Sophie Cunningham: Like a Basketball Match with Trans Athletes Playing in It, She's Fair Game

Ashlee Evans-Smith: She Beat Fallon Fox and She's Somehow Still Bitching About Unfairness

 

Matt Mitrione: His Hate-Boner for Fallon Fox Turned Out to Be a Real One

 

Jeff Foxworthy: "You might be transgender if..."

 

I got this idea from a community post on Conure's YouTube channel. If you like left-wing streamers and you don't want to thumb your nose at them just because video essays exist, you might want to check Conure out. They use any and all pronouns. They're making it so easy for you, it's impossible to mess up, yet conservatives will still find a reason to be pissed off like a bunch of babies.

Fallon Fox vs. Matt Walsh

 

The Ballad of Gravedigger Jane

Gravedigger Jane stewed in the middle row next to the aisle of the college auditorium, a place that was nearly packed with hee-hawers and pot smokers. She wished she could have some pot to soothe her boiling anger, but if she tested positive for it, it could mean the end of her college boxing career. Instead she pulled a metal flask out of her hooded vest and took a swig of booze. She shook her head at the hypocrisy of allowing alcohol but banning marijuana. What the fuck was that all about? No matter what her drug of choice was, hopefully it would get her through this god-awful performance.

As Jane relaxed in her seat with her sneakered feet on the empty chair in front of her, the madness was about to begin. Royal trumpets blasted over the sound system and almost gave her a migraine. While holding her ears with her taped hands, she turned around to see why such ludicrous music was playing at an obnoxious volume. There he was in all of his nose-in-the-air arrogance: Chris Duncan riding a horse while wearing a musketeer outfit: a blue tunic with a crucifix on it, black leather pants, knee-high brown boots, and a fedora with a feather in it. His bloated neckless bodyguards were also dressed in musketeer garb.

Chris swung his thin blade and pointed it at Jane before giving her a saucy smile and a wink. Jane responded with a shake of her head and a bruised middle finger, to which Mr. Duncan gave a royal belly laugh. The audience around her didn’t know whether to cheer or boo, so they just sat in wide-eyed silence. Then again, that could have been the pot talking. Jane took another swig of booze as Chris dismounted his horse and slapped it on the ass to send it trotting out of the theater. The speaker took the center of the stage with his bouncers standing at the edge, arms folded and attitudes in check.

The speaker adjusted the mini-microphone on his tunic and said, “Testing, testing, one, two, three.” Sure enough, everybody could hear him loud and clear as evidenced by the mixture of cheers and boos. The initial shock of Chris Duncan coming down in a musketeer outfit war off in a big fucking hurry once they figured out what he really came to talk about. Knowing that time was near, Gravedigger Jane took yet another swig and let out a monstrous burp.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” opened Mr. Duncan. “You’re probably wondering why I’m out here dressed as a musketeer. Two reasons: one, the musketeer has always been a symbol of loyalty to king and country. I’m loyal to my country and I would like to make it great again, if you know what I mean!” The mixed reaction blasted through the arena once again, but Gravedigger Jane sat still and clicked her knuckles.

Pacing around the stage and swinging his saber, Chris said, “The other reason I’m wearing this outfit is because it doesn’t look anywhere near as ridiculous as the dresses men put on to pass as women. You’ve got big ass men with neck beards going down to their knees walking into women’s bathrooms and locker rooms and this university doesn’t do a damn thing about it! It’s time we scrubbed this politically correct filth from college campuses everywhere! Political correctness is a threat to our free speech rights in the same way these so called transgender students are a threat to our purity! And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of the rest of the fag population!”

While the auditorium unleashed a firestorm of half-cheers and half-boos, Gravedigger Jane’s muscles were bulging in red hot anger. Her teeth were clamped tightly enough to make her granite jaw ache. She popped both of her wrists while staring bullets into Chris Duncan. The sick prick pointed his musketeer sword at her and she knew it was time to get her violence on, but not just yet.

“You see that man slash woman over there? Boxing fans might know that person as Gravedigger Jane. But I know him as Kevin Ferguson!” snapped Chris. The combination of hearing her old name along with the catcalling of the crowd caused the blood vessels in Jane’s eyes to pop like hot air balloons.

Chris had only begun his verbal assault. “Thanks to your school’s lenient policy on gay crap, Kevin over here can waltz into a woman’s locker room without so much as a bat of the eye! He can swing his dick around like a baseball bat and let his nuts hang down to his feet in front of all those poor women! Not only that, but he can punch out women legally and split their skulls down the middle! You call this equality?! I call it bullshit! You’re a fucking man, Kevin! You will always be a man!”

The guffaws of laughter, the screaming, the vulgarity of Chris Duncan’s speech, they all led to the tightly-muscled, predatory-faced, and stone-fisted Gravedigger Jane to pop out of her seat and storm down the aisle towards the stage. The fat bouncers formed a blockade between Chris and Jane while the former dropped his saber and backed off, screaming, “Whoa!” multiple times in rapid fire succession. Jane breathed heavily and punched her fists together while the students chanted, “Fight!” repeatedly.

“Easy there, Kimbo Slice!” shouted Chris. “You’re not going to do a damn thing to me! This is America and I’ve got free speech until the day I die! Nobody’s making you be here! Go run off to your safe space, little boy!” To add spice to his already flaming rhetoric, Chris stood on the edge of the stage and pointed his chin out to the crowd. “You want to hit me so badly, go right ahead! I’ll sue the shit out of you and have you blackballed from the sport! Come on, tough nuts! Throw a big one! Knock my ass out!”

“I’d love to knock your ass out, you little turd biscuit!” shouted Gravedigger Jane. Despite the raucous noise of the crowd, she was as audible as every news pundit who liked to turn it up to eleven. She even threw her hood back and revealed her corn-rowed hair and rolled back demonic eyes. Chris’s own eyes were wide with horror as he slowly backed away while Jane gave her oratory.

Jane continued with, “I paid for my tuition by beating people up! I’ll punch you so fucking hard you’ll be shitting teeth for two weeks straight!” Using her taped hand for visual references, she gritted her own teeth and throatily bellowed, “Your nose will be stapled to the back of your head! Your eyes will explode like little hand grenades! Your brain will splatter like a bucket of paint! I’m not even sure you’ll have a fucking head by the time I’m done with you!”

Chris slipped on his ass and convulsed in terror as the students chanted, “Fight!” some more. Gravedigger Jane looked like one of her punches could tear this whole building down. She looked like a simple left jab could turn these bouncers into protoplasmic jelly. She was ready to start swinging and show why she was a multiple time boxing champion.

But then a tear rolled down her cheek and her bear trap jaw trembled and ached with sorrow. Once that one tear rolled down, several more followed. The levies in her eyes broke in the same way her heart did. With a shaky voice, she said, “You’re right about one thing, though: if I punch you or your bouncers out…I could lose my career. I could lose my scholarship. I could lose everything. You’re not worth it. You’re loud and stupid as hell, but you’re not worth it. I…I…um…”

The avalanche of tears interrupted her passionate speech to where all she could do was storm out of the theater with half of the students chanting, “Get a job!” in succession. She slammed the door behind her and plopped backwards against the brick wall. The tears wouldn’t stop coming. They raged on and on while all Gravedigger Jane could do was punch the bricks behind her and scream with no audience…except for the horse.

“What are you looking at? Huh?” asked Jane with trembling lips, the same trembling lips that took yet another swig of booze. And another. And another. The horse gazed at her with innocent puppy dog eyes and Jane said, “Aw, fuck it, you can have some too.” She gently poured some booze into the horse’s mouth and watched it drink the last of the liquid courage. “That’s some strong shit, isn’t it. It’s not doing a damn thing for me right now, but oh well.”

As Jane tucked the flask in her vest, the horse started shaking its head and neighing in a thunderous voice. The transgender boxer watched the erratic behavior turn into violent galloping and said, “What the hell?” More neighing and more galloping ensued before the lightweight drunken horse stormed inside the theater to the sounds of horrified screams.

Jane placed her ear against the door and heard even more heavenly sounds: furniture being destroyed, bones shattering, even Chris Duncan and his bouncers couldn’t help but cry like bitches in pain and terror. She even heard Chris yell, “Why, sweet god, why?!” The next “Why?” he let out was more like a child’s whine and less like a brave and mighty musketeer. This put a smile on Jane’s face as she wiped away the tears.

She was nearly bowled over as students flooded all exists in an attempt to escape the drunken horse’s mad kicking. Soon enough the horse itself chased after a winded bouncer and toppled him before stomping the shit out of the poor bastard. Jane’s smile was even bigger than before and her rainy tears were all but gone.

As soon as the doorway was cleared, she peeked inside and saw broken bodies of students and bouncers lying about in total agony while theater chairs were splintered into nothing. Chris Duncan huddled in the fetal position while holding his groin and coughing up blood. He cried like a baby as he met Jane’s warrior gaze.

“For the record,” Jane shouted. “I didn’t lay a finger on you! Your stupid horse did! I guess the horse won’t have a boxing career after all! Maybe that big ass thing shouldn’t be trotting into women’s locker rooms with his saber sticking out! Adios, amigo!” Gravedigger Jane blew Chris Duncan a kiss before shutting the door behind her and leaving her haters covered in blood and darkness. Freedom of speech wasn’t free. In fact, the price was higher than Chris’s new soprano voice.

I Dream of Weird Shit

***I DREAM OF WEIRD SHIT***

I say all the time that dreams are a rich source of creative fuel. They’re like Vitamin B12 for the schizophrenic mind (trust me, this is real science; look it up). Last night’s visit to the subconscious theater was one that qualified as cinematic wizardry. Or a psychotic cluster fuck, one of those two. Either way, I’m going to harvest as much creative fuel as I can from this once in a lifetime acid trip. Here’s how the dream went:

I started the dream by opening a newspaper and reading about male-to-female transgender MMA fighter Fallon Fox confronting Ronda Rousey at one of her press conferences…wielding a crossbow. That’s right, folks. A crossbow. Not a shotgun. Not an AK-47. A crossbow. Nobody around me was asking why Fallon Fox was holding a crossbow. They wondered what kind it was and how many rounds it could carry. This was the one instance where it was okay to complain about unfair advantages in a one-on-one situation. A crossbow, for shit’s sake!

I put down the newspaper and get to work at my family-owned toy store. My occupational dreams have come true; I get to work with toys! I was setting up various Bionicle figures on the display table and even playing with some of them. My videogame playing brother signed a package for a shipment of Double Dragon games…for the PS4. A beat-‘em-up side-scroller from the 1980’s is now on Playstation 4. Where the fuck have Jimmy and Billy Lee been this whole time?! I missed those guys!

And then I actually start to play a copy of the game. Seeing as how it’s on the newest generation of videogame consoles, the game is ten times harder than its Regular Nintendo predecessors. The first level is a ski resort crawling with anthropomorphic wolves carrying big fucking swords. The creatures themselves aren’t so scary. It was when they grabbed Billy Lee and bashed him over the head several times with the handles of their blades that I decided to lower the difficulty and try again.

The ski resort level was the same, but this time I was fighting baby dolls with milk bottles. The same health bar-draining beatdown happens all over again. The dolls force feed me sleep-inducing milk while the other dolls punch and kick me while I’m down. I throw the control and say, “I don’t want to play anymore!”

I couldn’t play the videogame any further anyways, because it was time for me to clock out from the toy store and spends some time with my babysitter. This thirty-year-old man actually has a babysitter! And that babysitter has some cute daughters who are about my age. I tell everybody how beautiful they are and they get creeped out.

Instead of talking about beauty, we watch a TV show about aliens disguised as people roaming the earth and preparing it for an invasion. For the main character, we have a bald guy in a trench coat and a hat with his face concealed as he goes around ratting on these aliens to the authorities. Every time he successfully squeals on an alien, he gets a new identity under the Witness Protection Program and continues roaming the earth to do his detective work. He one time ratted out an entire restaurant because the aliens were making racist jokes about Europeans. Aliens getting accused of xenophobia: the irony could not be clearer.

After the end credits rolled, the closing logo featured a guy getting hit by a car and flying through the air, getting hit by another car and flying through the air, getting hit by a train and flying through the air again, and then getting his nose chopped off by a helicopter’s propellers. In the words of the pilot, “That’s one dead motherfucker!” For some reason, I thought that closing logo was the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.

I woke up this afternoon at about two o’clock and I didn’t want to do anything for the rest of the day. I was so exhausted from ongoing sleep apnea issues that writing was impossible until now. I also didn’t feel like watching WWE NXT or Smackdown this evening, instead electing to watch the NXT Takeover special in Dallas tomorrow night and Wrestlemania 32 on Sunday.

Losing an entire day of potential work to sleep apnea is something that has plagued me throughout my whole career. Some days I’d have energy, some days I didn’t. Today was the latter and I felt awful about it. Not to worry, because I finally scheduled a sleep study which will take place on June 8^th, five days after my 31^st birthday and three days before seeing Slipknot and Marilyn Manson in Auburn. Chances are good I will need an oxygen mask, which I won’t mind as long as it gives me the energy I need in my day-to-day routine.

As of now, I have a short story to write for the WSS and a chapter to edit the hell out of in Occupy Wrestling. Those things don’t just write themselves. At least now I have some funky creative fuel to power me through my short stories. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call it when the voices in your head laugh at you for having dirty underwear?

A: Skids-ophrenia.

Violet Smith

NAME: Violet Smith
AGE: 28
OCCUPATION: Mixed-Martial Artist
CANON: Choice


Abortion is a sensitive topic no matter who you talk to. The mixed-martial arts community are not known for their sensitivity. So why then would I in 2012 write ten-page long story that combines both of those things? The MMA community is the same group of people who went bat shit crazy when Fallon Fox came out as a transsexual woman. How do you think they’re going to handle news of a female fighter having an abortion so that she can continue her career? They’re going to handle it the same way conservative wing nut and MMA fighter Violet Smith handled it: with hellfire and fury.

In the story known as “Choice”, the main character and fellow MMA featherweight Rachel Gustafson dispels pregnancy rumors at a press conference by sugar coating the fact that she had an abortion. Violet Smith, another featherweight and a religious zealot, screamed at Rachel and almost got in a fight with her right there at the conference. Somewhere down the line, Rachel and Violet would meet inside the eight sides of steel. Not only would Rachel win in the first round, but she would steal Violet’s abused boyfriend Neil Hahn afterwards.

I’ve always envisioned Violet Smith as being the conservative version of fellow female villain Colleen Owens. Violet is loud, obnoxious, in-your-face, crass, rude, and egotistical. To show you how much of a crazy bitch she is, in “Choice”, she compared Rachel Gustafson to kid rapist Phil Garrido in the sense of how they treat small children. If that doesn’t get your blood boiling, nothing will. That’s the kind of sick joke that causes PTSD in a lot of people. Violet Smith was the clear villain of that short story.

But did she need to be THAT much of a villain? Did she need to achieve Complete Monster status by not only traumatizing women who’ve had abortions, but also abusing her boyfriend at the time Neil Hahn? The poor guy had a 1-4 MMA record and thought he could jump start his career by hanging out with a woman who was 12-3, a former Women’s Featherweight Champion, and a multiple time post-fight bonus money winner. Neil shed the blood, sweat, and tears it took to be an MMA elite, but only because he was being slapped in the face and screamed at by Violet, criminal that she was.

As a writer, it’s my job to invoke emotions within my readers. Extreme anger may not be the best choice, which is why Violet Smith is currently in my unemployed pile. I actually had an idea of what I could do with her. I could Clockwork Orange her ass! Yeah! If she wants to go around beating up helpless women and downtrodden men, let her pay the same price as Alex De Large.

She could be shown films of anti-abortion and other Christian crusaders committing violence while a Demon Hunter, Skillet, or We As Human song is playing in the background. And then afterwards she can confront the ghosts of those she hurt in a sensory deprivation chamber, but that’s not Clockwork Orange, that’s Tales From the Hood’s fourth story Hardcore Convert.

But if I put Violet Smith through a Clockwork Orange storyline, will she be as defiant as she was when she was free or will she break down and have a moment of clarity? Can she really look a hallucination of Rachel Gustafson in the eyes and ask for forgiveness? Can she do the same thing to real life female MMA fighters like Liz Carmouche and Raquel Pennington, who are both openly lesbian and probably offended by Violet’s zeal?

But since this is an MMA fighter we’re talking about, maybe instead of confronting the hallucinations and giving them a bunch of false answers, we could have an actual match. Yeah! If Violet is really as remorseless as she says she is, let’s see if she can put Jessica Andrade in a rear-naked choke or TKO Fallon Fox into oblivion. If that’s the case, she won’t be winning any major championships. She’ll be showing the prison guards that she’s far from ready for normal society.

The Clockwork Orange angle is just one possibility that I’ve thought about. There are so many other things she can do. She can be a Dungeons & Dragons cleric for all I care. And since she’s good at unarmed combat, she can probably be a cleric and monk homebrew class. She can tell people to “Choose life!” while throwing a flying bullet kick a la Liu Kang from Mortal Kombat. But no matter what role she took, she will always be a villain due to her obnoxious Complete Monster mentality. In the case of D&D, she would be a level five lawful evil cleric/monk. Violet, have you met my good friends Deus Shadowheart and Brutus Warcry? They’re dying to get to know you! Hehe!

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I apologize, you son of a bitch!”

-Vince McMahon to CM Punk-

Picklebee's Legacy

The word Picklebee has a lot of sentimental value to me, which is fucked up if you read the rest of this blog post. When I first introduced it to my bestie Susan and niece Reina as a nickname for our cat Smokey, the two of them were unanimously against it. They felt it was too creepy for a cute critter like Smokey. I thought to myself, “How could a cute word like Picklebee have any creepy connotations?”

I still wonder that to this day. Pickles is an actual pet name that’s been used before. Bees are cute and cuddly (whenever they’re not stinging you). Put them together and you have a loving nickname. Susan and Reina weren’t sold on it. So one day during a yard sale, I wrote “Picklebee” on the sidewalk with pink chalk, scaring the crap out of any customer who saw it.

With all of these people taking note of how scary a simple affectionate name could be, I figured I wasn’t going to win the cuteness battle, so I might as well roll with the creepiness of it all. When I first introduced the name Picklebee to the internet, it was in the form of a short horror story I wrote for Good Reads called “Picklebee, God of Death”. If you’re not scared shitless already, you will be when you learn that Picklebee was an indestructible demonic cat who slashed the shit out of anybody she deemed unworthy.

She turned a psychotic pizza delivery guy into her own personal slave and slashed the throats of the cop and landlord who tried to evict that same guy. There was blood everywhere, and that was just the decorations of the guy’s apartment before the fight took place. To put it in more relatable terms, “Picklebee, God of Death” was Pet Cemetery on crack. It was so violent that I constantly worried about disqualification from that week’s contest. I wasn’t disqualified. Instead I ended up in last place with zero votes.

That short story will see the light of day one way or another. But what about the other creative connotation I gave the name Picklebee? In the WWE, the divas division is all about good looks and bad wrestling. I’m honestly frightened at the idea of an NXT diva not being able to clean house in that division, especially considering how underrated Paige was on the main roster. And then my prayers were answered within the confines of my own imagination.

The ultimate unholy alliance of female martial artists, each member a present or future subject on Garrison’s Library. You’ve got the vengeful mixed-martial artist Rachel Gustafson, the pissed off referee Devon Spirit Wolf, and then there’s Picklebee, the name that should be given to Fallon Fox if she ever wants to transition from MMA to pro-wrestling.

An Amazon, an Indian, and a transsexual walk into a bar. It’s not the start of a bad joke; it’s the precursor to a dominant barroom brawl for all three of these women. If these three could keep a hospital full of bar patrons, imagine what kind of Armageddon they could put the WWE divas division through. Sorry, Natalya, but you too are going to be a victim of this onslaught.

If the name Picklebee can’t be cute and cuddly, it’s going to be disastrous and apocalyptic. She is the God of Death. The skies will rain blood. The oceans will be covered in green slime. The roads will be paved with powdered bones. The mountains will be kicked over. The forests will be burned to ashes. Those who survive will live their lives as the God of Death’s slaves. Whether she’s a cute kitty cat, a brutal mixed-martial artist, or Cthulu with a vagina, nobody is safe from this hellfire wrath. That is, unless you feed her Temptations kitty treats at 3:00 in the morning.

　

***PROVERB OF THE DAY***

Whatever you do to your children, your children will do to the world.

　

***BY THE WAY***

This will be the first of many posts detailing my socially awkward behavior. That’s going to be a brand new category alongside reviews and character profiles. Be afraid. Be really fucking afraid!

Devon Spirit Wolf

Being a referee in any sport is a thankless job, especially in the world of mixed-martial arts. If you make one tiny mistake as a referee, a firestorm of criticism will descend upon you like the end of the world is already upon us. You’ll catch shit from Dana White, Joe Rogan, the fans, the fighters, everybody. If you don’t believe me, ask referees like Steve Mazzigatti, Kim Winslow, Yves Lavigne, and just recently, Herb Dean. I don’t have a Twitter account, so I never know if these referees are lashing out against their critics. That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of creating a character that I hope to one day use in a future combat sports prose. Meet Devon Spirit Wolf. She’s Native American, she’s smoking hot, but best of all, she’s opinionated. In fact, she has her own blog called The Bitchy Referee. In this blog, she has a take no prisoners attitude and she doesn’t let anybody get away with murder. I know referees are supposed to be impartial, but Devon can get away with it because she lives in a fictional world were neutrality is bullshit. In one of her posts, she says that she has a lot of empathy for real world referee Kim Winslow. Kim is one of the most criticized referees in the business. Not because she makes controversial calls, but because she’s a woman. Think of all the “make me a sandwich” comments she had to endure over the internet, not to mention other renditions of the kitchen genre. Devon is also a woman and also doesn’t put up with sexism. She also doesn’t put up with transphobia either. In fact, when Matt Mitrione made his bigoted comments about Fallon Fox, Devon was the first to say that Matt secretly swung both ways and that he had a dress collection in his closet. Ouch! You know what else Devon Spirit Wolf hates? Pro-life zealots. She actually had an abortion when she was a teenager. She knows it’s not the most pleasant experience a woman can go through, but she also knows that a woman should never be shamed for it. Any other topics you’d like to throw in front of Devon Spirit Wolf’s face? She may be small enough to fit in Demetrious Johnson’s pockets, but she’ll kick anybody’s ass, whether it’s verbally or physically. She has a Brazilian Jujitsu black belt, so don’t piss her off. Now if only she can find a job in one of my stories. I already had one referee who was verbally animated and her name was Cheryl Glenn. I’m sure Devon Spirit Wolf will find work as well.

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If men want women to buy rape insurance, men should have to buy murder insurance.”

-Susan Wilson, the Deep Space Cowgirl-

Books and Cage Fights

In all the time I’ve maintained this blog, it seems as though I’ve spoken more about mixed-martial arts than actual books. Hell, I even have an old post on here where I stand up for Fallon Fox after all the verbal abuse she’s taken. On DeviantART, I have a journal entry where I question the hatred toward the UFC for attempting to bail out Jeremy Stephens after his assault charge so that he can fight on the card. My MMA references on both sites may appear accidental, but they’re by design, for a different reason from the fact that I’m a fan. The way I see it (and as many of you guessed from the first post I made back in 2012), a good book should be like a bonus-worthy cage fight. For those of you who aren’t UFC savvy, I’ll explain the whole bonus jargon to you. Every UFC event has a series of fights and afterwards UFC President Dana White will give out bonus checks to the fighters for Knockout of the Night, Submission of the Night, and Fight of the Night. What do post-fight bonuses have to do with a good book? Usually, the post-fight bonuses will go to fighters who made their fight a fast-paced battle with lots of action and very few breaks. Do you see the operative words there? Face-paced and lots of action. The books don’t necessarily have to be thrillers or mysteries in order to meet this criteria. They just have to be fun to read, in the same way that a bonus-worthy fight is fun to watch. For example, if you pick up any novel by Carl Hiaasen, it’ll be just as exciting to read as Dennis Bermudez vs. Matt Grice was fun to watch. Carl Hiaasen knows when to strike and does so in large volumes, much like the eventual winner of the fight Dennis Bermudez, who won by split decision. On the positive-negative spectrum, the MMA example works the other way as well. If you pick up a copy of Beowulf in its original format (fruity language and all), reading this slow-paced nightmare will be a lot like watching Frank Mir vs. Mirko Cro Cop. If you can’t decipher the poetic language of Beowulf as accurately as the A+ students in my Pre-16^th Century Lit class did, you’ll have no idea what the hell is going on and you’ll probably think there’s not much activity. The Frank Mir vs. Mirko Cro Cop fight back at UFC 119 could be described as the worst performance in both fighters’ careers due to the inactivity. It was so lackluster that even though Frank Mir was the only fighter on the UFC 119 card who recorded a knockout victory (knee), Dana White refused to give him the Knockout of the Night award. So with all of these MMA references floating around, you’re probably wondering why I’m not converting this blog from Garrison’s Library to Garrison’s Octagon. It’s because I’m a bookworm and writer first and a cage fighting aficionado second. I’ll gladly put pen to paper, but I’ll never get in an MMA cage for as long as I live. I’m too out of shape for athletic competition and really, the only way I could win a fight with these monsters is by kicking them in the nuts, gouging them in the eyes, or smashing their clavicles. I hope this blog entry answered those lingering MMA questions.

　

***MIXED-MARTIAL ARTS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“For those of you who were booing the flyweight fight tonight, do me a favor. Please don’t ever buy another UFC pay-per-view again. I don’t want your money.”

-Dana White-