Oh boy and goodie goodie. What exciting news – the UFC has signed WWE and pro football wash up Brock Lesnar to a contract. I’m not exactly against pro wrestlers coming into mixed martial arts, but I’m not exactly thrilled either. The last thing the UFC needs is to have people associating the WWE with their product – there’s enough retards doing that as it is.

My favorite angle on this story though is how people are saying “Signing Brock Lesnar is a big step in removing the sting from Randy Couture’s departure”.

What? Excuse me? Have I fallen into some weird alternate reality where Nazis aren’t considered evil and pro wrestlers are on par with MMA legends? Is the UFC sending out gamma rays from the TV during The Ultimate Fighter to turn MMA fans’ brains into hotdog mulch? Because it certainly fucking seems so lately.

Let’s get something straight: saying that Brock Lesnar is going to fill the hole left by Randy Couture is like saying Steven Seagal could fill in for Rich Franklin. Yeah, Lesnar will sell pay per views. Lesnar might even manage to become a contender down the road. But in ten years time he’s going to be little more than a penis-chested footnote in the history of MMA. All the while, Randy Couture will still be considered one of the founding fathers of MMA.

I’m gonna sit back and be entertained by Mr Penis Chest as he experiences what big league MMA is like. It’s going to be great. I’ll even cheer as he works his way up past the Brad Imes and the Heath Herrings of the heavyweight division. But it’s all building to that point where he runs into a real MMA fighter who’s going to stuff his wrestling, kick his legs out from underneath him, and pound the shit out of his big HGH-inflated head.

So in that way, yeah … signing Mr Penis Chest is a good thing. It’s good money, and it’s good entertainment, and therefore it’s good for the sport … barring of course any steroids or hormone treatment scandals that may pop up. That being said, anyone who trumpets Lesnar’s signing as the beginning of a new era needs to pull the WWE action figure out of their ass and smarten up.

(as mentioned, our journey home is being covered by Jake since I’m way too scarred from the experience to think about it again. Warning … there’s only about 2% MMA content here.)  

It’s Monday, and Ryan and I are exhausted. We’ve had a hell of an experience, and our experience in Cincinnati was fantastic. We met so many great people, texted several great people who we never managed to meet up with (Adam, we’re looking at YOU), downed several gallons of beer, and even got to see a quaint “mixed martial arts” show, where a plucky young hometown native got hit so hard in the face by knees, I’m pretty sure he saw God.

Now, on Sunday, we have one last goal: getting the fuck out of Dodge. With our bus tickets prepped, and our drugs ready for ingestion, we round up all unfinished business, rub one out to prevent blue ball bus syndrome, and look forward to saying goodbye USA, and thanks for the fish. The schedule couldn’t be easier: the bus leaves Sunday night at 6:30. All we have to do is show up, and we’re off.

Of course, little did we know that Cincinnati is not the kind of city you can leave so easily; actually, this place is like fucking Hotel California. All of a sudden, everything starts going to hell, and we can’t get out. Our bus is late. So late, in fact that any hope of catching our layovers is as likely as Ryan finally sporting a full beard (if you’ve seen his photos, you’ll understand why I call him “Patches”). We try to transfer to another route, and despite the chilling prospect of rotting in the bus terminal for another 3 hours, we take it.

Continue reading after the jump

4 hours later, the stupid fucking whore bus is nowhere in sight. The bus lady is nice enough; she changes our tickets one more fucking time, so we can catch a goddamn layover. The new schedule tacks on a depressing 4 hours more waiting time. By now, had the cursed 6:30 bus actually come on time, we’d be a third of the way home. Instead, we’re stuck holding our dicks at the bus terminal. We’re trying to remain calm, but emotions are running pretty high all around the terminal; so high in fact that the bus company calls in a police officer just to make sure that people don’t riot and burn the place down Malibu-stylez.

So with 4 hours to kill, we decide to hit the town, grab a beer and get fucked up; anything to kill the time. We’re fucking morons, so upon leaving the station, we decide to walk through the ghetto in search of a cab. That’s when some crazy crackhead finds us, and zeros in for the kill. He looks like he’s about to mug us, but fortunately the bus station is still in sight and a cop is standing by the doors within shouting range.

Crackhead Billy wants us to follow him down the darkest fucking road I’ve ever seen. We’d be lucky if we only got raped down there. We give him a dollar each, tell him good luck, and make a quick escape back to the bus station, ignoring his angry growls until the cop sees him and he books it in the other direction.

Back in the bus station, we ask the ticket lady to call us a cab, since the Cincinnati bus station is apparently too scary for them to hang out near. While we sit outside and try to laugh at what was probably one of the more scary moments of our lives, a guy with a thick southern accent comes off a bus and tries to bum cigarettes off us. He then sticks around and tells us all about those “fucking ethnics” on the bus with him and how they were “pissin’ him off”. He told us they “didn’t know who they were fucking with”, pulled out a tiny fake looking police badge and said “they’re lucky I didn’t kick them off the bus to die by the side of the road.”

A taxi finally shows up, and we say so long to Officer Mark Harmond (or maybe his even stupider cousin). Our cab takes us to Kentucky, which is just on the other side of the bridge, but a world apart. We suddenly feel a lot safer, and take the opportunity to see a shitty movie, eat a total of 12 White Castle Burgers, and drink a quick pint before finally getting on the bus at 1:50 in the morning. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and Ryan curls up like a fat baby and falls asleep. With Cincinnati fading quickly behind us, I can only think of two things: (1) That I’m all “fun’d” out and need a break, and (2) that I forgot my fucking Mickey’s hat at the movie theatre. Fuck me. I had to suck some major dick to get that merch.

(above: a fan accidentally spits on Stephan Bonnar while talking to him. This is Bonnar looking pissed and trying to wipe it off his gay track suit.)

Ladies and gentleman, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! IT’S TIME … to tell you what happened on Saturday! Yeah, the original plan was to do this sooner, but we just spent 30 hours trying to get back to Canada (Jake’s blogging that shit because i’m just gonna repress those memories), and I couldn’t pull out the laptop for fear it’d be stolen by bus station transients. Not like there was any wireless anywhere along our stone age route. Anyways…

Last time I posted we were just up and showered after a hellacious drinking party, and in hindsight I kinda regret going so hard on Friday because I ended up blowing my wad at the bar instead of the show. This is all metaphorically of course … there was no way I would pass up the chance to masturbate while staring at Jens Pulver.

And yeah, our tickets were about 8 rows back from the Octagon and VIP area. Big thanks to some faceless benefactors who hooked us up with that shit. I felt like a rockstar hitting the floor!

Read more after the jump

Upon getting to the show we wandered around the floor section in hopes that we’d run into Kevin Iole. Our gameplan was to pretend to be huge fans of his and try to trick him on tape into admitting he thought boxing was way better than MMA. Unfortunately he was tucked right into the middle of the press section and we couldn’t get to him. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

When the show started, we began to realize there was one problem with floor tickets. Every time anyone in the eight rows ahead of us stood up, they completely blocked our view of the fights. Half the non-fighting UFC roster was sitting in our area, so there was a constant stream of momos in the aisle blocking everything trying to get pictures and autographs.

Jake and I spent a good portion of the show screaming at people to “SIT THE FUCK DOWN”. We were surrounded by 300 pound juice monkeys who backed us up, and at one point a fight almost broke out on account of us calling one guy a “piece of shit polo-wearing motherfucker”. We got the seats for free and were pissed off at these people … I can’t imagine having to pay 400$ to have your view blocked by at least a dozen jackasses with better seats all night long.

Now I don’t want to play down the experience as bad … but obviously you don’t come here for me to be all sunshine and puppydogs. That aspect of the show sucked, but overall it was an awesome night. Booing Tim Sylvia was like a religious experience … a two minute’s hate straight out of George Orwell’s 1984.

Seeing Rich Franklin’s defeat was amazing as well. I haven’t seen a beating in life that brutal since my dad put my mom in the hospital. Needless to say, this beating was much less traumatizing and much more enjoyable. Kudos to Rich Franklin though for going back into round two after being knocked senseless. It was like getting to see him lose two times for the price of one.

In the end, we didn’t really bother to go fanboy it with any of the fighters. There were huge lines and it was too loud to have any kind of real conversations or anything, and we’re not all that big on the idea of getting pictures with fighters holding their fists out. We came for the fights, we saw the fights, we enjoyed ourselves, and that was that.

After experiencing our first live UFC event, I’ll say it’s definately something you should try once, but that overall I enjoy the home experience more. There’s easier access to booze, shorter lines to the bathrooms, and less chances of getting your ass kicked. However, that being said, the entire weekend in Cincinnati was a blast and it was worth the 50+ hours of bus hell we went through.

That’s on account of the awesome people we spent our time with … Igg, you are the host with the most. Kris, someday when you’re old enough to legally drink, we’ll have to get together to do some of that. It was also great to meet Dann and the Mickeys guys … I don’t remember much of what I said, so here’s hoping I wasn’t calling everyone cocksuckers all weekend.

Here’s the big fucking problem with setting up your title shots so far in advance. Shit happens, delays occur, and next thing you know you’ve got a marquee fighter like BJ Penn sitting on the shelf for several cocksucking months. What the fuck is up with that shit?

The amount of talent wasting away on the sidelines waiting for title shots, revenge matches, contractual haggling etc is getting absolutely ridiculous. Doubly so when you consider how many underwhelming fight cards are coming out lately. Every division except the welterweight division is in a clusterfuck state where there’s no clear ladder of contenders, and all of the guys who should be fighting to sort out the pecking order are fighting maybe once every four to five months.

For fucks sake, stop putting your top guns on the shelf waiting for the moon and the stars to align perfectly to create the exact situation you need. The UFC needs to sit down and spread it’s talent properly across the cards and make sure their big names are fighting more. Sure, it’s more expensive card-wise. But they’re gonna make the money back in PPV buys anyways.

If aliens from the future were to come down to earth 6 months ago and tell me that UFC 78 would be headlined by Michael Bisping vs Rashad Evans, I would have considered them devious untrustworthy liars and sent them off to Area 51 for dissection. Considering that fact, I don’t even know how the fuck I’m supposed to react to this quote:

“Dana White, the UFC President, says that the winner [of the fight between Michael Bisping and Rashad Evans] will gain an automatic world light-heavyweight title shot.”

Dear Jesus cocksucking Christ. This must be some sort of joke or misunderstanding or mistake or SOMETHING. Forrest Griffin and Keith Jardine aren’t even being considered real contenders, and they’ve had a lot more success in the UFC than Bisping and Evans.

The idea that Bisping vs Evans should be for a title shot is madness borne out of the backwards thinking that a headlining PPV bout is either a title defense or #1 contender fight. Sooooooo because this joke of a fight is a headlining fight, then simple logic dictates that it MUST be for #1 contender. Heaven forbid anyone at the UFC just admits it’s a booking made out of sheer desperation.

Anyways, I have to pray this is some kind of mistake. I’m also open to the idea that Dana White let this idea slip during some kind of crazy opium bender. Either way, so long as this bout isn’t really for #1 contender, I’m a happy boy.

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