Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Now let me tell you a story...

After spending the last three days in the retirement community of Lake Havasu City, Arizona, I was pretty fucking pumped when we rolled into Vegas. Don’t get me wrong, Havasu was great, I got wasted poolside and made the old locals curse Canadians- but Vegas is Vegas.

Oh, and I had tickets for UFC 141.

Next to the check-in counter there was a booth selling those meter long drinks that people carry around, since it was 9AM I made a mental note of this (I’m not a full blown alky just yet). We had a meal and I sat down for some roulette. Two spins and I’m down 50$, such a bitch. It was now probably 1130-12 and I saw some guy who looked like Diddy drinking a bright orange meter of something, so naturally I decided to get shit-faced.

I ordered the meter of orange goo with two extra shots for a dollar each, and made a beeline for the sports bookie. Game time.

I sat down with my goo and watched some fucking terrible college bowl game for a few minutes. It was the Vagisil Freshen It Up Bowl, or the Colt .45 Malt Liquor Bowl- something awful. On the line it said that Overeem was the favorite for the fight that night, by a considerable amount, but not ridiculous. It was enough for me to second guess myself, however.

I was 100% sure Overeem would be raping Lesnar’s face before the night was over, but between the huge betting line in front of me, the professional gamblers next to me and that god damn goo I was drinking; I panicked.

I approached the bookie behind the desk and said,


He had to have been at least 70 years old, and was in a terrible mood. He stared at me like I was speaking Dutch.


“Alistair Overeem.”

He just stood there staring at me.

“Oh shit, number 2000.”(or something) I said.

“Yeah, here.” He said as he handed me my ticket.

Well, that was embarrassing.

It was time for a goo refill so I left the area. I met up with my brother who had a handful of sports bets and beers. He had 3-5 beers and countless slips of casino paper in his hands when I approached him. He had bet on literally every fight, and then some. He had like 20$ on the Jays winning the AL East, 50$ on the Miami Heat winning the NBA Title, and some other crazy stuff. Fuck I knew I should have thrown my loot down on that Texans Super Bowl I’ve heard so much about. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, your Superbowl MVP
 Regardless, I was jealous, so, after some hotel room beers and more alcoholic orange goo, I put down an additional 20$ on Junior Assuncao to beat Ross Pearson, Jon Fitch to beat Johny Hendricks, and Donald Cerrone to beat Nate Diaz (Yeah...those bets happened). I also made a couple side bets like Rory McIlroy winning the 2012 Masters (HAVE YOU SEEN HIS SHORT GAME! HE LOOKS LIKE A YOUNG BEGGAR VANCE! - I know nothing about golf), Ohio State winning the NCAA Championship (in basketball, of course you fucking ass hat), and some other shit that I would never publish (spoiler alert: if the Miami Dolphins make the playoffs next season, prostitutes are on me... even the expensive ones that you need to take out for dinner). 

We met up with my old man and headed down the strip towards the MGM Grand. After probably a 20 minute walk through the casino in a crowd of people who I could overhear saying typical UFC fan shit like:

“Yo, Lesnar’s too strong guy!”

“Diaz is sooo legit bro.”

“Overeem has drilled more ass than Wilt Chamberlain!”

“I once killed a baby seal... just to watch it die...”

The last two might have been made up.

We finally got into the Garden Arena, and grabbed some 10$ beers. We walked into the second round of the Pearson/Assuncao fight. The first thing I noticed was how I could feel a fighter slam or fall under my feet and hear leg kicks. Within two minutes of watching from our seats Pearson took Asscauno’s back, prompting someone a few rows back to scream “JERRY SANDUSKY!”

I laughed until the fight was over. It was less funny when I saw the decision for Pearson, fucking my bet. Damn you, Jerry.

I was trying to tell the old man the general whos-who of UFC when the lights went out and the pay per view introduction started on the big screens. Now, I’ve watched UFC a thousand times, and I have seen this intro every time, and I usually find it very meh- even a little cheesy. BUT, words cannot explain the level of pumped I felt when this intro began live. I could have taken a swing at a fucking inmate in San Quentin prison. The clips combined with the booming bass made me want to turn and punch the stranger beside me in the suck-hole just for the hell of it. I’m not a bad person, I just get jacked up is all.

 First fight: Nam Phan vs. Jimy Hettes

I wasn’t sure who Jimy with one ‘M’ was, before this fight, but fuck me, he looked tough. Phan looked like a masochist as he absorbed more punishment than a glory hole in Holland. He laid on the bottom for the majority of the fight getting fed his fucking lunch. My dad was gasping and groaning every time Jimy (At this point I believed the missing ‘M’ was for mercy) bounced Phan’s head off of the canvas... there was a lot of gasping. After about 500 knuckle and elbow sandwiches later, the fight ended and a blind man could have told you from the new brail on Phan’s face that he got worked. My section was pretty quiet, no one seemed to be openly rooting for a live death in the octagon like I was yet... What a shame.

My brother turned to me and said,

“That fucker wouldn’t die!”

He sure wouldn’t. What a shame.

Second fight: Matyushenko vs. Gustafsson

Matyushenko is known as The Janitor and that made me happy. However, this Swedish kid fed him a leather sandwich pretty quick. The Janitor looked a foot shorter than Gustafsson and didn’t want anything to do with his long arms. This was trouble since all the Janitor knows how to do it throw bombs; he ate one and crumbled backward. Everyone laughed around me. I guess there is something funny about a 40 year old  journeyman getting one-punched by a clearly better young fighter... Seemed kind of sad to me, but what can you do? Although, the quick knock out gave me time to take a leak; thank you Mr. Janitor you will be missed.

Third Fight: Jon Fitch vs. Johny Hendricks

Two bearded men; I knew it would be good. Fitch looked real pissed off coming in, he was a man who had been dicked around a few too many times. I knew Jon Fitch was a tough fighter and has been around for a long time so I was pretty confident he would beat this guy I didn’t know. I turned to my dad and said, “this Fitch guy is good but slow, this one will go the distance.”


So, 12 seconds later I almost did a spit-take when Hendricks’ punch echoed throughout the stands. Holy fuck he killed him. Fitch went stiff as a board and that was it. Huge knockout. Hendricks nailed the angriest looking man with the angriest punch of the night. Everyone was going banana sandwich around me, at this point I realized I wouldn’t gamble on MMA anymore. 

I felt bad for Fitch because he’s probably deserved another title shot for years and he will most likely never get it now. Fitch left the octagon under his own power and seemed fine. A flash knockout is such a bitch. He quickly walked out of sight into the tunnel while Hendricks rambled on to Joe Rogan about how he warned us all about his left-hand. I guess I didn’t hear to his warnings because I had no idea who the fuck he was before this; and from the 12 second fight- neither did Fitch.

Since it was clear that I would lose every wager I made that night, more beer would be needed. I could hear someone drunker than me yelling in a slurred tone that Nate Diaz was a “motherfucking punk ass bitch ass.” I wanted to be that drunk, so I drank.

There was a 15 minute intermission before the final two fights. Everyone congregated in by the gate drinking. A heinous girl walked by and my brother felt the need to loudly mention how disgusting she was. It was one of those things where you know that the drunk person said something way too loud, and the other person heard, but they just don’t feel like starting shit with a drunk asshole. She kept walking and I hoped that she was just a deaf person. I turned to tell the idiot that he was talking too loud, but he was already gone; standing in the booze line.

I was actually pretty juiced at this point too so any kindness that I had was now replaced with testosterone and the liquor (I forgot to mention I had been drinking 4Loko most of the day as well). I was like a Loko and a half away from yelling “COME AT ME BRO” at an old man. I started booing anyone who stood in my way for longer than a few seconds, it actually worked and they moved out of the way without much trouble. I would recommend this strategy as long as you accept the risk of someone being drunker and angrier than you, and the idea of being booed could drive them to bash your noggin into tiny bits. Thankfully, there were no juice-monkeys in my section.

We made our way back to the seats. My brother came back from the can just before the fight started and told me that a while pissing something happened. He had felt eyes on him. When he looked to his left the man at the urinal next to him was staring at him. Before he could ask him why the man said, “You pissin’?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Mmm, you been pissin’ a while.”


They stared at each other for another couple seconds in silence.

My brother said he pinched it off and left the bathroom. I feel like that was a direct run-in with a sexual predator. I’ve seen enough episodes Oz on HBO to know a rapey situation when I hear one. For this reason I have been calling my brother Fresh-Fish for a week. Close call? Maybe. Hilarious? Definitely. I asked him what he looked like and he said he had the same vibe you get from a water slide attendant. Spooky.
You pissin?

Fourth Fight: Nate Diaz vs. Donald Cerrone

The fight promo started on the big screens with Donald Cerrone saying that at another UFC function he tried to shake Diaz’s hand and he slapped it away and called him a bitch. The screen the cut to Diaz who said in a semi-retarded voice, “Um, I shudint have dun dat...”

I laughed so hard that when I looked up a man across the aisle was staring at me with narrowed eyes, with a look like: “Why the fuck are you laughing so hard?”

I guess it wasn’t that funny to everyone else. Fuck them though, Diaz looked like a trained ape being interviewed and it was hilarious to me.

Cerrone came out to Kid Rock’s Cowboy. Words cannot describe how happy this made me. The only terrible 90s song I would have found better would have been Nookie by Limp Bizcut. Diaz came out second and I booed the shit out of him, much like everyone else around me. When I stopped for a second I heard my old man yelling “YOU’RE A FUCKING PUNK DIAZ!” My god.

Cerrone flipped off Diaz at the stare down instead of touching gloves, which inspired Herb Dean to say, “Touch Gloves... or not.” Oh Herb, you are the living end.

When the crowd noise died down, someone behind me tried to start a Herb Dean chant. Someone either told him to shut the fuck up or he realized that he was an idiot before it carried on too long.

Cerrone came flying out but Diaz’s arms looked like fucking stretch-armstrong and he slammed jab after jab into the Cowboy’s face. The only damage Cerrone seemed to be doing was with kicks and knees to the body, but these only made Diaz taunt him more while he winged straight and looping punches from every angle into Cerrone’s face-hole. Then it happened. A leg kick put Diaz on his ass. Everyone in the Grand Garden Arena exploded to their feet. Little did we know that a leg sweep counted for little on the score-sheets; especially when you have been eating 30 jabs a round. But we can dream can't we?


And he would.

Cerrone had developed a crowd pleasing routine. Get punched in the face a bunch of times, throw a head kick. Get punched a bunch of times, look wobbly, get punched some more, look like he’s going to fall... Sweep the leg. It happened for the entire fight.


Cerrone finally landed a head-kick that dropped Diaz, but Cerrone fell backwards himself. Instead of pouncing, he turned his back and walked away. I’ll admit it was pretty badass, but when you have been getting your face mashed the entire fight, you might want to capitalize on your opportunities.

Diaz flipped off Cerrone before the last round, and I knew it was over. Nothing had changed, Cerrone looked tired and beaten. Cerrone did, however, continue sweeping that god damn leg; much to the delight of everyone who liked seeing Nate Diaz look like an idiot. I heard my dad yell, “DIE!” when the two clinched once... What the hell was that dad? A minute later someone yelled something about abortions that I won't repeat.  

I gotta hand it to Diaz, he brought out the best in everyone.

From my seat I thought this fight was closer than it actually was. The booze, the excitement and 400+ leg-sweeps had clouded my judgement. Diaz fucked Cerrone up, and I had lost another bet.

Main Event: Alistair Overeem vs. Brock Lesnar

This was the one bet I was sure I would win. My hatred for Brock Lesnar would not allow me to lose money against him.

Overeem came out to the worst type of Euro-trash techno ever. It made me mad because he has a legit shot to win the belt soon and this music is NOT winning him any North American fans. Save it for the Motherland Allistair. If he would just start walking out to something from Watch the Throne and just  remain a gigantic monster man, he will become one of the most popular UFC fighters today. DO IT NOW.

Lesnar came out to some country bullshit and I knew he was done. The eyes. HE HAD SHIFTY EYES. He looked nervous, and I knew this meant he wasn’t ready to fight a powerful-experienced world class striker like Overeem. Vietnam flashbacks of Cain Velasquez were definitely going through his head.

I booed the shit out him.

Overeem stood in the center of the octagon the entire time Lesnar was walking out and then faced him when he entered. Disrespectful? Maybe. Hilarious? Definitely. Besides, fuck Lesnar, he didn’t deserve the respect from a man who had been fighting for over a decade all around the world in multiple weight classes and organizations.

Lesnar was gigantic wrestler who was given a free ride into the UFC because of his notoriety. He won the title because of his size, against a 225lb Randy Couture while Lesnar walked around weighing over 300 (265 after cutting for fights). Frank Mir was a grappler and a dream matchup for Lesnar who was able to mash him after his first attempt a year earlier. Shane Carwin was the only person close to Lesnar in size at the time of their fight, and if you don’t remember, he beat the hell out of Lesnar until he got gassed and was choked. Cain Velasquez and Overeem are both well-rounded fighters who are closer to Lesnar’s size and they exposed him. I’m sure his illness affected his training somewhat, but at some point you need to make the decision of whether or not you are ready to fight. If you get into the cage you need to be ready.

Overeem showed zero respect for Lesnar before, and during the fight. He hung out in Lesnar’s range waiting for him to shoot, snuffed it, and then started to attack. One knee dangerously close to Lesnar’s package and then a liver kick were the beginning of the end. Lesnar made a face that only a man with a surgically repaired stomach could make when Overeem’s body kick made him curl over and drop to a knee. The Dutchman jumped all over him, and Lesnar turtled- which IS NOT A DEFENSE. After, when people yelled that they wanted their money back and it was a bad stoppage I could only shake my head. Holding your head in your arms for 20 seconds while a man wails on you is not defending yourself; you are not making an effort to improve your position. I don’t know how many times we’ve seen this in the UFC and people still do not get it. HE WAS DONE.

Not a defense
Anyway, I was pumped. Overeem celebrated and I cheered, not because I like Overeem- but because fuck Brock Lesnar. He was an overrated one-trick pony. I will give credit where it is deserved though, despite the hoards of people like me who hated Lesnar, he was good for the sport. You either loved or hated the guy and you were going to pay to see him win or lose. He was a huge draw for the UFC and he was a key player in rejuvenating the heavyweight division that was once dominated by the likes of Tim Sylvia (the lanky piece of shit who was beaten by Fedor Emelianenko in 30 seconds in the first Affliction event).

After the fight, Overeem talked in his weird Dutch accent saying some convoluted speech about winning. Then a very excited Joe Rogan gave the mic to Lesnar. Myself and thousands of other people started to boo, of course. Then he finally got to the point, he was retiring. I stopped booing and looked around, someone looked at me like “Ya, you should feel bad asshole!” I actually DID feel for the guy a bit. He had never ducked anyone and his illness had definitely cut his reign a little short. He was a great wrestler and when he broke a very tough Heath Herring’s orbital bone with one punch, I was impressed.

But then again,

Fuck Brock Lesnar.

I walked to the nearest liquor store for more loko and moved on happily.


1 comment:

  1. He didn't want to rape me, he was genuinely curious about the length of the piss. He actually seemed relatively impressed.