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