I personally believe, that U.S. Americans,
are unable to do so,
because uh,
some, people out there, in our nation don?t have maps.
and uh?
I believe that our education like such as in South Africa,
and the Iraq,
everywhere like such as?
and, I believe they should uh,
our education over here,
in the U.S. should help the U.S.
or should help South Africa,
and should help the Iraq and Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future,
for us.
That being said, I think you could argue whether it was the fighter or the matchup that was bad until you were blue in the face. The you I refer to does not post on madjacks but believe me, he/she knows that I'm talking about him/her
I thought the Guida v Diaz fight last night had more action than Lesnar v Herring. Personal preference obviously, but my head and heart prefers standing butt humping over kneeling ass riding.
Both were bad fights to watch as neither Guida nor Lesnar improved on their position in an attempt to end the fight. Both won, but neither did it with pizazz. Less Lesnar's opening right hand.
Bad matchups maybe, boring fighters possibly, bad fights definately. The bad fight definition has to mean boring for the fan watching at home. Machida has had his fair share of these but at 14-0 (never losing a round in the history of his UFC cage career) he has risen to the upper rungs of his division.
And that's why I have migrated to mma - As a kid, Mike Tyson was the baddest man on the planet. That was undisputed. Ferocious, lightning fast with hands as heavy as elephants. There was no one, and I mean no one, that created more fear inside the ring. I think we can also agree that Tyson's cerebral cortex was not the fear making monster that his hands were. You take away oxygen fom the pea sized portion of his brain that controlled his arms, and he becomes as scary as a 6 week old kitten named snuggle socks. Put Tyson in an MMA fight in his prime and you have the classic MMA battle of choke his ass out before I get knocked the fuck out battle. That's why I'm a fan, you don't have to be the biggest or the baddest to win.
Lyoto Machida doesn't scare me. He shaves once every two weeks.
Brock Lesnar scares the caca out of me just thinking about the amount of ink it took to tat the cut throat dagger on his chest.
And only one is undefeated.
I think you could throw Rashad Evans into this category. Hell, he won the heavy weight ultimate fighter contest, dropped to the light heavies and weighed in at 203 against Griffin.
He wears sunglasses indoors,
peculiar - yes,
cool - to some,
imposing - no.
He just doesn't lose and that's why I'm a fan of the sport.
Last tidbit, a little story that happened about a month ago.
I'm a big boy, 5' 11'' and 3/4's with a walking around weight of 235lb. Take away the ponch and let me hit a sauna and sweat out the beer and I think I could get all the way down to the 205 weight limit of 206 lbs (if you want to know about my humor, I find it funny as shit that the weight limit of 205 is 206. It's like having a conference called the Big 10 that has 11 schools in it)
I haven't cut weight so I'm sitting on my couch at my fight night weight in the mid 230's. Seated directly to my left is my beautiful wife. 5'4'' 110lbs fully clothed sitting with her legs tucked underneath her in a springy spry style that reminded me of a baby bunny waiting to pounce on magical bubbles floating in a meadow. I assess the situation and my fight or flight insticts kick in as i attack with the element of surprise on my side. That damn leg tuck that she was sitting in was her saving grace as she wound up with a butterfly guard. Now she's mounted me before and yes that means exactly what you think it does.
So I go to pass but the softness of the couch cushion hinders me. I forgot to tell you that I've already received the "What the fuck are your doing" look which brought doubt and a little fear to my soul but I felt like I had the advantage so I pushed on. For those of you at home that are thinking, you know, I might try this sometime, please heed these words, "Do not get caught in butterfly guard if you do not have your jock on." As she arches her back she puts one of Newtons laws to the test and the torque extends through her toes in my genitalia, into my soul.
I buck, you would too, and she's able to pull full guard. At 5'4'' she has freakishly long legs and although unable to get a body lock on she does put the buns of steel squeeze on. I laugh, verbally laugh, and I realize that is the same response a fighter has when he gets caught on the chin and shakes his head to tell everyone else that didn't hurt but he knows differently.
So the game has come to an end and even though I'm pretty sure I could lay and pray and take the decision, I decide to give her a chance to take the offensive. It took some coaxing but she finally believes that I'm not out to get her so she rolls her hips and slides her right leg around my left arm and up to my left shoulder. I wiggle backwords a little so that she can bend her knee and bring it over behind my head. That was all that had to be done because she took over from there. She brings her left leg up and locks in the triangle.
Harry Houdini is not getting out of this and that's when I realized my biggest mistake, I don't know if my wife knows the universal sign for please stop choking the shit out of me, aka tapping. But I'm not ready to tap. For those that don't know I will do my best to describe what happens. The inner thigh right above the knee clamps on to whatever artery that supplies blood to the part of the brain that controls speach, body control and chubbies. Every time the fulcrum leg is pulled down it feels like a garrote being wound. Instinctively you make a face and pull away from the pressure. I know that's not the correct maneuver but you try arguing with your instincts. After about 10 seconds of straining a black shadow creeps in at the edges of your eye sight. It is the ultimate tunnel vision. Pride be a bitch, I tap. Pride be a bitch, I tap again. Just two little love taps. Two things I realized here, One - no matter how hard you try you can't tap in a cool manner. Those little love taps still scream uncle. Two - It takes an eternity for someone to let go. I don't know if she was waiting to make sure that the imaginery referee saw the taps or if she was putting her signature on her 1st stoppage but it seemed to take forever for her to release.
The return of blood and oxygen to the brain is quite a rush. I could go further into the spiritual aspects of near suffocation but the chat I had with my god is protected by client - diety privileges.
My sweety slides back in to full guard and I posture up. My eyes, regaining full peripheral vision decide to tell her, "I let you do that"
She responded with an eyebrow raise and then her eyes told me something that I will now have to live with for the rest of my life, "You tapped pussy"