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The article on the UFC front page says it all : “The Maine-iac is Back – Sylvia decisions Vera on UFC 77 Main Card“. Yep, Tim Sylvia is back, and he’s still as boring as ever. I’ve gotten used to that reality at this point. I haven’t seen Sylvia come out with any real aggro intentions since he knocked out Andrei Arlovski a year and a half ago.

But this time there were all sorts of signs that Tim would be different. He replaced his boxing coach whose ‘Keep the distance and jab away” style has resulted in worse approval ratings than George W Bush. Alas, change was not in the cards this night, as Tim tied up Vera and pushed him against the fence for over half the fight. At one point a fight broke out in the stands that had more people on their feet than the event in the Octagon.

What drove me nuts about this fight was the fact that Tim was owning Vera in the exchanges. Why he kept deciding to clinch and push Brandon Vera around I have no fucking clue. He said something about his gameplan being to close the distance to prevent Vera from using his kicks, but this wasn’t all that necessary.

Sylvia should have been able to realize he was winning the striking and adjust his game plan. You could see his corner playing charades between rounds showing Tim how to push Vera off and throw more punches.

Anyways … it wasn’t the fact that Tim was uninspired again. I’m used to that at this point. It was the flashes of real talent wasted that got me all riled up.

We come to you live from Cincinnati Ohio for a special post-UFC77 episode of the Low Blow. This baby’s all about UFC 77 … the fights in the octagon, the fights in the stands, the urine all over the bathrooms, the screaming bitches in the stands. In short: the madness of a UFC event!

Download the show here, or stream it using the handy dandy talkshoe app to your right. iTunes feed should be fixed too so if you’re into that kind of thing, yeah. It’ll work

Low Blow co-host and general assface Jacob has written up an ode to Mickey’s for getting us fucking hammered last night. Here’s the review…

In Canada City, there are a few things you can never seem to get your hands on. It can be notoriously difficult to buy a nice, cheap gun, especially when you’re mad. It’s also impossible to get your hands on any Mickey’s, the ‘official beer’ of the UFC. Though we tried valiantly to find a premium malt liquor up North, the closest thing we have to it here is “Johnny Bootlegger” a brew so foul in makes urine seem like champagne. And so, our trek from the land of perpetual winter was due, at least in part, to our intense desire to taste the sweet nectar of the gods known as Mickey’s.

Now although we are Canadians, we here at fightlinker would like to clarify that we have no fucking clue what goes into beer, how it’s manufactured, and what the difference is between a lager and a pilsner. We in fact do not care, so long as by the end of the night, Ryan is attempting to balance things on his head, and I am making people cry with my acerbic wit.

So imagine our delight when we were finally taken to a bar where we could try our very first Malt liquor beverage. We were quickly serviced with two King-cans by a shaggable, though arguably highly annoying and pushy waitress, who I unsuccessfully tried to put the moves on. Apparently, outside my little country, a girl is offended when you offer to stick your thumb up their ass, but I digress.

The cans were decorated with the stately image of Chuck Liddell, and the sweet sound of victory was to be ours as we cracked the can open and finally put the drink to our parched lips. So how did our expectations measure up? We liked it. We really enjoyed our first experience drinking malt liquor, and felt little to no shame doing it. So encouraged were we that 8-9 more tallboys were to make their way into our bloodstream, stopping just short of killing the both of us. It made me smooth enough to get a girl to touch my funny places, and drunk enough to make Ryan almost take a piss in the bar’s kitchen.. good times!

Of course, no taste test is complete without the morning after review. So, how messed up were we from our premium, malt liquor escapade? Miraculously, not at all. No hangover, no puking. Sure, my pee smelled funny, and I think there was a bit of blood in my stool, but that happens every so often anyways. All in all, a satisfying experience, one that we hope will allow us to continue endlessly selling out to a major corporation while our integrity and souls slowly fade to nothingness.

Here’s a couple quick shots of the action after the jump

I don’t remember pointing and laughing at Kenny Florian, but I guess I did.

Nonetheless, he was kind enough to sign my elbow.

Ryan get drunk on Mickey’s. Ryan drunk

This is our sell out shot. Wearing a Mickey’s hat and an Army shirt. Give us free shit and we will shill.

Jake and Kris from UFCDaily proving that glasses add 30 IQ points.

So we roll into Cincinnati around 2pm and hop a cab to our hotel out by the airport. Our driver is this old black guy named Palmer, and he’s entertaining as hell. He tells us all about the city and what to watch out for, stories about crazy crackheads and his time in Viet Nam. He gives us his cell number and he’s now officially the Fightlinker taxi for the rest of the weekend.

After a quick shower and change of clothes (we were both stewing in our own grossness by the end), we rand right back out the door to the weigh ins. We called Iggy from MMAJunkie and Kris from UFCDaily. Iggy was still running around doing whatever the fuck Iggy does, but Kris was already at the weigh ins and had stolen some pretty good seats down near the stage. The way it’s supposed to work is you get tickets with seat numbers printed on them, but we all decided to fuck that shit and sit up with Kris and his girlfriend.

The weigh ins were pretty quick and unremarkable. The only guy who didn’t make weight the first time was Josh Burkman, who stripped naked (I was the retard screaming “Stop staring at his cock, Dana”) and still couldn’t get the last .5 off before hitting the sauna again.

Tim Sylvia looked especially agile hopping around the stage trying to get his socks and pants off. Stephan Bonnar pretended to pee in a cup and gave it to Dana White … I guess that’s what fighters who have been nailed for steroids have to do nowadays.

That was about it for interesting weigh in shit. We saw a number of people floating around … Frank Trigg, Wanderlei Silva, and the Tapout dudes. Ten minutes after the weigh ins were over, we met up with Iggy and we all headed down to a pub to get fucking drunk with the Mickey’s crew.

Let me tell you what, boy did we get smashed. They were serving up these big ass cans of Mickey’s and after two hours I was onto can number 5. With nothing in my belly but a pulled pork sandwich (pulled pork is the most awesome invention EVER), I was fucking hammered and am impressed that I didn’t start a fight or cause any major problems.

Over the course of the afternoon several fighters dropped into the bar … Kenny Florian, Stephan Bonnar, and Keith Jardine. Kenny was the nicest of the bunch, and he hung out the longest signing everything we gave him, he even signed my elbow! We asked him about the ‘finishing move’ name and suggested the Cut’n’Fuck. I guess we’ll see if he picks it up.

Keith Jardine was pretty hedgy … he was there with his dad and some hot chick who I assume is his girlfriend or something. I snuck around taking video of them all but when I got back to my seat I realized I was a drunken moron and forgot to start recording. So you don’t get to see what Jardine’s dad looks like. Let’s just say he’s a cross between Gary Busey and his son. Huge guy.

Anyways, Keith hid in the corner of the patio for an hour and then left. I was waiting for the line to disappear so I wouldn’t have to wait around, but when I ran up they were like “Sorry, no more people”. Fucking damn it. So while they weren’t looking, I stole Keith’s chicken strips.

Past that, shenanigans with the MMAJunkie and Mickeys guys. Kris and his GF were too young to drink (kids!) so they basically got to watch us make fools of ourselves until like 10 pm when some crappy band drove us out of the pub. After that we all wandered around town looking for food. We ate some shitty cardboard pizza, and then a few White Castle sliders (I can now cross “Eat at White Castle” off the list of things to do before I die).

The Mickeys guys all called it a night but the Fightlinker and MMAJunkie guys are more hardcore than that … we stocked up on booze and smokes and hung out at George’s place until 3am. That pretty much wrapped up the evening … Jake and I woke up at the hotel without really remembering how we got back there. And now it’s fight night and it’s time to really fuck around.

On a side note I’d just like to say that considering the amount of Mickey’s we both drank last night, we’re amazed that we’re not half dead today. But so far, we feel great. Of course, I may still be drunk. I’m not quite sure yet.

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