Status: Married
City: Rocky Mountain HIGH
Country: US
Signup Date: 8/24/2005
|
|
|
|
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
|
Let's hop in the way back machine to 19 mother-fucking 79, my
friends. Disco was all the rage, and the birth control pill flipped
the sexual game right on it's fat, stupid head. Enter Donna Summer,
and the song, "Hot Stuff."
Women no longer had to worry about the reproductive repercussions of
acting on their natural instincts. Women have always been the ones
resisting sex, because if they're not careful, they're the ones that
got pregnant by the act, and if you're not looking for a baby that can
be a real buzz kill. I don't think guys can even imagine the
conflicted feeling where there's an itch that you really want to
scratch, but if you do scratch it, you're gonna wind up being out of
commission for most of a year, and then have a child to raise for the
next 18, and most likely you don't have the money to care for it. That
reality really put the brakes on sexual desire, until the magic that is
the birth control pill came along.
For the first time in human history all they had to do was swallow this
little thing every day, and they could get hot sperm pumped into them
by the bucket without a worry in the world.
That, and disco, opened the door for Donna Summer.
Just stop and think about the difference between the 50's and what kinda shit Donna Summer was rocking 20 years later.
Pause for a second and consider these lyrics, all sung by this sexy
black chick with an amazing body and a voice that just screamed sex.
Big, fat, juicy lips painted bright red moaned these lyrics, and she's
in Lingerie on the cover of the fucking album.
"... Gonna bring a wild man back home.
Gotta have some hot love baby this evening, I need some hot stuff baby
tonight, I want some hot stuff baby this evening, gotta have some
loving, got to have love tonight.."
Are you fucking shitting me? I mean was there anything even
remotely similar in the 50's? Not a god damned fucking chance. They
used to freak out when Elvis thrust his pelvis around onstage, and 20
years later here's this hot bitch in heat begging for dick, and it's a
gigantic hit song.
There was no Facebook to blow up their spot, and the diseases were few
and far between. Even if you did catch something exotic, all you had
to do was take a shot of penicillin and you were back in action in a
week.
There was no texting, no cell phones, so there was a different type
of urgency when it came to fucking. You had to get it while it was
there. Women were running around, doing cocaine and taking hot loads
from guys they barely knew.
If must have been a fucking fantastic time to be alive.
Powered by  | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Monday, November 30, 2009
|
A couple weekends ago was the scene of another spirited jaunt across
the Ocean to see my friends in the UK. Saturday the UFC was in
Manchester, England, and as per usual, I scheduled a comedy show the
night before the fights with my good friend and UK comic Dave Bishop at
a place called the Dancehouse Theatre. This was my sixth trip to
England, and over the course of time I’m very fortunate to have
developed a nice following over there, so the show was sold out way in
advance. I apologize to the folks that couldn’t get in, and next time
I’m there I’m going to look for a larger venue to accommodate you all,
or maybe come a day earlier and do a second night. The show was great,
including the usual mix of cool people and drunken hecklers, but even
the people that yelled out were good-natured, and a good time was had
by all.
I’ve been working on a lot of new material lately, hence the lack of blog updates.
I’ve also been working on writing a book, and my internet output has
unfortunately taken a back seat to some other stuff I have to get
done. Fear not, my cyber chums; I haven’t forgotten about you. I
would promise that I’m going to update more frequently, but I’ve said
that before, and we all see how that went.
During the course of the show in Manchester, in the middle of one of
my more spirited bits, my pants tore from my ass crack to ¾ of the way
down to my knee. That was a first. What was surprising was that for a
few seconds right when it happened I was actually self-conscious about
it. I informed the audience immediately, and then brought up how silly
it was that after all the fucked up shit I said onstage with no worries
whatsoever, I was actually embarrassed for a moment that people could
now see a part of my leg.
Ah, what strange animals, we humans.
Someone in the audience was doing some highly illegal bootleg
filming when it ripped, and at somewhere around 4:00 in you can see it
happen.
Here's me after the show with Dave Bishop and my good friend Victor Davilla, the Spanish color commentator for the UFC.
Saturday night rolled around, and I once again had the best seat in the
house for the most exciting sport in the world. Even though I’ve been
doing commentary for the UFC for the past 7 years or so, it still
shocks me sometimes that one of my jobs is to call the action for the
biggest cage fighting organization in history. I always enjoy it, and
appreciate every second of it, but it still seems crazy every single
time.
This particular event was a fantastic showing for the UK fighters.
Having the UFC in their homeland is fairly rare, and they were suitably
pumped up for the opportunity.
Over the past few years that the UFC has expanded it’s attention over
seas we’ve really seen a dramatic increase in the skill level of the
fighters over there.
MMA truly is becoming a world wide sport, and the fighters from England
are as good as any in the world now, and it happened FAST. They just
really took to the sport, and their enthusiasm is infectious. If you
ever happen to be in the UK for a live event and you’ve got the
scratch, I urge you to take a chance and witness the spectacle. It’s
quite a sight to behold. The roars for the English fighters were
deafening, and often times in the middle of a bout the whole crowd will
break out into song. It’s pretty fucking trippy, and it’s one of the
extra cool things about having fights over there.
The traveling road show that is the UFC employs over a hundred
people. From fighters and managers to cameramen and production crew
it’s quite a big group of humans. After the work is done, we usually
wind up hanging out in the hotel bar, or checking out the local haunts
together. There was a rule that was once instituted somewhere along
the line that the crew wasn’t supposed to drink, but I’m pretty sure
the powers that be realized how silly that was. Sure, it causes the
occasional minor problem, but in the long run a pop or two after the
work is done makes the whole experience more enjoyable for everyone.
Some folks like to take it DEEP. I’ve known a lot of people that
enjoyed getting fucked up in my day, but none of them that like to take
it to the place my best friend on the planet, the brilliant, and
wonderfully flawed Eddie Bravo hits. That motherfucker gets DRUNK.
I enjoy people that approach life with reckless abandon, and Eddie
dives in as freely as anyone I’ve ever met in my life. Self-control is
all well and good if you want to leave a good impression with your
co-workers on your way up the corporate ladder, but when it comes to
being entertaining, the cold hard truth is that it’s very rarely the
guy getting up for the 7am yoga class that has the funny shit to say.
No, that guy is usually way too self-conscious to hit the high notes.
The fun times are to be had hanging out with the blackout drunks.
Eddie is an incredibly creative guy both with his Jiu Jitsu and his
music, and I firmly believe creativity and an attraction to chaos are
very closely related. He fearlessly dives into the creation of his
music, and the teaching and training in Jiu Jitsu, and he applies that
very same ballistic energy to his partying.
It’s been the subject of many a conversation amongst our friends, to
the point where I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s really two
dudes living inside Eddie; “Sober Eddie,” and “Drunk Eddie.” Two
totally different humans, and they apparently don’t talk to each other
about anything. They seem to share no information whatsoever, because
when “Drunk Eddie” is gone, “Sober Eddie” usually has no fucking idea
what happened. Now, it’s not that he gets violent, or does anything
stupid when “Drunk Eddie” is working the controls, and as long as I’ve
met him he’s never been arrested or done anything offensive while
hammered, but the bottom line is that when he’s gone, he’s GONE.
 I’ve never blacked out from alcohol, so I don’t quite personally
understand the mechanism behind the event, but because of Eddie I’m
absolutely convinced that it’s real. I used to think it was just a cop
out, and that people claiming they blacked out when they were drunk
were full of shit until I met Eddie, but he’s an honest man, and when
he tells me he has no idea what happened last night I fucking believe
him.
The drunkest I’ve ever been in my life by far was in public, and I
remember most of it. It was a show at the House of Blues in Vegas
where I drank something in the neighborhood of 15 shots inside an hour
and a half. It wasn’t my idea, but those motherfuckers in the audience
just kept sending drinks up there. In the beginning I didn’t turn them
down because I didn’t want to be rude, but after the 4th or 5th tequila
I think it sort of became a game with those fucks to see how many I
would swallow. After a while, when good judgment had long left the
building and was safely tucked into bed for the night, I became curious
myself to see where this was going to go. I wasn’t sure what my
personal drinking record had been up to that point, but I was pretty
certain I had at least doubled it.
I don’t remember too much of the show, but I do remember being
backstage and immediately hurling an ungodly amount of liquid from my
mouth into a trash can right next to these security guards that were
saying that they wanted to put me in a wheel chair. I insisted that
wasn’t necessary, that I just needed a wee bit of time to recover, and
I wasn’t really into them pushing me through the casino all drooling
and rubber necked with vomit on my breath. An hour or so later after
drinking a lot of water and a couple red bulls, I was able to move my
body towards my hotel room. I slept for 3 hours, and when my alarm
went off, I somehow got up like I always do, and I made it to the
airport and caught my flight on time.
I have no fucking idea how I did it, and I felt like shit afterward for 3 days, but for the most part I remember what happened.
 Eddie goes through nights all the fucking TIME where he doesn’t
remember a single thing that took place. Not even the slightest memory.
It’s the craziest thing ever to observe. You can see it clearly in his
eyes when he crosses over to the land of no memory – the forth drink
pours down the hatch, and he gets this look in his eyes that’s a cross
between a man sleep walking and a monkey that just escaped from the
circus.
Alcohol, like most drugs, interacts with different people’s unique
biological quirks in different ways, and produces varied results. The
combination of the accumulative stress piled on by this crazy life and
the inhibition-releasing surge of alcohol can be quite a volatile
mixture for some folks. Then, you have to take into account genetics,
or what my friend Joey Diaz calls “The Indian” factor. Eddie is
Mexican, and according to Joey, Mexicans are a combination of Spanish
and Native American Indian, and the Indians never really developed the
gene for moderate drinking.
When Eddie crosses over to sleep-walking-monkey-land, Joey will
shout out, “The Indian is here, cock suckers! Put up your teepees and
look out for tomahawks! Tonto is on the MOVE!”
It was 6:45 am in morning in Manchester when the car arrived to take
us to the airport. I was still awake from the night before, since
because of the time difference my sleep schedule was completely out of
whack. I had slept until 3pm that day and I just never got tired, so I
stayed up. I watched the masterful boxing performance Manny Pacquio
laid on Miguel Cotto, and fucked around on the internet until the car
came.
We had gone out for Chinese food after the fights, and Eddie had 2
drinks with dinner, which doesn’t usually mean you have to look out for
stray arrows, but it does mean that drums are playing in the distance,
and tribe is on the move. We got back to the bar, I bobbed and weaved
my way though a sea of affliction shirts and body odor, had a beer,
took some pictures and said my good nights. That was the last I saw of
Eddie, so in my mind ANYTHING could have happened last night.
I called his cell.
Nothing.
Shit.
I called again, still no answer. I had the front desk call his room – nothing. Again… nothing. Shit.
I went down to his room with the hotel staff, and we banged on the door.
Nothing.
Shit. “Can you open the door?”
“Certainly, sir.”
God damn, that’s a cool fucking accent.
She opened the door, and we saw Eddie’s shit scattered all over the
floor, and the bed where Eddie - lights on and all - was still fast
asleep, fully clothed and tucked into bed. It was “Last Stand at
Little Big Horn” all over this motherfucker.
“Eddie!”
Nothing.
“Eddie!!”
Movement, his head pops up, and without the slightest sense of urgency he says, “What’s up?”
His eyes looked like someone held them open with tooth picks and had a snake piss on his retinas.
“We gotta go to the airport, dude.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
All I could think of was at least he didn’t take my car like that time in Germany.
That was the craziest Indian invasion ever.
The car was picking us up at 9:30am, and I was up at 8 to have
breakfast. The last I had seen Eddie he was heading out with a bunch
of English jiu jitsu enthusiasts, and that was around midnight. I
called him the next morning to see if he wanted to get some grub, and
as soon as he picked up the phone it sounded like a fucking John Wayne
movie was playing in the background - battle cries, war drums, and
“Drunk Eddie” on the lead horse. He answered the phone practically
shouting, trying to talk over the sounds of gunshots and flying arrows
in his head.
“WHAT’S UP, MAN!?”
“Are you still drunk?”
“Helllllllll yeah!”
“OK, I’m getting something to eat, and the car is picking us up at 9:30.”
“I’m gonna power through!”
“Alright, man. See you in an hour and a half; make sure you’re awake.”
Of course when I call his cell phone an hour and a half later there’s no answer. I call his room.
Nothing.
I pound on the door.
Nothing.
I go to the front desk, and when I ask them to call his room again, they inform me that he’s already checked out.
Here we go.
I head outside to see if he’s waiting for the car and can’t hear his phone or something, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I look around for the car that’s supposed to be taking me to the
airport, and when I can’t find it I ask one of the guys working at the
valet.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Joe Rogan.”
He raises his eyebrows with a puzzled look on his face, “Joe Rogan just got into his car 15 minutes ago.”
“What? What did he look like?”
“Long hair, tattoos…”
“Fuuuuuuuuuck!”
I frantically call Eddie, and after the forth or fifth time he picks
up. The phone call ends “Drunk Eddie’s” time for the evening, and
“Sober Eddie” starts his shift by waking up to his phone ringing in the
back of a speeding car headed down a German highway towards the airport
without a SINGLE fucking memory of the night before.
Last thing he remembers he was out with the English Jiu Jitsu guys,
and that was somewhere in the neighborhood of 9 hours ago. If that was
me I would be in a fucking panic, thinking I was drugged, checking my
underwear for blood, etc. – but for Eddie, it was just another day in
the life of a wild man.
Luckily I caught a cab and made the flight on time, so it was
all-good in the end. Sure, it got a little stressful, but it gave us
something funny to talk about on the 10-hour flight home, and it sure
beats hanging out with Mr. morning yoga and his boring fucking stories.
Live it up, bitches. We only go this way once… I think.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Sunday, November 01, 2009
|
http://eepurl.com/eDz4
I'm coming to Cap City comedy club next week, you dirty bitches.
8120 Research Blvd # 100
Austin, TX 78758-8475
Get Directions
(512) 467-2333
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Thursday, October 22, 2009
|
I'll have some new blogs up for you freaks soon. I've had a lot of
crazy shit happen over the past few weeks. Much to talk about, but not
a whole lot of time right now unfortunately.
This Friday night I'll be at the Hollywood, CA improv for 2 shows at
8 and 10 with Joey Diaz and Ari Shaffir. Come on down and join the
party!
http://www.symfonee.com/improv/hollywood/comedians/Bio.aspx?Uid=acd01ce6-c910-4e94-8297-0f0157214151
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
|
I'll be taking over KBPI's radio show in Denver tomorrow morning, Tuesday 9-29-09 from 7:30am to 10:30am.
You can call in at 303-713-7625 or 303-713-7655 the last 4 digits of each phone number are "ROCK" and "ROLL"
How cute. And how fucking annoying if you're trying to call them
from a blackberry and you have to figure out what the fuck those
letters represent in numbers. I actually had to ask to borrow
someone's phone once just to read the letters on the numbers.
I really wish people would stop that goofy practice. Just give me
the fucking number, please. Anyway, call up, I'll take as many calls
as I can in between the songs that they have to play. It's always a
good time on that station, and now that I'm living in Colorado I'm sure
I'll be on more often.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Thursday, September 24, 2009
|
I got an incredible amount of responses to my last blog, so many and
so varied that I thought I should probably address a few. The vast
majority of the people agreed with what I had to say, and applauded my
stand against some of the more ridiculous trends infecting our beloved
sport, but curiously quite a few folks felt I was unjustly “bashing”
MMA fans, and a couple even arrived at the misguided opinion that by
poking fun at some of the silly behavior and moronic wardrobe choices I
was somehow “biting the hand that feeds me.”
I’m a goof.
But guess what, fuck face - so are you. We all are.
It comes with the territory of being a human being; we are innately
goofy, odd little talking monkeys spinning around on this giant rock
that’s flying through the infinite vastness of the universe.
The biggest and saddest goofs amongst us by FAR, however, are the ones that get angry when you make fun of them.
The bottom line in this life, is do whatever the fuck you want to do as long as it’s not harming anyone else.
Happiness is precious and there is no universal method of achieving it.
If it really brings you joy, and you’re not hurting anyone else, fuck what some dummy like me has to say.
When you’re taking a picture standing next to Vitor Belfort put TWO
fists up, just for spite. Right before the flash goes off, pull your
pants down too. He’s a nice guy, he probably won’t say shit.
Does that “Tap or Snap – the choice is yours!” T-shirt really appeal to you? If it does, rock that shit homey.
What, are you gonna live forever?
Fuck it – after you get that bitch home, head on down to your local
“Hot Topic” and get yourself some glue and glitter, and pimp that
motherfucker up proper. Put a big, red, glittery dick on the front and
wear it around the mall with your chest puffed out. If it puts a smile
on your face, that’s really all that matters.
To all you silly fucks out there that were actually upset at
anything I said, my recommendation to you, is to get yourself a joint
and a telescope. Take a couple hits, look through that lens, and even
if it’s just for a brief moment try to get yourself a different
perspective. You’ll thank me later.
I wasn't planning to write this blog entry, and in the end I didn't
actually have that much to say, but I'm trying to really update this
thing more often. I'm sitting in a hotel room right now, and I've got
to get some sleep. I've been working on a movie for the last couple
weeks in Boston, and after long days on the set I've got to force
myself to bang something out on the keyboard.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Saturday, September 19, 2009
|
I’m sitting on a plane right now headed to Dallas, Texas to witness and commentate on UFC 103. Today I’ll announce the weigh ins where 26 fighters will step on to the scale, dehydrated and nervous, 24 hours away from swinging their bones at each other and attempting to strangle each other unconscious. The weigh ins are always an interesting part of fight weekend because you get to see the fighters face to face a full day before combat. Some guys look dried out and sickly from the weight cut, and just looking at their physical appearance often influences betting lines. It’s a sophisticated thing, this weight cutting, and many of these fighters have it down to a science. Looking to squeeze out every extra edge, it’s not unusual for guys to weigh in a full 20lbs lighter than they’ll be the next day for combat.
The weigh ins are open to the public, and always packed with rabid mixed martial arts fans, as well as an abundance of affliction t shirts and tribal tattoos. Women will scream and cheer. Men will puff out their chests and flex when their favorite fighter takes the scale. Excitement will fill the air, building with each subsequent weigh in until it climaxes with the main event stare down.
Some folks will want to get their posters signed by their favorite fighters, but this the age of the internet, and when it comes to fan requests the digital photograph has far surpassed the autograph. These days everyone’s phone has a camera, and everyone wants a picture of them holding their fist up standing next to Randy Couture on their facebook page. That is easily one of the weirdest and goofiest things about MMA fans; the fist-up pose with the fighter. I can’t think of another sport that has a pose that the fans take when they get pictures with the athletes where they mimic the activity they enjoy watching. It’s not just a few guys striking this dopey pose, either. It’s the majority. I can completely understand if you’re a fighter yourself, and you want an image of camaraderie with one of your sporting idols, but if you’re an overweight short order cook who’s never even taken a tae bo class, do the world a favor and keep your fucking fist un-balled when you’re standing next to Anderson Silva.
Another unintentionally hilarious aspect of the MMA culture is the abundance of retarded macho “fight wear” T-shirts. The enormous financial success of enterprising clothing companies like “Tapout” have given birth to a rise of ham-handed imitators where each one tries to out retard the next. Images of chained up pitbulls and skulls are the norm with shiny foil letters to make sure you can clearly read the “Break my dick off in your ass - fight wear” label. At the last UFC in New Jersey I actually saw a guy in the audience with a shirt that said, “Some guys are strikers, some guys are grapplers… I’M BOTH!”
Good lord. Someone please find that poor fuck and give him a hug.
The doucebaggery isn’t limited to T-shirts, either. I had one guy email me that actually wanted to sell me an pendant that was an MMA glove smothered in diamonds. The name of his company? “Hard as diamond – for those who are.”
No bullshit.
Could you even imagine the near fatal levels of meathead you would have to be infected with to walk out of your house with a diamond encrusted fighting glove around your neck? On paper it doesn’t even seem possible.
You would think that if you were that retarded there’s no way you would be able to scrape together the kind of money you would need to purchase such an expensive monstrosity. The only way I could see it happen is if maybe the buyer in question won the lottery, or possibly won a huge settlement in some brain damage inducing accident at the local toilet factory or something. Talk about your small target markets.
I emailed the enterprising young jeweler back to say that I wasn’t really interested in the glove, but I wanted to know if he could possibly make me a gold pendant of a dragon fucking a pit bull in the ass - covered in diamonds. I also wanted to know if the dragon’s tail could possibly be constructed in a manner that would allow for it to be detached and double as a cock ring.
I eagerly await his response.
The weigh ins went well, with a couple fighters above the weight limit. Hermes Franca is fighting Tyson Griffin in a very exciting lightweight battle, and Hermes informed the UFC that he wasn’t able to make the agreed upon 155lb class so they settled on a catch weight of 159. I’m not sure why he showed up heavy, but it could be because of illness, or maybe an injury. I’m sure we’ll find out after the fight. Tyson had no problem with Hermes not making the weight since because of this failure Hermes forfeits 15% of his fight purse to him.
Former light heavyweight champion Vitor Belfort is facing former middleweight champion Rich Franklin in a fantastic main event between two seasoned veterans. Vitor showed up ¼ of a pound heavy, but made the weight easily on the second try. The only other failure to make weight was by Efrain Escudero, a former winner of the Ultimate Fighter who is facing the very tough up and coming Cole Miller in a bout to be televised live on Spike TV. Efrain struggled to make the 155lb limit, but eventually got there.
Should be an awesome night of fights. There’s 13 fights total, with 2 of them featured live on Spike TV at 9est, and then 5 or more of them airing on pay per view depending on how many early knockouts or submissions there are during the main card.
As I finish this up, it’s 12:30 and I’m just waiting for my waffles and eggs to digest so that I can head downstairs to the gym to get a workout in before the show. I really fucking love these UFC events, and I look forward to each and every one of them. Being a commentator for the UFC is truly one of the greatest jobs on the planet and it’s my all time favorite sport to watch by a long shot. I’ll take some pictures and video and have it all up for you guys tomorrow.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
|
It was 4:30 in the morning at the Clift Hotel in San
Francisco when the alarm went off.
It woke me up from a deep sleep, and at first I was
completely bewildered. I thought
it was the clock radio alarm in my room, and for the life of me I couldn't
figure out how to shut the fucker off.
I was pressing buttons, looking for a volume control... but the fucking
thing wouldn't stop it's screeching.
I turned on the light, and as my eyes were trying to adjust
enough to read the controls on the clock a voice came over the loudspeaker:
"Attention, there has been a fire reported in the
building. Please evacuate
immediately."
I thought at first it was some sort of a recording, but then
I realized that it was just a live woman reading it in a mechanical voice. I realized this when she kept the mic
keyed open in between announcements, and I heard a much less calm and robotic
man's voice behind her saying, "We've got to get these people out of the
building!"
The whole crazy picture was starting to come together.
The hotel is on fire, and I'm on the 15th floor. FUCK.
I threw on my clothes, stepped out into the hallway, and was
prepared to make a mad sprint down the stairs, but I encountered a river of
sleepy travelers funneling into the single file stairwell.
FUCK.
The people were nervous and more than a little out of it,
and the line going down the stairs was moving maddeningly slow.
It was one of those stairwells where you could see straight
down from the top floor all the way to the bottom, and if you were so inclined
you could really freak yourself out by leaning over the railing and thinking
about how far a fall it was.
I looked down the well as the line slowly shuffled down the
stairs, and at each floor more people were jamming into the herd. There was
smoke obscuring the view of the bottom, and as we slowly creeped down this
retarded single file pathway to safety I kept my eyes peeled onto that smoke as
we went down, holding at bay all thoughts of drastic measures until I saw
flames.
People were moving so fucking slowly. It was a very nerve racking and
helpless feeling. My humanity and
my chimp DNA were having a tense conversation in my head. The humanity side was looking at all
these people that were having a hard time walking; old people, obese people, the
chronically timid that wilt under any sort of ordinary, every day stress, never
mind being a part of a slow chain of hundreds of people making their way down a
single file staircase into a hotel fire.
People were freaking out, and my humanity was feeling for
them. It must be a terrible
feeling to not only be afraid, but to feel like you're slowing down hundreds of
able bodied people from getting to safety in time.
My chimp side, however, was ready to climb over their
shoulders and run on the top of their heads all the way to the bottom.
The chimp in my head reported ready and able, "Just say
the word, boss. We're ready to
take over at the first sign of the flames." The chemical smell of fire extinguishers filled the
air. People were covering their mouths
with their robes and t shirts. I
could hear humanity turn to the chimp, not quite dismissing him anymore,
"Hang on, lets just see how this plays out."
Some people were really freaking out and not handling it
well.
It took at least 2 minutes to get from the 15th floor to the
12th floor, and it seemed like it was slowing down. The announcement got more
specific:
"A fire has been reported on the second floor. Please evacuate the hotel
immediately." 10 more floors
until the fire, and we're fucking crawling. FUCK.
One guy stopped.
He just stopped walking, and slack jawed with fear turned
around to face his wife, "What is happening? What's going on?"
It was at that point that humanity and the chimp started to
sound rather indistinguishable in my head - "Move, you fuck." "Just let me yell at him, I won't
touch him...” He stopped in his tracks only for two or three seconds, but the
urge to murder him was extreme and immediate. He stuttered backwards a few tiny steps, feeling the will of
the crowd, and his wife turned him around and pointed him down the stairs.
"I don't know, just keep walking." She said.
He turned over his shoulder to look at her like he might
argue with her, and decided to just keep walking.
I focused on him intently as he re-merged with the crowd,
and as I studied his dopey shuffle I imagined reaching through his asshole,
pulling out his guts and his skeletal system and wearing his skin like a fire
suit to run through the flames.
This fantasy distracted me for the next 30 seconds that it took to make
it half a flight lower. Maybe it's
going to be OK. Hopefully we'll
make it out. Keep it together.
The painfully slow march down to safety continued. It was around the 10th floor where the
worry really cranked up a notch.
It was taking fucking forever to get down, and if I look
down and see that we're walking down into the fire, what the fuck am I going to
do? Do I keep walking and hope to
get through it without getting burned?
Do I run back upstairs and hope they can get the fire out before it
reaches the upper floors? Just the
thought of that was fucking terrifying.
What if the fire was out of control?
As we slowly got down to the bottom I was relieved to see
how calm the hotel staff was. That
was comforting. They were guiding
people outside, and as I was stepping out onto the street, one guy who worked
there informed me that some drunken douche bags on the second floor were
horsing around and one of them started blowing off the fire extinguishers. There was no actual fire.
Relieved, I got outside and walked across the street to find
my friends. We were all a little
shook up, and as we stood out there on the street lined up on the sidewalk with
hundreds of other disposed travelers, lit up by the flashing lights of the fire
trucks, it really struck me how random things can be sometimes.
We were lucky as fuck, but it could have just as easily been
a real fire. Our reality had been
severely jostled.
There was a sleazy little rub and tug massage parlor on the
side street across from the hotel and one of their "masseuses"
stepped out for a cigarette and to take a peek at all the commotion. She was wearing a short skirt, and had
some disaster of a tattoo on her fat tits that you could see spilling out over
the top of her sports bra. She
looked over and made eye contact with me, and as she took a drag off her
cigarette I imagined the smell of a thousand cocks on her hand mixing with the
fumes of the Newport she was smoking, and I thought to myself, "That might
be the saddest smell in the whole world."
I half jokingly suggested that we all go in for hand jobs -
my treat - to try to relax us after our ordeal. We joked about the sweet pleasure of being handjob number
1001 for the day, then we all agreed that probably none of us would even be
able to get it up.
As fucked up as the night had been so far, it would be far
worse if it ended with my limp dick being tugged on impatiently by a stinky
runaway.
I went back up to my hotel room an hour or so later, feeling
humbled and thankful.
Redban wrote about it on his twitter, but to me it just felt
a little too personal.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
|
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|
Friday, July 17, 2009
|
I'm sitting here on a plane headed to West Palm Beach Florida where I'm performing at the Improv comedy club this Friday and Saturday night,
and I'm able to breathe freely from my nose for the first time since I
was a little boy. My timing is perfect, because the guy sitting next
to me smells like my dog's dick. And he's drinking, at 11 am. Without
an ounce of irony I judge him silently while I pop a pot cookie in my
mouth.
"Weak ass stinky bitch." Actually I wouldn't really think that, because he seems like a really
nice guy. I'm just being silly. He does fucking stink though, I have
have a feeling he's going to get drunk. 2 weeks ago this tuesday I had surgery to repair a deviated septum,
and yesterday I had the plastic splints removed from inside my nose and
had my nasal passages cleaned and vacuumed.
If you've never had this procedure done, let me tell you - it's pretty fucking intense.
Just getting the surgery done was a relief as I've had a fucked up
nose since I was about 5 when I smashed it falling down a flight of
stairs. I've always wanted to fix it, but it was just hard to organize
the down time. Last month I tore a hamstring muscle which I knew was
going to take me out of action for a little while, so I figured now was
the time to go ahead and get it fixed. The surgery went off without a
hitch, and once they removed the packing inside my nose it really
wasn't too bad.
The cleaning of the nasal passages, however, was one of the most
uncomfortable things I've ever experienced in my life. I can't say it
hurt too much, because the doctor sprayed the inside of my nostrils
with a numbing agent called Lidocaine. It numbs the inside of your
nose pretty well, but the downside is that it tastes like rotten demon
sperm.
The instant the doctor stuck the tube up my nose and started pumping
out that horrible liquid tears were rolling down my face and I'm
gagging and coughing while this vile shit drips down my nasal passage
to the back of my tongue - way in the back where it feels like you
shouldn't even be tasting things.
Once the numbing kicked in, the doctor started the cleaning process
which made Satan's loads feel like they were just a warmup act.
I couldn't exactly see what he was doing, but he was using these
forceps to stretch open my nostrils, and then he was sticking various
instruments in there and cutting out gigantic blood clots that could
best be described as something you might expect to find in Amy
Winehouse's toilet after a weekend bender.
Big, thick, black clots that looked like aborted rat fetuses.  He would cut and clean, and scrape the clots off the wall, and then
stuff a long metal vacuum up there to get all the loose blood and
mucus. And when I say up there, I really mean UP there. It went so
far back I didn't even know that there was a tunnel back there. I was
shocked. It was like he found a secret cave in my head. The vacuum
had a long metal tip that looked like a car antenna, (remember those?)
and he stuck this fucking thing way up my nostrils past my eyebrows. I
could hear the liquid, sucking sounds both outside my head, and far
more disturbingly - inside it too. There's something extra freaky
about hearing a biological, liquid, suction sound when it's coming from
in between your eyeballs.
Occasionally it would go too far and the vacuum would poke what felt
like the wall to my brain. Not even like a wall, more like a membrane
that seemed about as thick as a truck stop condom, and this pokey
little car antenna vacuum thing would jam into it and stick onto the
back wall just like when the pay-per-suck hose at the self service car
wash gets stuck on your floor mats. I would even hear that same
high-pitched vacuum protest noise in my skull when it happened, and
every time it stuck up there I clenched up like my asshole just got
tasered.
The whole procedure took over an hour, and every 15 minutes or so he
would dose me back up with more Lidocaine when it was obvious that it's
magical pain-reducing spell was wearing off.
We had a nice little system going, where he would poke my brain, I
would clench the chair like I was on the space shuttle reentering the
atmosphere, and he would ask,
"More hot, bitter demon loads?"
"(coughing and gagging) Yes, please..."
As the slippery Lidocaine tube went up my raw, post-surgery nose,
all I could think of was Satan's dick - gray and slimy like a dead eel
- shooting billions of individual evil sperm cells up there, each one
of them looking like a microscopic version of the chest burster from
the movie "Alien." I envisioned them roaring down my throat, screaming
in agony and ecstasy as they alternately fucked each other and eat each
other alive.
I'm gagging and coughing, and as he's pumping this vile shit up my
nose, my head is pressed against the back of the chair and I'm
imagining that the head rest is the Satan's big, hairy, 6 fingered paw
holding the back of my head like a selfish boyfriend getting his nut
off. Thankfully, Satan is a two pump chump. 5, 6 pumps at the most
and I'm leaking tears like a bitch, and numb as an old whore's clit.
"OK? Back to the nose rape?"
"(gagging and coughing) Back to the nose rape, please."
The next hour was a repeat performance, with; "Demon loads" opening
the show, followed by "nose rape," your middle act, and then, "asshole
taser brain vacuum," your headliner.
There's 3 shows in a row, and each show has a two violent sneeze
minimum. I mean sneezes so violent I thought I was going to blast a
hole through the universe and blow my blood and snot into other
dimensions.
Much like at a comedy club, if there's 3 shows in a night, by the
time the final show rolls around the audience is usually a fucking mess.
Just like the drunk people who worked all day and are falling asleep in
the audience at a midnight show on a Friday night, when that third
"asshole taser brain vacuum" act kicked in, as much as I try to see the
humor in everything, I really didn't believe that anything could ever
be funny at that moment.
Finally, like all things, eventually it ended, and when it did, I
was on a spectacular Lidocaine and endorphin high. I walked out of
that doctor's office loving every person in the whole fucking world. I
was so happy that my "demon load," "nose rape," "asshole taser brain
vacuum" loop had ended that I was just really appreciating everything.
No bullshit, I was in the elevator afterwards, and I was thinking,
"Wow. What a nice elevator. It has a 3000 lb capacity? That's pretty
impressive." I was LOVING that fucking elevator. I wanted to buy one
just like it.
I got a diet coke from the pharmacy downstairs, and when I stepped
outside, cracked it open and sipped it in the warm sun I felt like a
P.O.W. getting released from the Hanoi Hilton.
It's kind of amazing that sometimes it takes something shitty to make
us truly appreciate how great and enjoyable this life can be.
Powered by | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|
|
|
|