britches to tell who is who. I mean, in a fight between Roy Nelson and Stefan Struve, if you can’t tell which fighter is which, I’d advise you to sign up for an eye test. And a drug test. And just to be sure, an AIDS test. You never can be too sure in this day and age. That being said, with Jeremy Stephens and Sam Stout, that color-coordination system is an absolute essential. It’s like playing a Ryu vs. Ryu fight in Super Street Fighter II, for god’s sake.
Anyway, Stephens (the guy in black, right?) kind of has the upper hand in the first round. He takes Stout (the local boy from Ontario) down pretty early and the two start swapping blows (but NOT in the same way lonely sailors do it). Mikey Goldberg reminds the Canadian fans that MMA is still not sanctioned in Ontario, and that he encourages the fans at home to partake of some good old fashioned civic activism. Yeah, fuck apartheid and human rights violations, I’m doing my part to make it legal to watch two shirtless guys pummel each other for 55 dollars a show!
Second round begins, and I believe that it is around this point that Stout starts to take the upper hand. After missing a knee strike, Stephens takes Stout to the ground. From the side, Stout tries to lock in a kimura, but like a missed field goal, or the service at the KSU student commons, it’s no good. With time expiring, Stout starts swinging like an epileptic at a Cherry Poppin’ Daddies concert, and it’s clear that Stephens is anything but “even” in his performance in the second round. Holy shit, did I just drop a Cherry Poppin’ Daddies reference? Fuck, I might as well throw in a nod to Rammstein and “The Sunscreen Song” while I’m at it.
The third round kicks off, and Stout wastes no time at all before doing what all great Canadians do in times that require great valor: he rears back, and kicks his adversary square in the scrotum. Unfortunately, whether or not Sam shouted “That’s my purse, I don’t know you!” before landing the blow is indeterminable at the present.
Now the fight has turned into an 8-bit side scrolling beat em up like Double Dragon or Bayou Billy or something, with Stephens trying to land a useless flying knee strike OVER and OVER again only to have Stout rock his grill each time. Now Stout is trying the flying knee strategy, and Stephens uses the flailing as an opportunity to score a takedown. Stout quickly jumps back up, and starts throwing windmill punches that, like a Lego on a Lincoln Log, just don’t connect.
Wow, this is a really hard fight to score. I’d give the first round to Stephens, the second round to Stout, and as far as the third round goes, it’s a push. The official scores give Stephens a split decision victory, and Stout, much like a lifelong Maple Leafs fan, looks very, very crestfallen and distraught over the futility of existence in general.
WE HAVE PRELIM FIGHTS FOR YOU TO ENJOY! Joe Doerksen is a Canadian fellow that kind of looks like your old junior high basketball coach on steroids. He also bears an uncanny resemblance to the Batman villain Clayface, so if he shape shifts during battle, don’t be surprised. His opponent is Tom Lawlor, who comes out rocking the absolute gayest mustache ever in the history of facial hair. That is some John Holmes mug shrubbery right there, man.
Anyway, the first round of this bout is an utter and complete mess, with lots of face rocking and clinching galore. These two dudes are dropping right hooks galore on one another, although for the life of me, nobody in their right mind can overlook the notion that, aesthetically, this bout is the equivalent of watching General Tragg and the leather dude from the Village People fisticuff.
Round two begins with more face punchery, until Lawlor secures a single leg takedown. Then, in a twist of fate, Doerksen manages to sneak his way out of the takedown, grab Tom’s back, and sink in a rear naked choke for the submission victory.
Winner: Joe Doerksen, R2, 2:10, (Submission)
Well, that’s a cue to take a breather if I ever heard one. Hey, how about we plop back into that mailbag, shall we?
This one comes from Sharon Dusseldorf, from Toledo, Ohio. Huh, that’s the same school Bruce Gradakowski went to, whom better be starting over Jamarcus Russell this fall if Al Davis knows what’s good for him. Ah, who am I kidding , the Raiders are being ran by a 90 year old fossil with dementia. I’m just surprised the decrepit old bastard hasn’t traded a first round draft pick in exchange for a bag of hard candy. . . yet.
I’m a huge fan of your work, here at TWF, and at Retro Junk, Figure Four Weekly, and the KSU Sentinel. I can’t wait to get my hands on a copy of your latest literary release (EDITOR’S NOTE: “How I Survived Three Years at a Two Year Community College”, available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble now!) and was just wondering what your thoughts were on this new Predator movie being released later this year.
Thanks for the kind words, Sharon. Well, as a huge fan of the first two Predator films, all I can say is, wow, does the new film look SHITTACULAR. Let’s take a look at the cast of the first two movies, shall we? In the first film, you had Arnold, Jesse Ventura, Apollo Creed, and an Indian dude. In the second, you had Danny Glover, Gary Busey, Gary Busey’s huge ass teeth (they were billed separately in the credits), and even Morton Downy, Jr. No matter how you slice it, that’s a pretty impressive line-up. So, after a twenty year moratorium of franchise offerings (the AVP movies don’t count, as anything, ever, by any means), what’s the best the filmmakers are capable of? That’s right, Morpheus and. . .Adrian goddamn Brody. The Terminator. Murtaugh. The Pianist. Which one of these iconic film characters would you LEAST like to see go toe-to-toe with a dreadlocked alien menace with a face suspiciously similar to the reproductive glands of a female walrus? Jeezus Hernandez Christ, that movie is going to suck. That, AND they redesigned the Predator, which is kind of like walking up to the Mona Lisa and giving her a Mike Tyson-esque facial tattoo. LEAVE FINE ART ALONE, CORPORATE AMERICA!
I mean, are you fucking kidding me? Look at that shit, it’s like staring at a black light poster of an oil spill with one eye closed. I know, I know, use of shadow is dramatic and everything, but what in the fuck am I SUPPOSED to be looking at? Honestly, if the poster didn’t have the word “Predator” on it, I would be stumped. And that name! “Predators?” That shit might’ve flown back in 1986, but it’s 2010, and our movies use the alpha-numeric system, by gum. Fuck, they didn’t call the second movie “Iron Men” did they?
Shit, no wonder the film industry is losing money. Internet piracy, economic problems, technological advancements? BULLSHIT. The reason people stopped going to the movies is because movies these days FUCKING SUCK. Just because you take something that sucks in two dimensions and slap some fancy 3D effect to it doesn’t make up for the fact that everything else about the film blows. Giving a lousy 2D movie 3D effects is like sprinkling glitter on a dog turd. Sure, it’s more aesthetically interesting, but at the end of the day, it’s still a big, smelly chunk of shit.
Business people, take note: if you have a product, be it a movie, a pro wrestling promotion or a small-print magazine, DO NOT compromise integrity and intellectualism for the sake of “cultural tastes”. Forsaking populist interests in favor of popular interests might increase profit initially, but in the long run, the really long run, it does more irreparable harm than just about any external socioeconomic element you can dream up.
Oh shit, did I just use the print space at a SATIRICAL PRO WRESTLING SITE to address the sociocultural ramifications of the ongoing American economic recession? Oh man, better throw in something outlandish to counteract it. LOL, THE CHARACTER OF JOHN CENA ACTS AS IF HE IS A BLACK PERSON BUT IN REALITY HE IS ACTUALLY WHITE AND HIS POPULARITY WITHIN THE MASSES CONFUSES AND IRKS A LARGE PERCENTAGE OF THE INTRANET COMMUNITY. Oh yeah, that’s right, I went there. J. Swift is a real rebel, and don’t you forget it. Ruck Fules.
OK, show’s back on.
Our co-main event of the evening has SERIOUS repercussions, as the winner of the bout finds himself coaching on the next season of the Ultimate Fighter, which in turn, gets him a title shot against Georges St. Pierre and his Welterweight title. Josh Koscheck is probably the best fighter in the WW division to never get a shot at the 170 pound crown, but what do you know? Back in 2007, GSP wrecked his ass in a three round decision. Paul Daley, on the other hand, is probably the best striker in the division; if he lands a hard right, he’ll probably put you down. The thing is, he’s seriously lacking in all of the other areas, so what we have here is the classic “grappler vs. striker” match-up.
Paul Daley comes out rocking the Punch-Out!! Era Mike Tyson cut. Koscheck comes out to some Red Hot Chili Peppers, and looks JUST like a spray-tanned version of Eric Young. GSP is ringside, and he gets the monster ovation of all ovations. Hey, the Montreal crowd is a very accepting one, and they most certainly love their all-star homosexual champion. Ah, come on, we know that belt isn’t the only thing GSP keeps in his closet…
Koscheck refuses to bump gloves with Daley. Daley comes storming out of the gate with a flying knee that misses by several ZIP codes. The two circle one another for quite some time, Daley drops back for some punches, and Kos drops back for a takedown. Daley lunges, and Kos slams his ass to the mat. Daley tries to stand up, and Kos slams his ass AGAIN. Well, as if no one learned it from the GSP-Hardy fight, when wrestlers take on strikers, the wrestlers ALWAYS win. Kos has Daley in a DEEP choke. Daley explodes out of the hold, and immediately clips Kos with a knee to the face, which is illegal from the seated position. Kos drops to his knees and holds his face as if he’s been hit by a mortar shell. Then, the camera replay shows that Daley MISSED with the knee, and Kos is literally SELLING a non-existent strike. The Montreal fans are positively LIVID. A deafening “Fuck you Koscheck!” chant flares up as the first round comes to an end.
Second verse, same as the first. We get some exchanges early, but Koscheck’s defense is way superior to whatever Daley can throw at him. Kos steers Daley into the cage, and drops him again. Kos has Daley on the ground for the entirety of the round, switching up positions while he tries to sink in another choke as time expires.
Third verse, SAME as the first two. Daley tries with all he can muster to land the standing death blow, but Kos ain’t having it. Throughout the match, every time Kos lands a takedown, Joe Rogan likens his prowess to that of Chael Sonnen. Now, that’s not because they are trying to hype up Sonnen as a legit (albeit fairly overmatched) threat to Anderson Silva, right? Anyway, Kos lands a double leg takedown, and that’s pretty much all she wrote for Daley. The bell sounds to end the third, and Daley rushes over to Kos’ corner and lands a sucker punch on Josh. Oh, shiiit, Daley just punched his one way ticket to Sengoku. “This is NOT what this sport is all about” protests Goldberg, obviously poking a little fun at the competition. Dana White tells GSP to head back to locker, while Paul stands there knowing that he just commit career suicide. Not surprisingly, it’s a unanimous decision victory for Koscheck, who then grabs the mic and cuts a fucking FANTASTIC heel promo on the city of Montreal, stating that the Pittsburgh Penguins were going to kick the Habs asses and then he was going to kick GSP’s so that they end up losing twice.
Well, all in all, that was a technically boring fight, but goddamn if it didn’t bring the entertainment. Between Josh’s academy award winning performance as broken-face man and the Ric Flair level promos, this is a guy that NEEDS to be in pro wrestling, and soon.
(Ed. Note: Sure enough, Paul Daley got the axe immediately after the match-up. I know that in this economy, life can be pretty depressing, and now that you have a lot more free time to dwell upon your extant being, why not try picking up a copy of “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, available now at iuniverse.com, Barnes and Nobel, and Amazon? E-book copies are just $6, Paul, so even on your inevitable Strikeforce salary, you should be able to afford a copy. You won’t regret it.)
All right, time for the main event, and if you don’t know the story behind this one by now, welcome back from your extended stay at Fort I-Really-Don’t-Stay-Up-To-Date-On-That-Much-MMA-News. I hear they have nice showers, though.
OK, here’s the story: Lyoto Machida is an undefeated lightweight fighter, and the current UFC champ. Although undefeated for quite sometime, the UFC was rather hesitant to give him a title shot because, to put it bluntly, his fights were about as interesting as watching ice melt, or having to sit through one of those Twilight movies when you know the girl that dragged you to go see it isn’t going to give you a goodnight hand job. Well, Lyoto silenced those critics when he knocked Thiago Silva “da fuck out” at UFC 94, and sure enough, he did the same to Rashad Evans at UFC 98 to capture the LHW strap.
On the flip side, we have Shogun Rua, longtime PRIDE FC favorite. He made his UFC debut in 2007, in which he lost to Forrest Griffin in what was a pretty big upset. Shogun is out of action for all of 2008, he BARELY manages to beat Mark Coleman, and after “retiring” Chuck Liddell at UFC 97, he was penciled in for the #1 contender spot.
All right, time to do the MMAth: Lyoto Machida is an undefeated, piss-sipping karate master and Shogun Rua is a dude that fights with his balls hanging out of his shorts that ALMOST got his shit wrecked by a dude that’s in his mid 40s. Empirical wisdom dictates that Machida was SUPPOSED to run through Shogun faster than Rush Limbaugh through a bag of triple cheeseburgers coated in Oxycontin-sauce. Well, time to make Richard Weaver and John Raulston Saul proud, because the actuality NEVER came to reality. Instead of getting fist-raped by Machida, Shogun pretty much dominated the bout, landing WAY more shots and keeping Lyoto on the defensive for the entirety of the bout. Everybody in the world had the scorecards in favor of Shogun, but what do you know? The judges at UFC 104 though otherwise, and Lyoto was granted a controversial decision victory that pretty much everybody and their brother views as a stolen W.
So, yeah, all of that to say that this match is, fundamentally, Rocky II. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet the house on this one ending in a double count out while Bill Conti plays in the background. Whether or not Shogun’s wife experienced a postpartum coma in the buildup to this fight, unfortunately, remains undocumented.
Rua comes out first, to what sounds like some generic techno-electro-gobbledygook that you would probably hear in a Mitsubishi commercial or something. He takes off his pants, revealing what appears to be a set of non-ball huggers. What the hell, Shogun? He takes off his second layer of pants, revealing his trademark sack scrunchers. There we go, Rua. We knew you’d bring the goods.
Machida is out next, with some Linkin Park courting him ringside. Hey, under that lighting, he kind of looks like that dude that played Fez on That 70s Show.
The bout picks up IMMEDIATELY where the last one ended, with Rua leg kicking the shit out of Machida. Machida sweeps Rua to the ground, but Rua quickly escapes. The two start trading blows, and Rua is landing the better punches. Machida trips up Rua again, and Rua once again hops up. The two start lobbing some serious punches, and Rua ROCKS Machida with a mean right hook. Machida drops to the canvas like a bag of marble, Rua pounces on his ass and reigns punches until the ref hops in to save the FORMER champion.
Winner: Mauricio Rua, R1, 3:35 (KO - Punches)
Holy shit, Shogun positively MURDERIZED Machida. Shogun straps on the belt and cuts a promo in broken English about how much he loves Canada. Meanwhile, Lyoto is being carried to the back, with a welt under his left eye the size of a small tangerine. PRIDE FC fans, rejoice: Shogun Rua is your NEW UFC Light Heavyweight Champion!
Hey, we have another prelim fight on the cards? Would you like a taste? Jonathan Goulet has a really dumb looking haircut, while his opponent, Marcus Davis, just has a British-looking one. Eh, you don’t care, so instead, I’m going to tell you about the funniest thing that’s happened to me on campus so far this year. A couple of months back, we had this exhibit on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. You know, the ones that have lots of really grisly looking pictures that gnaw at your soul? Well, I was working on my second book while hanging out in the cafeteria one evening, and I saw a gaggle of about seventy Asian students congregated outside. They all looked around, as if they were lost, and trying to find their way around campus. At that point, I assumed that they were probably visiting the campus, and since there was a pretty big exhibit on display…well, you do the math.
They continue to look around, obviously having no clue where in the hell they’re supposed to be. As the kind ambassador of American culture, I decided to leave my post to go give them directions.
I go outside, I spot the oldest looking guy in the group, and I say “Pardon me sir, but I believe the Hiroshima exhibit is being held in the lobby”.
The crowd is silent for a moment, and the elder leader looks me dead in the eye and says “We are here for the violin concert, you asshole!”
Well, that made me feel like a type 3 dick head, all right. And in case you’re wondering (and you aren’t), Davis won.
All in all, I have to say, this is probably one of the better UFC shows I’ve seen in quite a while. It’s easily on par with UFC 109 and 110, and a show that was YEARS better than the last two. The next two cards look kind of crappy on paper, but you better believe that my ass is going to be front and center for UFC 116. This is a show that just left me wanting more, and whenever your product can do that, you know that you have yourself one successful ass business model.
ROGAN-ISM OF THE NIGHT: (tie) “It’s OK, he just landed on his face,” (after Patrick Cote got tiger driver-ed by Alan Belcher) and “That was the best hit he landed all night!” (after Paul Daley sucker punched Kos at the end of their bout)
SHOW HIGHLIGHT: Got to be Kos’ post-bout promo. That shit was down right Angle-esque in delivery.
SHOW LOWLIGHT: Kind of a hard call, but I still think Stout should’ve been named the victor in his match-up.
FIVE THINGS I LEARNED THIS EVENING:
* Alan Belcher will get that title shot against Anderson Silva…assuming everybody else in contention gets knocked off “King Ralph” style.
* The fighter with the most ostentatious hairdo ALWAYS gets his ass kicked.
* Contrary to popular belief, a cottony mustached DOESN’T make you a tougher fighter.
* I still have no earthly clue what ethnicity Josh Koscheck is.
* The less ball space you have in your pants, the more likely you are to deliver a knockout strike.
Well, that’s a wrap, kids. Do yourself a favor and hit me up on the Facebook, and while you’re at it, hey, did you hear about that one book I wrote? Well, as it turns out, you can pick up a copy for just $6 dollars, so. . .
JAMES SWIFT is a best-selling author and literary shogun that will one day have to explain why he wrote so many off color jokes about sodomy at this site before an aghast crowd of somewhat important people. When not covering the sociocultural import found within things like mixed martial arts, Sega Genesis games and ‘80s horror movies, he enjoys drinking coffee, staring vacantly into space, and suffering from the inscrutable pains of social anxiety disorder. Why yes, he is a communications major, how did 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.).