Following a fantastic day spent with a few of my TCNJ friends, it was decided that my Sasha was to meet Stacie’s Sasha, and it was to happen immediately.  Now being the courteous guy that I am, I allow my baby out into the backyard to go to the bathroom before bringing her to someone else’s house.  Sasha didn’t get the memo.  Upon being allowed into Stacie’s backyard, Sasha decided to take approximately 83 craps in the course of 15 minutes, while Stacie and Jaclyn laughed at me.

Sasha, shown after having crapped one of her paws off

Now the Sasha incident doesn’t actually relate to the real fun of the night, rather acted as a harbinger of things to come, for that day was no ordinary Sunday, it was also the day before I had orientation for my new job as a camp counselor.  Now, for a normal person this is a simple situation, go to sleep early, wake up and roll out for fun times at the new job.  I am no normal person.  For me this involves first finding out what time I have to be at work, which I obviously wait until the day before to discover.

Fortunately I had the foolproof plan.  I would simply call Corey, and he would fill me in on the required information.  Small snag, Corey wasn’t home, he was in the city at the Mets vs. Yankees game.  No problem I’ll just give his cell phone a ring.  No answer.

*NOTE*It should be noted that Corey’s cellphone display doesn’t really work any longer.  It may have to do with having been run over, which may have been my fault.  That’s beside the point though.*NOTE*

Now when I say I called Corey, I don’t mean once or twice.  As a matter of fact, he would later inform me that one of the few functions his phone could still perform was to tell him how many calls he had missed.  Apparently eleven.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not exactly a morning person.  There’s a distinct reason all my classes next semester come no earlier than 2 p.m.  So it was urgent that I get the necessary information by some reasonable hour, or I would not be waking up for work.

So midnight rolls around and I have no response.  Obviously his phone is either not with him, or he cannot hear it at the game.  Plan B.  AIM.  A simple concise message would inform Corey to kindly tell me when work was to begin.

It was at this point I checked to see how long it had been since the game ended, in an attempt to figure out when Corey would get my messages.  Oh great, just after midnight.  Good thing traffic in the city isn’t bad, they should be home in a giffy.  Just great.  1 a.m.  I would give Corey to 1 a.m.  Until then I would just have to play a little Final Fantasy X.

So its 2 a.m. and still no word from Corey.  As a minor plus, my FFX characters can now kill with mind bullets, that’s telekenisis.  Unfortunately, a big minus must be pointed out, that being that mind bullets would not allow me to know what time work was.

HALLELUJAH!!!  One of my friends came online.  Surely he was at the game, and thus Corey will be home soon.  He wasn’t at the game, nor did he know what time work was.  Damn you Taco.

2:30.  That’s when I said fuck it.  Left a note to be woken up at 7:30 and went upstairs to sleep, intent on waking up and viewing Corey’s response, and possibly speeding to work.

2:45.  That’s when Sasha started freaking out.  Taco it seems, had gone out, and decided to drop in on Bobby.  Well, after cleaning up Sasha pee (cleaning up after the mutt becoming a sort of second-rate theme of the night) I talked to Dan, who informed me he thought Corey mentioned work was at 7.

Fuck that.  I don’t get up by 7, let alone up and out in time to be somewhere at 7.  Like any logical person would do, this causes me to amend my note to be woken at 7:00 on the dot.  Compromise.

It is now closing in on 3.  All attempts at finding the letter which should hold the desired information have failed, due mainly to my brother taking over the livingroom, and doing whatever the hell he wanted with anything of mine in there.  It’s panic time.  This I believe is when call number eleven was made, and then genius struck.  Farruggio was at the game too.  I’ll call him!

Yeah, so they’d been home for over an hour.  Asshole went to sleep without checking his instant messages.  I’d have to kill him for that.  Fortunately Dan thought he had heard him mention being at work by 8.  This was after 7, so I went with that, finally getting to sleep around 4  a.m.

Apparently, in the Ingram household, “Please wake me at 7 a.m.  <3 Bobby” means “Allow Bobby to sleep until he wakes on his own accord at 7:32 a.m.”  I didn’t know that.  No time to shower, I roll out.  Technically going nearly double all speed limits is not legal, but damnit it gets you somewhere fast.

Well, being who I am, I drove past the parking lot, so I turned around at the next lot, a big house with a gravel parking lot.  I park the car, and follow the provided signs through the woods.  After a few minutes, they led me to a big house.  With a gravel parking lot.

So I’m finally at work, albeit a minute or two late.  ‘Why are there so few cars?’ I ponder.  I go inside, and am promptly informed the orientation would begin around 8:30 a.m.  God hates me.

Corey rolled in some time around 8:45.  He had still yet to check his messages.  I hate him.

Saturday came faster than Gabey ever could have imagined, and before he knew it he found himself walking through JFK, a colander full of knives in one hand, and a Captain Smilies Little Tykes Magic Kit (Ages 4 and up, not available in Canada) in the other. He felt like a bit of an ass with the crummy plastic rod that was inside, but frankly where the fuck was he supposed to get a real wand on that short of notice.

As he scanned the flight display in hopes of locating his terminal, Gabey simply could not see Flight 93/4 anywhere. Thinking quickly he flagged down a passing security guard. “Excuse me sir,” he offered politely. “Might you be able to tell me where I can find Flight 93/4?”

Looking thoroughly put off at being forced to stop and interact with someone, the guard glared at Gabey. “You think you’re funny kid?”

“Kid? I’m 47 years old. And I just want to know where my flight is.”

“Listen sport, there ain’t no Flight 93/4. Wait a minute, what do you have in that colander?”

“Umm… they’re for my asthma.”

“Oh, makes sense.” With that, the surly guard continued on his way.

Left to himself, and no better off, Gabey returned his gaze to the display, where he located a flight 934 to London. ‘Asshole was probably drunk when he wrote the letter and dragged the pen,’ he thought. Gabey was beginning to feel attending this school may not be such a great call, but then again it was a free plane ticket, even if it was to crummy old England.

The flight was non-eventful. The in flight movie starred Michelle Rodriguez as a tough-girl, and a baby cried for several hours. Gabey occupied himself thinking about all the painful spells he would learn to cast on people as part of his rise to tyranny.

As Gabey departed the plane he realized he had no fucking clue where to go from there.

“I have no fucking clue where to go from here,” he said as he elbowed his way down the aisle and off the plane. All his concern was soon put to rest however, when he spotted the large man-beast waiting for him at the end of the tunnel.

The man was huge, with a dirty, matted beard, and was clad in a fox-skin loincloth. In his giant hands was a sign which read “The Gabey Kotter.” On seeing Gabey,his face lit up, and he extended a meaty paw out for the shaking. “Greetin’s Gabey, name’s Ingrid.”

“Come again,” Gabey queried.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a woman’s name.”

“Catch a lot of shit for it?”

“Not really. You break a few necks and people stop with the name calling.”

Gabey began to give a small laugh, but upon seeing the man was not joking decided it best not to. Gabey made a mental note; when it came time to raise his army, this was the guy he wanted on his side.

“Well then,Gabey, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll be taking you to the Boarshead Express.”

“You know, I go by Gabe. Only my housemates call me Gabey.”

“What’s that Gabey?” The Giant’s neck gave a mighty crack as he turned to look back at Gabey.

“Never mind. So… do you work at the school?”

“Yeah, I do maintenance. You know, mowing lawns, caring for wild animals, killing rule-breakers. The usual.”

Outside the airport they came to a small piece-of-shit of a car, and Ingrid crammed himself into the driver’s side enthusiastically. Noting the front was entirely occupied by Ingrid’s girth, Gabey threw his things in the back seat and followed suit. Leaning forward, Gabey was about to ask how far the trip would be when Ingrid’s monstrous mitts clapped him on the ears, knocking him out cold.

Groggily Gabey came to, and found himself being violently shaken by Ingrid. Outside the car he could see an ornate station and a long brown train.

“’Bout time you woke up Gabey,” Ingrid huffed, dragging Gabey out of the car. “We’ve been here for 10 minutes already. Sorry about the whole knocking you out thing. Couldn’t let you know where this station is located.”

“Why couldn’t I know where the station is located?”

“Alright, you caught me,” Ingrid smirked, tossing Gabey’s belongings out before hopping back into the front seat. “Anyways, it’s been real. Might want to hurry, train’s leaving.”

Looking behind him Gabey saw the train was indeed in motion, and he scattered to pick up his splayed knives as Ingrid sped away. In a panic, Gabey grabbed the last knife and darted after the train. He made it to the edge of the platform just in time to hop into the doors of the last car.

The car was empty, save for a lone figure sleeping at the far end. With his crap in tow, Gabey walked down and sat in the seat across from the figure. With a discerning eye, Gabey looked him over. He was young, probably in his late teens, with a messy mop of orange hair. Beside him sat a pot with a hole in it, and a bag of butter knives. The kid was wearing some ratty chef’s robes, and had a sagging chef’s hat perched on his head.

Gabey rode in silence in the car for several minutes before boredom set in. With careful balance on the moving train he positioned himself to give the kid the tea-bagging of a lifetime, when the sleeping mass stirred.

Jarred by the unexpected presence of balls on his chin, the kid emitted a shrill shriek. Content with the results, Gabey sat down again. “Hey kid, the name’s –“

“Gabey Kotter,” the kid shrieked. “You’re Gabey Kotter. I’m… my name is… I’m… Beasley. I’m Don Beasley.”

“Nice to meat you kid, but if you don’t mind my asking, how do you know who I am?”

“Well, because you’re Gabey fucking Kotter, that’s why.”

It made sense to Gabey, so he left it at that.

“Listen up Donnie, I’m gonna be running shit around this place, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be getting on now, when the getting’s good. You dig?”

“Oh, yeah, I dig. I’m all about the gangsta shit.”

“Good. Now here’s the deal, I’ve got me a hunger. Something fierce. And this,” he grabbed the plastic wand from its box, “ain’t going to help me right about now.”

“Whoa,” Don gasped, “that’s a sweet wand. I just have this stick my mom broke off of a tree.” In his hand was a small gnarled twig, with what appeared to be fungus growing off one end.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m kind of poor. Oh, and I have this,” Don added sheepishly as he pulled a near dead squirrel out of his pot.

“Can we eat it?”

“What? No! If you want food you just press this button,” Don pointed at the large button next to him with a picture of a steak on it.

“Don’t give me sass, bitch,” Gabey spat, as he slammed the button with his fist.

“Sorry, sir,” Don offered, slinking back in his seat.

The food cart arrived promptly and Gabey ordered the whole spread. “I’m low right now,” he said to the hairy man pushing the cart. “My friend here’ll get me.”

“But I don’t have any money, I’m poor,” Don moaned.

“Well then you’ll have to pay him another way. Let’s go, to the bathroom with both of you.”

Don looked at Gabey pleadingly, but was met with cold resolve. Sobbing he followed the hairy man to the bathroom at the end of the car.

Content, Gabey sat back to enjoy his meal, but found his pleasure interrupted by the entrance of another teenager, this one a girl with long, wild, brown hair.

“What the fuck do you want?” Gabey asked, not looking up from the turkey sandwich in his hands.

“Are you Ga-“

“I said, ‘what the fuck do you want?’”

“My name’s Hermelanie,” she said cheerily. Gabey ate his sandwich. After several minutes of silence, she turned and left. Gabey listened to the sound of her sobbing as it retreated down the hall.

Gabey enjoyed his meal until he felt the tell-tale lurch of the train’s deceleration. Tossing the rest of the food out the window he walked back to the bathroom and pounded on the door. “We’re slowing down Don, might want to wrap it up in there.”

Seriously, I mean that. If you don’t believe me, just have a quick perusal of the self-inflicted woes I’ve been stuck with in the mere week-and-a-half since camp started, solely as a result of my own stupidity. Oh, and it bears noting that this list is simply the self-harm I can currently remember from the last few days. You can rest assured that there is plenty more that I am forgetting.

The Pole
Resulting Injuries: Badly scraped/gashed hand, minor scrapes on legs
Also to Blame: Bees
Why I Suck: So, all of 15 minutes into the first day of camp I managed my first moment of brilliance at the basketball courts. With a counselor-to-camper ratio in the cage of a ludicrous number somewhere in the 4:7 neighborhood, it should have been a pretty easy, relaxing morning. A roughly 1-to-2 ration means you have more or less no responsibility, plus the majority of the kids were youngins, so none of the annoying mouthing off you get when mixing sports with eighth-grade boys who are at that age where they are old enough to think they’re tough, but small enough to blow away in a stiff wind. And for awhile, it was pretty calm. Then the bee showed up, and I began flailing and backpedaling with all the grace and control of a raver having a seizure. For those of you who have never been to Camp Sac, the cage can also be used for tennis, so there’s a center pole for the nets, which I completely forgot about in my insect-related panic, leading to one painful introduction of ass-to-asphalt.

Bobby Ball
Resulting Injuries: Emotional trauma, bruising
Also to Blame: Ally, Cooney, Rev. Ed, Kira
Why I Suck: Apparently tired with the cage’s vast game assortment of Knockout and more Knockout, the children were looking for something new to play. Ally suggested “hit Bobby with the basketballs.” My loving fellow-counselors obliged. I spent the next 5 minutes curled in a ball with the campers circled around me, throwing basketballs at my face. I’m not kidding.

Left Field
Resulting Injuries: Loss of a fair portion of the flesh which used to comprise my leg, other painful cuts
Also to Blame: Nick
Why I Suck: With the excellent day one, and its fantastic games time, behind me, day two games found us at the kickball field. As is to be expected, my team was getting trounced, as I without fail manage to wind up as the counselor on the team full of kids that can barely walk, let alone partake in athletic endeavors. And Dan, who, despite his closeness in nomenclature to athletic achievement, is even worse than the kids. So, my team is getting trounced when Nick comes up to bat (foot?), and blasts one deep. Thinking that it will be my hustle that will save the day for Team SpEd, I backpedal (you may be noticing a theme here) while intently following the ball. I kept my eye on the ball all the way to within two feet of my hands (thank you Tee-Ball coaches) at which point my priorities changed, as I suddenly realized I had hit the treeline and fallen into a bush. Now, I can only assume the ball hit a branch and bounced back onto the field as I soon saw Dan fielding it. I’m not sure though, as all my mind was focusing on at the time was the fact that said bush seemed to be of the pricker variety, and that one of the branches was somehow wrapped around my ankle a good four times.

The Greg Louganis
Resulting Injuries: Ouchie wrists, foggy brains
Also to Blame: Ed, Tim, Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson
Why I Suck: Games day four, and fresh off an injury-free day three, I’m feeling pretty good. The group before us had played ultimate Frisbee, but our group thought that was totally gay (which it isn’t, but again, eigth grade guys) and decided to instead play soccer. Being that we’re lazy fucks, the counselors sat around and watched. Then Ed decided he could hurdle the Frisbee goals which, as anyone who knows Ed and has some reasonable estimation of Frisbee goal heights (ie: over 2 feet tall) can tell you, he could not. Being that we’re retarded though, Tim and I joined him in attempting to hurdle them, despite the fact that they are somewhere between four and five feet tall. Eventually, I had the brilliant idea to dive face first to clear the hurdle. Stupid. But, as it turns out, I did it successfully and injury free. Twice. Then I joined the soccer game, and decided to celebrate a goal with a third dive. Not a great decision. I landed wrong on my wrists, then had my head slam into the ground, leading to much wooziness.

Fuck You, Tyler
Resulting Injuries: More cuts on my legs, friction burned shin
Also to Blame: Tyler
Why I Suck: Week two has actually been a banner week for me, since as of right now this is the only injury that I can think of. Tim had us at the maze for capture-the-flag, and since the kids are all a bunch of little cheaters, Tyler and I hid out teams’ respective flags, theoretically somewhere not surrounded by Ow. Tyler put his team’s in the middle of a patch of what I can only reason was razorblades and rebar (is that even how it’s spelled? I don’t know, the metal pole-ish things you find in concrete) which led to my attempted capture, and his attempted tagging of me, being decisions we would both come to regret. As an added bonus, an homage to my last pricker-related injury if you would, while playing kickball today with no sandals (Faith had stolen mine, naturally) I decided to give my throbbing right foot a break by going lefty. The ball took a bounce and I kicked the ball as hard as I could directly off of the big friction burn on my shin that one of the sticks in the maze had given me in my mad-dash to freedom. That fucking hurt.

Witty Title
Resulting Injuries: Broken (possibly) computer monitor… fuck you, that counts
Also to Blame: God
Why I Suck: If you’ve never seen my room, it’s small. Literally, I have a bed, a built in shelf thing, and this weird little bathroom with only half a wall, a broken toilet and a sink with water I would put somewhere below “syringe full of AIDs” on the list of things I’d like to drink from. Because of the putridness of the sink’s pipes, I bring cups of water up to brush with. One of these cups, inexplicably, I left on my monitor last night. Today, and in looking at it now I don’t know what exactly I was trying to do that caused this, I punched said cup, spilling water all over said monitor. Sure enough it fizzled and went all faded on me. I went to the attic to get another old one, which also decided it hated me, before settling on stealing the one hooked up to my brother’s computer. My actual, not-a-piece-of-shit monitor is now sitting upside down on my eight square-feet of floor space in the hopes that will somehow make it not broked anymore. I don’t know, it worked for my phone.

Like I said before, this is simply the stupidness coming to mind right now, and I’m sure there is plenty I missed, but I’ve been writing for awhile now and I still have to do a fake bio for Jim’s birthday present, since he asked me a week ago, and his birthday is now in the multiple-days stage of passed. In my defense, I’ve been diligently working to create a new MillerBrothersMMA.com (which now looks much slicker and more professional if I do say so myself) because it needed to look better to match the big news regarding them that will be going up in the coming days/weeks.

“Holy Mother of Cock,” he shouted, as his head’s upward progress was unexpectedly stopped by a protrusion out of the wall. ‘Who put a goddamn shelf above my bed?’ he thought, as his hand felt the bloody gash on his forehead. ‘Unless,’ as his eyes came into focus Gabey realized he was not in his bed, ‘I got drunk and passed out in the pantry under the stairs again.’

Gabey groped blindly in the dark until his hand found the door handle, and he tumbled haphazardly out into the hall.  Picking himself up, Gabey stumbled down the hall to the bathroom where he examined his battle wound. The shelf had left a nice cut in the shape of an ‘L’ in the middle of his forehead. “Fuck, that’s gonna leave a scar.”

The smell of bacon caught Gabey’s attention, and so he headed for the kitchen, a large clump of toilet paper pressed to his aching head. In the kitchen Gabey found his housemate Alonso at the stove. Looking away from his frying pan Alonso saw Gabey’s bloody face. “Oh my God Gabey, what happened?”

“Shelf,” Gabey muttered. “Bacon. Now.”

“Oh, of course sweetie,” Alonso said, scooping several strips onto a plate for Gabey. “That’s all for you though, the rest is for my Freddie.”

Fred was Alonso’s life partner. They met after Alonso saw Fred’s band play a gig, and while the law forbade them to get married, they had taken to calling themselves the Dursties, after Fred.

“Oh, and Gabey, you got some mail.”

Gabey grabbed the envelope from the counter as he sat at the table and, biting into several pieces of bacon he tore it open. A tattered looking letter fell out, and with a bemused fascination, Gabey picked it up:

Gabey put down the letter to see Alonso staring attentively at him. “Well, what did it say?”

Gabey looked at the letter, and after a while decided it likely wasn’t actually self-destructive, rather it was written by a crackpot. Chomping down the last of his bacon, Gabey went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “I’m gonna be a wizard. Or a chef.”

Leading the broadcast for UFC 2 is Brian Kilmeade, promoted from his position as post-fight interviewer, presumably because producers felt his performance really stuck out as the most superb at UFC 1, which is akin to being the member of a surgical team that was least drunk. Joining him is the somewhat-crazy Jim Brown, and the new grappling expert for the broadcast, Ben Perry. Gone from the booth are Bill Wallace, deemed too terrible at broadcasting, and Kathy Long, deemed too having a vagina.

The crew does a great job of continuing the sports drive to near-outlaw status by letting us know anything can happen tonight, including the loss of teeth, or eyes. The results of the first seven prelim fights are briefly given to us, and we learn, quite sadly, that Pat Smith’s victory has denied us of what would no doubt have been an epic battle between a Ninja and a Wizard.

Awesome.

Minoki Ichihara is featured before his prelim match and described as a real favorite in the event. Remember the name, folks, for he is likely to be around a long time in this tournament. Who’s he fighting? Oh, wait, nevermind.

Minoki Ichihara vs. Royce Gracie

Ichihara is going to be up against defending champion Royce Gracie, and things will not be ending well for him. Royce is a 4^th degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, which roughly means he can choke you out with a mean though, I’m pretty sure. The fight starts and Royce takes Ichihara down almost immediately, passes to mount, and is showered with boos, because what the shit, why is nobody dying yet? Perry tells us Royce won’t be looking for any of that pussy arm lock shit, and that he is on him like a crab, which seems like a personal matter. Royce has Ichihara down in the worst part of the ring, right in front of “Rickson, Royler, Royce, Roller and the rhole Gracie clan.” No word on how he managed to be in his own corner. Royce secures Ichihara in a collar choke, which Perry promptly identifies as one of those bitch-ass arm locks, and that the arm is definitely broken. He then stares perplexed at the replay in which the arm is never even straightened out.

Preliminary Fight Recaps

Some brief highlights of the prelims are shown, the highlights of the highlights being Perry failing in spectacular fashion to pronounce the name of a fighter’s discipline, but lying his way through it with aplomb, and the 6’5” David Levicki “losing the endurance contest” with Johnny Rhodes. Turns out Levicki runs right out of endurance just as soon as you smash him the face repeatedly with a bare fist.

Pictured: Bad Endurance

Orlando Weit is the last new highlight shown, as he commits third degree assault in and around the vicinity of Robert Lucarelli’s person, while Big John stands around and watches helplessly. The latter is because the rules actually don’t allow him to step in, as opposed to future performances by Steve Mazzagatti, in which standing around is done primarily because, dude, they’re all the way over there, and I’m just going to wait until the beating gets a little closer.

Finally we once again get to see Royce’s finish, during which Perry comments on his complete lack of any concept of what is happening with it, and then Kilmeade and Brown wax poetic about how important it is to have an expert like Perry, otherwise they would be clueless to the happenings on the ground. This is said non-ironically. It also ignores that Kilmeade was the “grappling expert” at UFC 1.

Pat Smith vs. Scott Morris

Smith and Morris is just another iteration in the classic rivalry between kickboxers, Smith, and Ninjas, Morris.

Holy Christ! The fight quickly goes to the canvas with Smith in full mount, a situation he uses to rain down a ludicrous string of elbows which leave Morris bleeding and twitching on the floor.

“I don’t know if the fight was officially over there,” Perry says as a replay is shown of Smith leaving Morris’ body twitching on the ground, followed shortly by Morris’ soul doing likewise.

Ninja spirits carry spirit swords. This is a fact.

Johnny Rhodes vs. Fred Ettish

Rhodes defeated a 6’5” goliath in his preliminary fight, earning him a match-up with Ettish, an alternate filling in for the injured-in-victory Frank Hamaker, who looks like 14 year old wearing a fake mustache. This should end well. “I have absolute faith in my system of Kenpo,” Ettish says, a faith he will shortly come to learn is entirely misplaced. Ettish comes across the cage toward Rhodes looking very much like Kip from Napoleon Dynamite, and fighting very much like Kip from Napoleon Dynamite, as he attempts to karate chop Rhodes in the fist.

Ettish is down and butt scooting, with little chops at the legs, and Kilmeade asks how Ettish should get up to his feet. Definitely facing backwards, away from Rhodes, is the expert analysis. Rhodes gets tired of feet swatting at his ankles and hammers on Ettish, opening a cut, then knees him in the dome several times as Ettish tries to stand. He uses Ettish’s hair to set up getting an arm across the throat in an odd combination of side control and a guillotine, and Perry remarks that one arm is all you need for the choke. This would be the point I’d make fun of him for that comment were the chokee not Fred Ettish, who taps. The “impressive” label is summarily slapped on Rhodes performance, as he really did show he had the ability to beat up an adolescent.

Remco Pardoel vs. Orlando Weit

Perry informs us that Pardoel has no shot whatsoever at winning this fight, and gamblers across the country race to their bookies to lay all their money on the Dutch grappler. Remco, being the expert grappler that he is, pulls back-mounted. Through the magic of the early UFCs, this turns out to be a great play, as Weit just kind of holds onto his upper body, allowing Pardoel to move to back-side-mounted, where he lands a series of back elbows which put out Weit’s lights. “So, he is somewhat human,” the announcing team chimes in on Weit, which is a bold statement to make as he lies unconscious on the mat. After the fight, Pardoel explains that he too really expected that fight to end with his ass getting kicked.

Jason Delucia vs. Royce Gracie

More excellent hype work as it carefully explained just how uneven another fight on the card is. The ring announcer introduces Jason Deluca, then repeats Deluca again because one incorrect pronunciation is never enough. Royce is announced as the reigning “Ultimate Fighting Champion Champion,” and I suddenly feel bad for the prior joke, because I think he may have a wrong-word stutter disorder or something. Royce does what Royce does, which if you haven’t been paying attention, is drag the fight down, take the mount and submit the hell out of his opponent. Delucia taps standing, taps falling, taps lying down, and eventually the fight is stopped by Big John. Once again, Mazzagatti points to the screen and says, “See, fans, I DO ref exactly like the best ref in the business.”

Perry returns to his “broken” hyperbole during the replay, which is immediately followed by Kilmeade asking why he tapped to the hold.

Pat Smith vs. Johnny Rhodes

Smith comes to the ring as we are told that he will be making his way to the Octagon for the 2^nd time tonight, 3^rd in total. Neither of those numbers is correct. Once again it is clearly defined for us how boned one of the competitors is, this time Rhodes, as the fight begins. Smith is hailed for his advantage as a professional boxer, while Rhodes cascades his right hand off Smith’s face, relatively undefended, multiple times. The distance is closed, and Rhodes is caught in a deep standing guillotine, which he elects to tap out to with his foot, which isn’t the best decision, as nobody seems to realize it’s a tap for awhile. Ever the class act, Smith chalks his three wins up to “easy opponents,” and a shot of the ring girls actually makes the viewers at home miss Edith.

Timmy's initial picture was just a drawing of some girls from his class, because all girls have cooties.

Royce Gracie vs. Remco Pardoel

The announcing booth seems moderately offended that Pardoel is still in the competition, though they won’t have to be for much longer, most likely. Pardoel again elects to immediately give his back to his opponent, which seems less wise against a Gracie. Royce struggles to drag the larger man down, looking unfortunately akin to a dog humping a leg, before eventually getting the fight to his, and supposedly Pardoel’s, domain. He grabs Pardoel’s collar and looks for the collar choke, though Perry informs us that the choke is not in and Pardoel is fine. Pardoel taps, and so ends the reign of terror by ol’ captain confidence. Brown calls Perry’s analysis of the choke “his 1,000^th great observation tonight,” which, sadly, I am pretty sure was meant sincerely. The smaller man tapping the larger man, kind of old hat by now, honestly, is explained by the Gracie axiom that it’s like being in a pool – a 250 lbs. man and a 145 lbs. man both weight the same if they’re in a pool. Gracie Jiu Jitsu: So bad ass, it just armlocked physics.

Prior to the final round of the tournament, UFC 1 competitor Ken Shamrock is interviewed. Modern fans watching the event may be confused by what they see, but I can assure there was, in fact, a time when Shamrock was affable and humble. Ken says Pardoel could be a real force in the future, once the black belt grappler “learns a little submissions.”

The learning curve of the grappling arts is discussed, and Perry states that it is really kind of super easy to pick up, and that six months is more than enough time to learn it. With that in mind, everybody, look for me at the next ADCC, tapping the shit out of everybody in the absolute division. Hell, I’m pretty much cheating, as I already have experience losing in grappling matches to my blue belt best friend.

Pat Smith vs. Royce Gracie

Perry explains that Royce is more content to carry a slower pace than normal in this bout. When asked why, he states it is because it is the final bout, so he will not be using anything other than his normal strategy. Royce trips Smith down directly into half guard, and soon pops his leg free to mount, surprisingly enough. Smith taps, and eventually the towel is thrown in leading to a stop, and the exclamation that Smith will not like the stoppage. The announcing team is still in shock that Smith is not raising hell over the fight stopping, ignoring the replays where it shows he quite clearly tapped well before it ended. Royce is declared the UFC tournament winner for the second time in a row, and Perry marvels at how his jiu jitsu allows him to do it with no violence.

Royce, non-violently bending Jason Delucia's arm in the wrong direction. Other non-violent acts include choking people, and punching them in the face while sitting on their chest.

Breakout Performance: Ben Perry. I feel bad for the competitors as the award goes to a non-fighter for the second event in a row, but there is no clearer choice. As the resident jiu jitsu expert for the event, Perry knocks his performance out of the park by failing to offer any insight on any of the grappling that is going on throughout the night, and misrepresenting multiple Royce Gracie submissions. Truly one of those great moments in sports that, even as you watch it live, you know – this is the future of the sport.

Most Disappointing Performance: Ray the Wizard. Dude, you are a wizard, and you didn’t even manage to make the broadcast? How the hell does that even happen? Sure, Pat Smith was a moderately scary man and all, but wizards can shoot fucking fire balls. Fire balls.

The Tito Ortiz Let Me Tell You How You’re Feeling as One of the Greatest Announcers of the Night Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Broadcasting with Excellently: “Yeah, one of his quotes, yeah.” – Brian Kilmeade. After Perry tells of a joke by Royce that, after training with his brothers all his life, the tournament would be a breeze, Kilmeade uses his seat of power as the lead broadcaster to confirm that, indeed, those were words, and Royce said them once. Yeah.

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Bobby Presents is updated five days a week, Monday to Friday. Every Monday is MMA Monday, so check back for more Guided Tours, and the sporadic non-Tour article. Check back Fridays before fights for MMA-themed Future Friday features.

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