The Ultimate Fighting Championship Is a Real-Life Video Game; Mini-Reviews

Written by George Tabb on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.


"Ruff!"
yells P.J., in a tone that means business. "Does he always do that?"
asks my pal, Alex, as I lock the door to my apartment with my 8-pound Yorkshire
terrier on the other side of it.


"Just
when he thinks I’m going somewhere fun," I explain.


"We
are going somewhere fun," says Alex.


Through
the door we hear P.J. bark again.


"Don’t
say that so loudly," I whisper.


"Sorry,"
whispers Alex.


"We’ll
be right back," I yell to my dog, "we’re only gonna be gone a
few minutes."


"Liar,"
whispers Alex, "It’ll take us at least 45 minutes to get to the Meadowlands."


Actually,
it takes a little longer. Of course, it wouldn’t have if either of us actually
knew how to read road signs. Or had bothered to read a map, which would have
told us we didn’t need to get on the New Jersey Tpk.


Whatever.


On the way
out there, Alex asks me if the muffler on his old, beat-up, silver-colored Honda
CRX is overly loud.


"What?"
I yell. Then I tell him to just buy some muffler tape.


"Dood,"
he says, saying it like he spells it, "bullshit!"


"What?"
I ask him.


"Muffler
tape! You made that up!" he exclaims.


"No
way," I tell him, "I used to fix cars in Florida."


"Dood,"
says Alex, "Jews don’t fix cars!"


"With
muffler tape and rubber bands they do," I explain.


The conversation
about how cheap I am continues, then turns to both of our enlarged prostates,
the pain they cause, and video games–our favorite things. Well, next to
pussy, that is. And drugs.


Oh, and
rock ’n’ roll.


Anyway,
we were on our way to what we considered a real-life video game: the Ultimate
Fighting Championship. A sport where guys literally kick and punch the fuck
out of one another. Where the object is to draw blood, and knock the other guy
out.


And it was
all supposed to be real. At least that’s what Alex, and my other pal, Jose,
had told me.


"Bullshit,"
I’d told them. "All that wrestling, extreme fighting, all that is
fake," I’d said. "People pay good money to watch staged violence.
It’s not real like it is on my video games."


So when
we arrived at the Meadowlands and were greeted by balding Jersey meatheads eating
sausage and pepper heroes, drinking Budweisers and smoking joints in the parking
lot, I began to wonder.


"These
doods look scary," says Alex.


"They
look like the crowd from a Metallica concert," I tell him, "latter-day
Metallica."


Alex is
not sure how he should take that, so he just shrugs his shoulders and we make
our way toward the Continental Arena.


"Try
and remember where we parked," I tell him, being the Jewish grandmother
that I am.


About 15
minutes later we find ourselves in "The Press Room." It’s a large
room downstairs near the floor of the arena, with lots of phones, computers,
televisions and, most importantly, food.


"Good
thing I got these badges from Maxim," Alex tells me as he scoops
up a handful of pretzels, then downs them with bottled water.


"Right
on," I say, in my best California accent, stuffing my face with the free
snacks.


"Who
do you guys think will win?" asks some other "press" guy, as
we stand around enjoying the blasting air conditioning.


"Win
what?" I ask, totally forgetting we were even at a fight.


"The
big match!" Says the guy, who, according to his badge, writes for World
Fighter
or Fighting World or Fight World Tonight or something.


"Tito
Ortiz," I tell him without flinching. I explain that Tito’s record
with the UFC is really good and that since he joined the ranks of the club,
his fist- and footwork have been nothing short of amazing.


"I
totally agree," says the guy. "The Australian has no chance."


"Australian?"
asks Alex.


"Elvis
‘King of Rock ’n’ Rumble’ Sinosic," I explain.


"Wow,"
says Alex. Then he grabs another bottle of water and tells me we should go see
some of the early fights.


I tell him
I agree. I want to see if this whole thing is for real or what.




The first
fight we see, after finding our ringside seats, is one between Andrei Arlovski
from Belarus and Ricco "Pretty Boy" Rodriguez. He’s from Staten
Island.


Before the
bell rings to start the match, a hot chick wearing almost nothing except the
number "1" on her halter walks around the fenced-in ring with a card
that has the exact same number on it.


"Wow,"
I tell Alex, "her shirt and sign match!"


"She’s
the round girl," he tells me, looking over his shoulders, embarrassed.


"Doh,"
I say.


The bell
rings and the guys come out swinging. I can’t tell you who hit who first
because I was busy checking out where the round girl went. As it turns out,
she went to where the other round girls were sitting. All five of them. Each
with a different number on her teeny-tiny shirt, and each with more silicon
than my computer.


"Whoa!"
exclaims Alex, "didja see that?"


"What?"
I ask.


"That
Staten Island dood just punched the shit outta that Russian!" he explains.


"I
missed it," I say.


Suddenly
the crowd is going crazy. Ricco is on top of the Russian, in his Speedo-type
shorts and leather gloves, rocketing his fists into the Russkie’s face.
Blood goes flying everywhere and I can hear poor Andrei Arlovski moan in pain.


"Holy
shit," is all I manage to say as more blood splatters and I begin to smell
the odor of the two fighters.


The next
thing I know, the round ends for one reason or another and someone wins. Who?
Fuck if I know. I’d noticed Carmen Electra about three seconds before the
bell and was now engaged in staring at her luxurious boobies. As it turns out,
she is there because she was just named spokesperson for the UFC. Later in the
evening I run into her, alone, in the press room.


"Howdy,"
I manage to spit out at this bombshell, who even in high heels only manages
to come up to about my chin.


"Hi,"
she says back, checking me out in my black t-shirt, black vest and black ladies
stretch jeans. I know she wants me.


"You
look great," I tell her, thinking that she’s really tiny. Like one
of those little people on Land of the Giants. I imagine her in bed with
her ex, Dennis Rodman. During intercourse, he must have rubbed her tonsils raw.


"Thanks,"
says Ms. Electra, "do you know where I could find more chips? And something
to drink?"


I look around
at all the bags of unopened potato chips, and at the tub of bottled water and
soda dispenser.


"Um,"
I say.


"You
do work here, don’t you?" she asks.


I’m
about to answer her, but, thank God, Donald Trump walks in. I guess she asked
him because about two minutes later, I see her back in her seat with a bag of
chips.


The fights
continue and blood spills everywhere. The question of whether this is real or
not is now beside the point. Just the fact that the scary Italian guy on Oz
who looks like Frank Stallone and wears a Hells Angels jacket is seated up front,
watching, is proof that this is no pussy sport. Then there’s some guy who
looks like a cross between a fat GG Allin and some blubbery Klan member. The
audience loves him and every match he threatens to climb over the seating rails
and make his way into the ongoing bouts. At one point, he removes his teeth
and the crowd goes wild. Later, I find out he is some WWF dude or something,
and was an original UFC fighter back in the day, when there were fewer rules
and more blood. If that’s possible.


As we continue
to watch the matches we see shots shown on the big screen of famous people in
the audience. Carmen Electra gets plenty of applause, as well as catcalls. Some
blonde model chick does as well. When they show Donald Trump, everyone boos.
When they show Fred Durst, everyone boos even more.


Suddenly,
I gain some new respect for these Jersey jerkoffs. If they think Limp Bizshit
is crap, they must have some taste. They can probably see through his whole
tough-guy act as well. I bet if old Fred ran into even one of those guys from
the parking lot it’d make the UFC look like KFC.


The night
wears on and we begin to realize that this is one great evening. It’s got
the four B’s: Booze. Blood. Boobies. And Big Bangs. Actually, that’s
five, if you count the last as two words.


Finally
the last bout begins and we see Tito Ortiz and Elvis "King of Rock ’n’
Rumble" Sinosic enter the ring. Once the announcer tells the guys to get
ready to fight, I get a good look at Tito. Standing a little taller than myself
and weighing about 205 pounds, he looks very much like he can kick my ass. It
also looks very much like he stole my hairdo. Motherfucker.


"Go
Elvis," I yell to the guy from upside-down under.


"I
thought you were rooting for Ortiz," Alex says.


"That
pussy stole my look," I tell my pal.


The bell
rings and the fight begins. About a minute or so into the round, it ends. Blood
everywhere. I can’t remember if this was the round where the guy knees
the other guy in the head, or the one where the guy punches the other guy so
hard blood goes everywhere and the guy’s neck twists into an impossible
position. Anyway, it was fast and gruesome. As Ortiz’s arm is held up as
the winner of the world light heavyweight UFC championship, I whisper "pussy"
under my breath.


"Dood,"
says Alex, "I dare you to yell that at him!"


I don’t.
I don’t say anything to Fred Durst, either.


After a
little bit of "Dood, Where’s My Car?" Alex and I find the CRX
and make our way back to the city. Later, after Alex drops me off in front of
my building, I make my way inside.


Up in my
apartment, P.J. wags his tail and has a sneezy attack because he is so happy
to see me. Wendy smiles and tells me she’s happy I’m home. Later,
when things settle down a bit, Wendy goes to take a shower, and I turn on the
television.


Suddenly
she screams and I run into the bathroom.


"Are
you okay?" I ask as I pull back the shower curtain.


"I
cut myself shaving my legs," she says as blood gushes out of a 3-inch
gash.


I take one
look at her wound and faint.




Something
else that almost made me faint was the new Damned record on Nitro. This CD,
called Grave Disorder, seems to bring back the sound the band had during
the beginning days of punk rock. For those of you who don’t know who they
are, these are the guys who played "Neat Neat Neat" and "New
Rose"–standard punk rock covers for any band. Anyhow, new songs here
include "Would You Be So Hot," "Obscene" and 11 other tunes
that will turn your brown eyes bright and eerily blue.


Speaking
of Jurassic punk bands, the Dickies got a new one called All This and Puppet
Show
on Fat Wreck Chords. What the hell is it with all these classic punk
rock acts signing to these lame-o California labels? Lord knows I’d
never do such a thing. Anyway, more punk rock goodness here with tunes reminiscent
of The Dawn of the Dickies days. Songs like "My Pop the Cop,"
"Whack the Dalai Lama" and "Free Willy" ought to give you
the idea. Plus their lead singer, Leonard, goes onstage with a talking penis,
and Stan Lee, the guitar player, sometimes dresses like Superman. They rule!
Also, they are all shorter than the Little Kings. Yay!


Ride the
Mole. What the fuck kinda band name is that? What about "Whack-A-Mole?"
Now, that was a good game. You got that rubber hammer and you’d pop those
little dirt-dogs good on the head. They’d squeal, then you’d hit another,
and another. Soon you’d be whacking away. Hitting them moles for being
bad. For not tying their shoes. For not eating all their vegetables. For wetting
the bed. Bad moles! Bad! You’ll pay. Oh, sorry. Yes, Ride the Mole is a
band from Queens, and their new self-titled CD on Pinhead Productions, well,
rides the mole! They are funny/stupid, clever/stupid and melodic/stupid. Which
means I like it. But I’m still not sure what riding a mole means. There
is a picture of a subway car on the cover, so maybe it’s got something
to do with the trains? Who knows.


Skins
& Pinz Volume II
is the name of a new compilation on GMM Records. Bands
here include Pressure Point, Condemned 84, Dropkick Murphys, Iron Cross, Agnostic
Front, etc. Actually, it seems more skins than pins. Oh well. The tracks here
are strong and good, if you are into this sort of thing. Personally, these days
I do like the skins better than the pins. The pins ain’t taking enough
showers for my nose. Smelly hippies. And what’s with this "peace"
shit? Get a job.


Ya know,
it’s one of those months where you just can’t get away from the dinosaur
punk. Yes folks, the Vandals are back yet again with a new one called Look
What I Almost Stepped In
on Nitro records. With song titles like "Sorry
Mom and Dad," "Get A Room," "You’re Not the Boss of
Me" and "I’m the Boss of Me," well, the band clings to its
juvenile roots. Which by all means is a good thing. Oh, and the song "Crippled
& Blind" rocks.


Sum 41 has
a CD on Island Records called All Killer No Filler. I’ve seen these
guys on MTV and they look like they can’t be older than sperm. They play
pop punk, and I read somewhere that they say their main influence is Blink 182.
I read somewhere that Blink 182’s main influence is Green Day. And Green
Day was influenced by Screeching Weasel. Screeching Weasel credits the Ramones.
Now, I guaranfuckintee that if I were to play "Today Your Love, Tomorrow
the World" for these little whippersnappers, they wouldn’t know it
from "Piano Man." And I bet if I were to play them a Green Day song,
they wouldn’t know it from a Rancid song. Actually, neither would I.


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