This last weekend, Georges St Pierre (the guy who should’ve choked me out on the tram in Las Vegas) defended his title against Jon Fitch (picture attached). Ummm, it was a one-sided beat down that left the challenger looking a little worse for wear (not that anyone would notice).
Now, that should’ve been ME with as a mangled mess, as I had the foundation to be an Ultimate Fighter. Alas, fate worked against me (Fate’s a cold-hearted bitch who seems to like to piss her cold urine into my cornflakes) and I never actually even stepped foot into the Octagon (my overall record of 2-24 doesn’t really help). However, I would like out outline some of my more famous battles — the ones that kept me from being the champ.
Grade 2 — Sherri (shall not reveal her last name to protect the innocent), a cute Tom-girl with red hair (why is that pertinent? Because she was cute, now shut it)…oh yes, she woke up one day and decided she hated me. Seriously. For no reason. Okay, okay, I’m sure there was a reason, but she walked up and pronounced (in Grade 2 diction): I’m going to kick your ass. Imagine my surprise when she told everyone that she was going to kick my ass.
This was the first fight I ever lost. It was my first fight, yes. Oh, make no mistake, but I kicked her ass good. She came at me scratching for my eyes, and I clocked her. She just wouldn’t give up. Kept coming and I kept hitting…and the whole time I wanted NOT to hit her. And she started to cry. Damn. Official record 1-0 (though this one could’ve gone either way).
Learned at an early age — you can never win a fight against a woman. Ever.
Grade 3 – David Lyle — a friend. Yes, a friend. He taught me the art of beating someone up. Because he beat me up. Though I don’t know if dragging me across my front lawn by my hair consitutes ‘beating-up’. The beating part would come months later — when he would mount me, pin my arms under his legs, and well, you know — beat me. Official record 1-1.
Grade 4 – David Lyle – Part 7. After having my best friend (who had never beat me up) decide to teach me how to fight…I took on David Lyle again (current record 1-7). This time, I reversed positions, easily. Pinned him…then let him up because I felt sorry for him.
Damn you, lack-of-killer instinct! How am I supposed to serve revenge cold if I feel badly for them?
Grade 6 After handily winning my fight, my opponent decided he had had enough. And he wanted to shake my hand. Yeah. Shake with one, punch with the other. I fell for that old trick. Record 1-8.
First Year Another fight. Went down like a sack of potatoes. Record 1-24.
Two Years ago Doctor Hook. Nuff said.
Present Day 520 Grosvenor. Sure, it’s bigger than me. Stronger, heavier. But it was slower. I was quick. Fast. Jab, jab, jab. I’d hit with a thousand punches. No. Didn’t work.
Official Fight Record 1-33
But UFC, I’m still here, waiting by the phone. Give me my shot. Put me against Sherri…and I’ll make you all proud.
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