Let me start off by saying “Fuck the text book manufacturers of America.” So far this semester, I’ve bought just three books and I’m already 300 dollars in the hole. Of course, this is a load of steaming, festering caribou shit, and it needs to be addressed in a public forum.

Let’s begin by examining the OBVIOUS here. How much do you think that it COSTS to manufacture a text book? If you said “about as much as it costs to feed Calista Flockhart”, you’d probably be right. That being said, how come I’m paying 120 FUCKING USD for just one Vishnu-damned text book?

Well, there are a couple of answers here. The first, obviously, is the fact that the Houghton Mifflins of this world are a bunch of Satanic cocksuckers (as in, they enjoy huffing on live poultry for sexual gratification) and that the academic powers-that-be are hell-bent on nickel, diming and quartering the youth of this nation until we owe more on student loans than the gross national products of Serbia, Guam and Nicaragua COMBINED.

Let’s say you wake up one morning, and suddenly, you’re James Swift. After you roll over the twin Ukrainian blondes with lockjaw, you decide to count up the money in your wallet. Now, I actually am a pretty frugal guy, so I have a pretty tight lock on my monthly expenditures. Let’s say that I average about $1,600 a month on non-taxable income (NO, I DO NOT STICK FIGHT ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS DOWN BY THE RAILYARDS ON SATURDAY NIGHTS FOR PROFIT, WHO TOLD YOU SUCH!) Of that $1,600, $400 goes towards rent and associated expenditures therein, $200 goes toward additional bills, another $200 goes toward medical expenditures (I tried to commit suicide in 2008 by swallowing an entire bag of Scrabble pieces. The doctors told me that if I had used the junior edition, I probably wouldn’t be here today), $400 goes DIRECTLY into my savings account, $150 goes towards gas, and $100 goes towards food and other food-like substances. Now, if you’re good with the numbers (and since you’re reading TWF, that means you probably AREN’T), that means that at the end of the day, I have about $150 leftover to spend on “what-the-hell-ever” (and if I ever start dating again, you might as well drop that number down to about $8.12). So, as of the current, I’m AUTOMATICALLY 150 dollars poorer, simply because the dick heads and vulva necks of the scholastic publishing world decided to vouch for HARDCOVER instead of soft-copy like anyone with a soul would . Why in the fuck are we even USING text books in the day of PDF, anyway? For just 6 bucks, I can download an entire text book to my laptop. This is a god-damned scientific FACT in this day and age. However, instead of being fucking MODERN, the college world FORCES you to go out and spend money that SHOULD be going towards Nintendo DS games and those eight dollar iced coffees at Starbucks on shit that, let’s face it, you really don’t need.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the “book buy-back” bullshit. When I return my books to the campus bookstore come the first week of December, you know how much money I’m going to get back from my initial $300 investment? That’s right, fifteen fucking dollars. Oh well, it’s enough to go out and buy another thumb drive, I guess.

So, in conclusion: the colleges and the book publishers are in cahoots, and because of their synergetic greed, we college folks are being NEEDLESSLY prodded into additional debt accumulation when the advent of technology SHOULD be making education more affordable. For those of you that are keen on aesthetics, the graph below should PERFECTLY demonstrate the scenario:

Well, if there’s one thing that can take my mind off the fact that my wallet is being picked apart like a communal mandolin, it’s the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Oh, UFC, where would I be without your tender, reassuring presence? Tonight’s gala probably won’t be as good as the last two shows, but eh, who cares? We’ve got a couple of interesting lightweight bouts on the card, four hours of fighting, and the possibility of hearing James Toney cut the most indecipherable post-fight interview of all time later this evening. That dude is downright UNINTELLIGIBLE when he’s stone cold sober, so I can only imagine the kind of shit that will fly out of his mouth when he’s punch drunk and missing an entire row of teeth. In case of a flash knockout, I can only pray that the UFC has Pootie-Tang on call to do translations for us.

Oh well, never mind the bullocks, it’s time for UFC 118: Edgar vs. Penn 2! (*)

(*) By the way, the title of this card is actually erroneous, since the first Edgar / Penn bout took place at a show entitled Invincible. And even then, Penn was the champ going into the first fight, so according to APA standards, this fight should either be called UFC 118: Edgar vs. Penn 1, or UFC 118: Penn vs. Edgar 2. I hate to nitpick, but when I see nits that big just crawling around, I HASTA put on my picking gloves.

We are coming to you LIVE from Boston, Massachusetts, hometown of grabbing people by their ankles, pressing their asses into their spinal cord and naming it after crustaceans. Uh, I could be wrong, though.

The city is unquestionably in a state of gloomy disbelief, no doubt catching word of James Swift’s recent no-notice-given informal termination this last Friday from the contractor he has been working for since 2008.. You know, because that new complex they plan on building from land they stole from the Indians isn’t going to PAY itself off, am I right? Exactly, so fuck James Swift and his meager $23,000 a year salary. With that money, those sons-of-earwigs can go buy the TOP OF THE SHELF mortar, the kind with gold specks. Hell, they might even be able to afford NON Styrofoam coffee cups, and all at the expense of the livelihood of a 24 year old college kid that was barely able to get through life with what the company was giving him to begin with. So, on behalf of the entire Internet, I would like to share this with the general populace: [WARNING: Totally non-related political diatribe ahead]

And that’s a SHOOT, you greedy corporate scum bag mother fuckers.. [end of totally non-related political diatribe]

As always, our hosts are Joe Rogan, Mike Goldberg, and Larry Csonka (as long as you’re watching tonight’s show with American Gladiators in the PIP screen, that is).

Tonight’s show is being brought to you by Liquidated Lumber. It’s the lumber with a yellow tag, therefore, it’s damn good lumber. Pretty big house for tonight’s show, way bigger than I thought it would be. Either the Toney / Couture fight really is THAT big of a draw, or it’s half price, half pint night for undergrads. Man, isn’t it great being unemployed AND straight-edge?

Hey, who wants some prelim fights? Well, me too! Now, who wants prelim fights with Andre Winner and Nik Lentz? No hands? No hands, at all? Well, shit, maybe tonight should be the night I fucking parachute off the wagon.

Well, tell me what this means: Winner is a British striker, and Lentz is a Midwestern wrestler. If you’ve watched ANY UFC event from this year, then there are two things you have learned to accept as the Buddha-given truth:

1. Wrestlers ALWAYS beat Strikers (unless they have MAD BJJ skills)



Therefore, your winner, by unanimous decision. . . Nik Lentz!

Wait, you mean I actually have to wait until something happens before I can file it as a journalistic effort? Fuck that, I’ll just go work for the New York Post instead.

Anyway, this fight played out EXACTLY as you imagined. Winner tries to strike, he can’t land anything substantial, and Lentz simply bullies him into the corner and lands some takedowns, pretty much at will. In the guard, Lentz really can’t do anything, so the final round was lay and pray city. Lentz goes for a weak ass looking guillotine as the bell expires. Sure enough, Lentz gets that unanimous decision, just as I prophesized.. Nostradamus, lick my sack.

BJ Penn has arrived at the building. He looks glum. I guess he’s pretty shaken up about me getting unceremoniously fired for matters of financial expansionism. You know, because people are just numbers, and numbers don’t need to eat food or anything, right?

Frank Edgar is also in the house. He too, is pretty torn up about James Swift getting shit canned for reasons of intra-company cost-cutting. I don’t see his “We Support J.S.“ wristband, but he’s probably rocking one in a show of solidarity.

Randy Couture is here. He’s wearing flannel. And he’s smiling. He’s also wearing a mouth guard four hours before his fight takes place. That Couture is a real professional.

Finally, Toney shows up, wearing, I shit you not, a fucking K-Mart branded T-shirt. That may very well be the funniest thing in the history of ANYTHING.

Joe Lauzon vs. Gabe Ruediger up next. “Creepy Joe” is a hometown boy, and a monster favorite going into the bout. He’s probably best known for knocking out Jens Pulver that one time, but considering the fact that Pulver is on a six fight losing skid now, that’s probably not something I would boast about on my resume. Ruediger, on the other hand, is that piece of shit from TUF 5 (I think) that couldn’t cut weight. He also gave Lauzon a cake with the words “Sorry for your loss” iced on at weigh-ins the day before. So basically, Gabe Ruediger is kind of awesome.

MONSTER cheers for Lauzon. Bell sounds, and Joe turns into the fucking TAZMANIAN DEVIL. This dude is tearing Ruediger limb from limb, like he just posted photos of his nephew on the NAMBLA message boards or something. Joe goes for a guillotine. Gabe worms out, and Joe says “fuck you” by standing up and German Supplexing the mother fucker anyway. Joe is raining punches on Gabe. Joe transitions into an armbar, and Ruediger taps like a pair of Shirley Temple’s dancing shoes. An incredible performance by Lauzon here.

Buy a PSP so that you can play games that have never been commercially viable on a handheld system.

Drink Keystone Light. Because you don’t care how it tastes, just as long as it gets you fucked up.

The GSP / Koscheck season of TUF involves contestants fighting tornadoes, apparently. Quick, somebody call Matt Hardy so he can slap it (and then possible dry up the sea later on in the evening).

About fifteen minutes until the show kicks off, so we get one more prelim fight, featuring John Salter taking on Dan Miller. Miller is lobbing some punches and throwing high kicks that aren’t connecting, and Salter takes him down about two or three times. Obvious round for Salter. As soon as the second kicks off, Salter shoots for a takedown. Miller says “GOTCHA BITCH!” and locks in an Anaconda Choke. Salter taps. Well, that really doesn’t mean much of anything.

Time to flip over to the PAY-PER-VIEW. I just caught the tale-end of one of the pre-show hype videos, starring James Toney sparring with a dude holding a pool floatie and wearing what appears to be an Anti-bear suit like the one Homer wore in that one episode of The Simpsons. Shit, couldn’t we have watched that for the last hour instead?

Your typical gladiator opening. Only with a LOT less sodomy.

Pumped crowd tonight in Boston. Joe and Mike do the hard sell. Drink some shitty ass malt liquor nobody’s ever heard of. Time for the curtain jerker for the $59.95 show.


Nate Diaz vs. Marcus Davis

Well, this one ought to be, in two words, “rather punchy”. Marcus Davis is a fisticuffing machine that’s been around since the second season of the Ultimate Fighter. He also lacks the ability to do anything OTHER than lob sloppy ass hammer shots, so don’t expect any of that pussy-ass “wrestling” or “defending one’s self” from the self-named “Irish Hand Grenade”. . . which is TOTALLY what I would call my penis if I was from the Emerald Isle.

Nate Diaz, on the other hand, is part of the MMA Four Horsemen (alongside his brother Nick, Jake Shields, and Gilbert Melendez). Diaz, a former lightweight, made his UFC debut at middleweight a couple of months back, and shocked the shit out of the MMA world (well, no, not really) when he beat the fuck out of a dude that outweighed him by about six and a half pounds on free cable television. So, what we have here is a fighter that does nothing but serve hand burgers taking on a dude that does nothing but lob fist sandwiches. My prediction for this match? That’s right, a flying heel hook finish in the third round. NOW, WHO’S READY FOR SOME INCREDIBLY UNTECHNICAL STAND-UP STRIKING!

Diaz a huge heel here. Diaz also has a huge reach advantage. Nate hot dogs in front of the crowd, and Davis takes him down immediately and feeds him some hand sandwiches, with extra hate sauce. Diaz back up, and he’s still shaking his proverbial prick at Davis. Punches are traded (but due to inflation, not at the average exchange rate), and The Irish Hand Grenade has a right eye that resembles a camel’s vulva. Diaz goes for a couple of takedowns, and continues to pop Davis’ swollen socket with RUTHLESS AGGRESSION. Obvious round for Diaz here.

The doctor takes a gander at Davis’ eye. It’s bad, but the doc allows it. Diaz continues to sting Davis, and Davis is trying to land at least one of his patented cement block hammer blows. Not happening. Diaz secures a takedown as the bell sounds. 29-28 Diaz.

Davis’ eye looks like something out of a 1980s straight to video horror film. The ref really should stop this fight. BUT HE DOESN’T! Apparently, the UFC hauled in some of the Strike Force officiating folk for tonight’s event. . .

Diaz is just tagging Davis. Davis’ eye is pretty much swollen shut at this point. Dude, this fight should be called. Just saying. Diaz keeps stinging him, and eventually, Nate manages to land a takedown. Diaz has his back. He floats over to a front headlock. Guillotine. Davis goes to sleep. Diaz with the sub late in the third.

A really, really impressive display by Diaz in this bout, one that probably puts him top 5 in the UFC welterweight division. You know who I’d really like to see Diaz take on? Matt Hughes. Well, him, or the Serra / Lytle winner from UFC 119. A tremendous display of technical prowess from the Cesar Gracie student, and a tremendous display of technical ineptness from the UFC officials here.

Shogun Rua is in the house. Be sure to check out his next UFC bout in 2013.


Kenny Florian vs. Gray Maynard

One of the problems MMA is having right now is the fact that it’s a legitimate sport, and thus, has to base its match-ups on things like records as opposed to entertainment value. Now, there’s no denying that these two fighters are among the top five lightweight grapplers on the planet (especially since Shinya Aoki only gives a shit when he’s fighting guys from Sengoku). That being said, UFC fans want to see these two guys in a title fight with about as much enthusiasm as a recent prison internee would have for his first sodomizing. Allow me to elucidate, folks.

Kenny Florian really is a tremendous fighter, as apparent by his victory over Takanori “I can’t make up my mind whether I want to suck or not” Gomi earlier this year. He’s also beaten a couple of big name competitors, like Joe Stevenson and, uh. . .well, a couple of other lightweights that nobody gives a shit about. He also has the (perhaps unfortunate) trait of looking just like a humanized version of Milhouse from “The Simpsons”, which I really can’t decide if such is detrimental or beneficial to his career. The thing is, Florian did have a title shot last year, in which he was promptly handed his own asshole by BJ Penn. Needless to say, a rematch between the two is about as desirable as a bloody T-bone is to a Hindi.

And then, there’s Gray Maynard, a dude that’s never lost a MMA fight. Well, there was this one time he did kind of DDT himself against Rob Emerson, but that’s neither here no there. The fact of the matter is, Maynard has enough Ws on his record to warrant a title shot, even though his victories haven’t always been decisive ones (See: vs. Nick Diaz from earlier this year).

So, here we go: two guys that are technically adept that NO ONE wants to see in the title hunt squaring off for, you guessed it, a title shot. I hope I’m wrong here, but odds are, this thing is going to be about as much fun as that one Atlanta / Arizona game from 2004 where the final score was 6-3 and nobody put any points on the board after the first quarter.

Florian a huge favorite here, obviously. Gray Maynard looks JUST like the baby from the 1986 cult classic “Combat Shock”, only grown up. Just throwing it out there. Florian begins by throwing some punches and kicks. Maynard lobs some sloppy ass overhands. Maynard shoots for a takedown. Florian stuffing the attempt. Maynard gets it anyway, and stamps Florian with a couple of shots from the top as time expires. 10-9 Maynard.

It should be noted that Florian has been selected as the “Most spirited fighter” of the evening. Yeah, he’s fighting like a dude that’s sponsored by a malt liquor company, all right.

Total Nonstop inaction to begin the second. Maynard landing some shots. Maynard with a takedown. And another. Maynard lands a couple of more rib blows as the second comes to a conclusion. 20-18 Maynard.

Florian storms out in the third and throws EVERYTHING at Maynard. Maynard says “Hey, I just went to the mall, and you know what I picked up for you? A TAKEDOWN!” Maynard with more shots. ANOTHER Maynard takedown. Florian goes for a last ditch Umu plata attempt. No dice. Twenty seconds to go, and Maynard snoozes his way into a future LW title shot.

Unanimous decision victory for Maynard. He talks about drinking Bud Light after the fight and celebrating by playing Othello. Well, maybe not the part about playing Othello. Florian is disappointed. Maybe not as disappointed as the time his best friend got his first girlfriend sent to an all girl’s school, but still pretty disappointed.

Maynard’s got himself a championship bout coming up. Florian gets to spend his weekends anchoring a web show for ESPN. Tough break, kids.

Dropkick Murphy’s is in the house, to practically no ovation. Flogging Molly would’ve got a Hogan pop, IMHO.


Demian Maia vs. Mario Miranda

I’m not going to lie to you, folks: I have NO clue who the hell Mario Miranda is, so unless he comes out wearing overalls and a Tom Lawlor-esque handlebar mustache, consider me DIS-A-POINTED. Demian Maia, conversely, is that one Brazilian jiu-jitsu guy that got his ass flat lined by Nate Marqhardt and clowned on by Anderson Silva earlier this year at UFC 112. Needless to say, both guys NEED a win here, so expect them to, uh, try not to lose. Now, I’m not saying that I’m not interested in this fight, but if I space out for a few minutes and just play Othello on my cell phone instead of doing play-by-play, you won’t get upset, will you?

Weird as hell: For some reason, the local crowd here is crazy about Maia. Fuck, the? Meanwhile, I’m disappointed to find out that Mario is not a handle barred ethnic caricature, but rather, some dude that kind of looks like Pez Whatley. Still has a ‘stache, though. If I had one like that, I’d totally use it as a weapon in the Octagon. That thing could cause a mean rope burn, if you know how to use it.

Maia goes for an immediate takedown. He gets another. Body scissors. His punches really aren’t doing anything to Mario. Maia goes for an armbar, but Mario rolls out. The round ends standing, and it is some SHITTY standing, at that. 10-9 Maia.

Some knee shots. Maia takes him down. He gets back up. Maia takes him down again. Maia looking for an armbar (should be on aisle 7, IIRC). He loses it AGAIN. Miranda up, and throwing some ineffective low kicks. Horrible, horrible round. 20-18 Maia.

Single leg takedown for Maia. Maia goes for, you guessed it, ANOTHER armbar. And guess what? He loses it AGAIN. Giyod-dahumn. Maia pulls guard on Mario. Maia goes for another sub, and Mario ends the round by landing some decent strikes. Way, way, way too late to mean anything, however.

30-27 across the board for Maia. This has NOT been a good show.

Wes Welker in the house. He’s immediately intercepted by a DB for the Ravens.

Chuck Liddell also in attendance, and the minute breeze that cascades as the cameraman turns toward him knocks him out in the process. Jeez, talk about having a glass chin!

Mass exodus to the urinals. The “real” main event of the evening is soon upon us.


Randy Couture vs. James Toney

I’d be MORE than willing to say that a good 98 percent of the people watching this PPV bought the show JUST to see this fight. Now, this thing has “train wreck” written all over it, and you know what? That makes the bout all the more tantalizing to dwell upon. There’s a lot of history behind this one, so you guys might want to brew a pot of coffee before I start explicating this bout’s background.

Back in the day (and by day, I mean “1993”), there was this thing called “boxing”. Before the UFC came along, “boxing” was pretty much the only “real” sport you could watch on Pay-Per-View, and it was populated by people that you kind of gave a shit about, like Mike Tyson, George Foreman, Evander Holyfield, Riddick Bowe, and Michael Moorer. Well, maybe not Moorer, so much, but eh, he was around. Somewhere along the way, however, boxing was hi-jacked by boxing promoters, thusly destroying the sport and turning it into a boring non-factor with only one weight class out of about 20 that’s kind of worth a shit.

Whereas boxing has done pretty much nothing but devolve over the years, the UFC has risen like Michael Jackson’s junk in an orphanage (too soon?) Oddly enough, boxing has kind of always been around the MMA world, going back to the very first UFC event, where Royce Gracie famously made some dude wearing one boxing glove submit to, uh, something, back in ‘93. That, and there has been some crossover between the two sports. I immediately think of Ray Mercer knocking the shit out of Tim Sylvia and Ricardo Mayorga almost fighting that one time as recent examples of MMA getting it’s peanut butter in boxing’s chocolate. That being said, there’s never really been an incident in which a legitimate boxer went toe-to-toe with a legitimate MMA fighter in a genuine UFC bout. That, my friends, is to come to extinction in a matter of minutes.

Randy Couture is a man that needs NO introduction to MMA fans. This guy is basically Brett Favre, Captain America, and Verne Gagne rolled into one human being. He’s old enough to be your dad, he has a six pack despite the fact that’s he’s damn near fifty, and he WOULD beat the hell out of you in a one-on-one contest. Hell, he’d beat the hell out of you if you had a chainsaw and the help of two friends. Long story short, Randy Couture is the toughest old bastard you’ll ever see, and the moment you stop making cracks about his age is the same moment he sends your teeth sliding down your trachea.

James Toney, in addition to being the least coherent human being on the planet, is a dude with some serious credentials as a pugilist. Since getting signed in the Spring by Dana White, Toney has done NOTHING but talk Chael Sonnen levels of shit about Couture, giving an interview to Ariel Hewana in which he brought out a Randy Couture action figure in a dress and promised to make Randy his “bitch” when they finally met in the Octagon. Judging from an April interview, it’s also apparent that he doesn’t know the first damn thing about the sport, as he talked about how he had perfected the “left check kick”, which I believe is derived from the kata of Brazilian Bull-Shit-You.

The smart money here would be on an EARLY Couture submission. In fact, I’ll eat a bucket of barber shop hair if this thing goes more than two minutes without Toney getting a.) tapped, b.) disqualified for trying to twist Randy’s head off like a toothpaste cap or c.) choking to death on his own mouth guard. This is going to be one of the biggest debacles in the history of mixed martial arts, and the sort of shameful tomfoolery that we will one day look back upon with the same distressed disbelief that we did when we found out that dude from See Spot Run was given a WCW title run. Dear lord, this fight is going to be a new shade of awful. Also, this fight is going to be a new shadow of fucking awesome, so consider my tickets to the car crash paid in full for this one.

Toney comes out rocking the K-Mart gear. No, seriously. He’s also looking kind of fat. Well, fatter, anyway.

Couture comes out, as calm as a Hindu cow. Huge ovation for the Natural, lots of antipathy for “Lights Out” Toney.

Round begins. People wondering how long before Couture shoots for the takedown. Randy barely grazes Toney’s left leg and the dude topples like a stack of Jenga pieces during an earthquake. Loud-ass “UFC!” chants. That, I have to admit, was pretty awesome. Toney is doing absolutely NOTHING on the ground. Couture looking for an arm triangle. It’s taking him awhile. Couture sinks it in. Toney taps in the WRONG direction (meaning, he slams his knuckles into the canvas instead of his palms), and this bout is all over.

Couture gets an honorary black belt for beating up a black man. Just kidding. Or am I? Toney says something indecipherable, concluding that his “ground game is good”. Yes, a “Good ground game” from a guy that did absolutely nothing OFFENSIVE in a three minute fight outside of tapping in the wrong direction.

An absolute shit fest, but far and away the most entertaining thing on the show so far.

Shaq Diesel in attendance, like diarrhea dookie out your butt, and like pee pee out your you-know-what. Laugh all you want, that shit sold 1.6 million copies back in the 90s.

Tom Brady also in the house. Far and away, he got the loudest heel reaction of anybody at the pub this evening. Yeah, that sounds about right.

How many fucking Resident Evil movies are they going to make? Shit, why don’t they just make one based on “Clock Tower” instead? Hey, anybody remember that one?

A deflated crowd after that last bout. Can the main event deliver the goods? It’s going to have to save this one.


Frank Edgar (Champion) vs. BJ Penn (Challenger)

It’s kind of hard to stay unbiased here, since I am perhaps the biggest BJ Penn nut hugger on the Eastern seaboard. That being said, I doubt that one goes into a site dedicated to THE PRO WRESTLING SATIRE and expects impartiality, so fuck it until it’s wheels fall off.

This bout here is a rematch from a HIGHLY controversial bout back in April in which Edgar, a massive underdog, scored a unanimous decision victory over the gargantuan favorite Penn to “win” the UFC Lightweight championship. Now, I use the term “win” very loosely here, as BJ decisively owned the first two rounds of that match-up. I’ll go with the consensus and say that Edgar did in fact “win” the fifth and final round of that bout, but for all intents and purposes, rounds 3 and 4 were pretty much pushes. In a JUST world, the first fight would’ve been a fairly lackluster 47-46 decision for Penn, but SOMEHOW, at least one of the assholes on the jury managed to give Edgar a 50-45, which is kind of like scoring a football game in favor of a team that lost by two field goals because they had more yards per carry. It’s not very logical, and yeah, BJ got SCREWED out of his title last spring. (Whether or not Penn plans on going to WCW and getting concussed by Goldberg is yet to be seen, however.)

Frank Edgar is a pretty damn good fighter, as obvious by that one loss on his record. However, Edgar isn’t exactly a dude that’s known for finishing folks, so color me the most surprised of Crayola hues if he gets a submission or KO here. In fact, I can pretty much GUARAN-DAMN-TEE you that Edgar WILL NOT win this bout unless it goes to another decision, so his best hope is that the judges in Boston tonight lack the same abilities to do simple arithmetic as the jury in Abu Dhabi. If not, he best start taking those snapshots with the belt NOW.

And then, there’s BJ Penn, my favorite fighter IN THE WORLD. I think it’s pretty much a given that, on paper, Penn is probably the most versatile fighter in MMA. He can box like a technical motherfucker, he’s got submissions like a mother fucker of a different variety, and he’s got Muay Thai knees that would make Sagat from Street Fighter II fucking proud. As the holder of the world’s absolute BEST takedown defense (as well as the pioneer of the so-called “Gumby Guard”), BJ Penn is one of the supreme offensive AND defensive fighters of our day. The problem with BJ is, he knows that he has a shit load of talent, and every now and then, he simply likes to coast instead of actually giving a shit about his in-cage performance.

This has happened to Penn several times in his career. He has a bad loss, and he comes back DEDICATED as a mother fucker. He’s in shape, he’s technically sound, and he goes in there and FINISHES his opponent like an Oxycotin-sauced hamburger in the mitts of Rush Limbaugh. And then, Penn starts slacking off, and he gets creamed in a fight. See: vs. GSP, January 2009.

Like The Undertaker, Penn keeps coming back, though. It seems like every loss Penn suffers makes him that much STRONGER as a fighter, and there’s no doubt that Penn wants to make an example out of Edgar this evening. The ultimate question, of course, is whether or not Penn cares enough to keep his dedication to the game going past this bout. So, in other words, BJ PENN = JAMES SWIFT. Well, except I’m not a rich Hawaiian dude. And I don’t live in a mansion with like 80 other guys. And I can’t jump out of a swimming pool. And. . .well, let’s just say that we both have problems giving a shit, so that makes the analogy apropos enough for my sake.

So here’s what we’re staring down, folks: Edgar scores another razor thin decision, OR Penn decides to carve up Edgar like a Jason Voorhees victim. Either way, this should be a pretty interesting little main event. All right, time to crank up the “Hawaii ‘78” by that one dude that looks like Hurley from Lost. . .

BJ Penn stoic as mother fucker. Frankie Edgar is jumping around the Octagon like a kangaroo on angel dust. There may be a style difference here.

Penn the heavy favorite with the crowd. He’s about twenty pounds heavier than Edgar, too. So he’s like, a heavy favorite in more ways than one. Yeah, I went there.

Penn doing the technical boxing. Edgar. . .takes Penn down with almost no effort? Holy shit, what happened to that world class takedown defense, BJ? Penn working the butterfly guard from the bottom. Nothing from it. Dueling chants. Edgar fucking SLAMS Penn twice. This. . .is not good. We get some reserved striking, and Edgar is simply outclassing Penn. A real, real bad first round for Penn. 10-9 Edgar.

Penn begins the second with more calculated boxing. Edgar shoots for a takedown. No dice this time. Penn landing some combinations. Edgar takes him down again. Holy shit. Both up, and both doing some half-decent striking. A closer round than the first, but I’ve still got it 20-18 for the defending champ.

Penn just cannot catch Edgar. Now Edgar is rattling off the combinations. Edgar’s takedown stuffed. He bullies Penn into the cage. Edgar throwing some elbows. The round ends standing, with Edgar landing the more efficient blows. 30-27 for Edgar.

Penn has got to do something in the fourth. Penn immediately scores a takedown of his own. There you go. Edgar goes for a guillotine, gets nothing, and we’re standing again. FUCKING vicious leg sweep on Penn. Edgar is making “The Prodigy” look like a chump tonight. Seriously, I don’t think GS-fucking-P tooled him this badly. Penn trying to do something from the rubber guard. Edgar is raining some hard shots on Penn. It gets vertical. Penn lands a few combinations, but nothing to win him the round. If you’re in Penn’s corner, you’ve got to be sweating bullets right about now. 40-36 Edgar.

Penn shoots for a takedown, and gets it, to begin the fifth. He temporarily has Edgar’s back, but Frank floats over to the full guard. Yeah, it’s all over for Penn. Things get vertical, and Edgar just runs out the clock. Penn shoots for a last ditch takedown, but it means nothing. Not only did Edgar prove that Abu Dhabi wasn’t a fluke, he pretty much made Penn look like a jabroni tonight. A horrible, horrible night for BJ.

Obvious 50-45 decision across the board for the defending champ. In the post fight, Edgar hypes the upcoming Maynard bout. . .sort of. A crestfallen BJ tells Joe that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do from here on out. Well, BJ, here’s an idea: how about you get your ass off that Hawaiian compound and try some actual training on the mainland? If the first thing Penn does when he gets back to Honolulu isn’t giving Greg Jackson a call, his ass deserves to be getting drubbed by glorified 145 pounders. You’ve got a date with Gomi, Penn, and if you don’t win that, you might as well hang up the trunks for good. FUCKING FACT.

Well, tonight’s show was. . .very, very lacking. In fact, I’m kind of pissed that I have ten less dollars in my billfold because of it. Oh well, in today’s roaring economy, I’m sure I can recoup such a loss, and shortly right? Oh, that’s right, I’m unemployed right now. Well, fuck, then.

SHOW HIGHLIGHT: Toney getting tooled by Couture. Kind of an obvious pick, huh?

SHOW LOWLIGHT: Probably the Maia / Miranda fight, but Florian / Maynard was pretty bad too.


1 Giving a guy a cake the day before a fight equates you getting your ass kicked 24 hours later.

2 Dude, it’s totally OK to keep letting a dude fight even though half his eyeball is hanging out of the socket.

3 Eyebrows don’t improve your fighting technique.

4 Just because you knocked out Evander Holyfield doesn’t mean you can beat up a 47 year old in a

REAL fight.

5 In fights between turtles and humming birds, you know who’s going to win? HINT: The one that’s NOT BJ Penn.

A depressing show to cap off a really depressing weekend. I’m not saying that it’s time to refill the Zoloft prescription, but. . . Yeah, it’s pretty much time to refill the Zoloft subscription. UFC = FML.

JAMES SWIFT is a born-again atheist, an aspiring mobile journalist, and prefers the run and gun to the West Coast offense. His first book, “How I Survived Three Years at a Two-Year Community College”, was released in 2009 by iUniverse Publishing. He also had to kill Bob Morton because he made a mistake.


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November 2006


by Sean Carless

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.).