July 2009
Cutting weight is the most god awful thing that has ever been invented. Tucker
Max would say that distinction would go to the portable alcohol breathalyzer
and while I haven’t had to suffer through waking up in 120 degree car at 8 in
the morning, but at least he was allowed to eat something with cheese in it
when he came to. Now I need to clarify the difference in cutting weight and
losing weight. Losing weight is a gradual process that helps to lose fat and
gain muscle and is very healthy. Cutting weight is the process of dramatically
cutting calories and depleting you water intake and can be used for torture on
war criminals. Ever notice when you squeeze water out of a sponge it gets
lighter. Well in the following story I was the sponge. There are two parts to
this story, the process of cutting the weight, and then fight day and what
followed after the fight.
7/21: I’m in the gym that my Muay Thai coach, Boze, and I
were teaching and training at, the night before involved mass quantities of
alcohol, cheese, beef, and fried potatoes. I wasn’t exactly around my
fight weight which was 170 lbs. Now when I have a fight coming up I’m usually walking
around the 185-190 range which makes the cut torturous but definitely doable
(and hate Hardee’s billboards with a passion). I WAS NOT 185LBS, I WAS
200LBS!!! Boze walks in while I am trying to do my best attempt at heavy bag workout
with a hangover:
Boze: “Do you think you can make 175 by next Thursday?”
Frank: (with a Wily Coyote-style eyes popped out look)
“ummm, I doubt it, why?”
Boze: “Rich Clementi (UFC vet/ fight promoter) is
having a show down in Biloxi and they need a guy that can make 175.”
Frank: (contemplating how much life is going to suck if I
say yes) “I don’t know, can I make the weight?”
Boze: “Yea, just cut all your sugars and sodium and you’ll
make it.”
Frank: (with a depressed look now) “Ok”
That leaves me with 10 days to cut 24lbs (they give a 1
pound weight allowance) I proceeded to run 6 miles in 95 degree heat and
commence operation “not commit seppuku.” I figured that I could eat tomatoes,
cucumbers, fish (plain), and spinach and make the weight. Also grizzly
wintergreen was about to become my best friend.
7/22: I have a piece of bread and some tomatoes and do a
heavy bag workout at the gym round the corner from my house. I’m not
contemplating free diving from a bridge yet.
7/23: Same routine as day before, I am secretly starting to
pray that the 2012 predictions are true and that it happens by zombies so that
I can shoot all these people I see that take Pepsi for granted.
7/24: The same. I now start having no compassion for Ethiopians
or anybody that lives in third world countries.
7/25-7/27: I hate all humanity
7/28: I am no longer having with drawls from calories and am
getting use to surviving on distilled water and tomatoes and still doing
strenuous workouts. I’m over at my parent’s house and for whatever reason (I
think it’s because my brain doesn’t have enough calories to function properly)
I decide to light up a joint. I quickly learn that starvation mixed with
munchies the mental warfare equivalent of being crucified. I go and sit down at
the dinner table with my parents and my mom puts a tomato pie on the table. Now
usually this would make me happier than having a threesome with Megan Fox and
Alexis Texas, but on this day it had me crying like a Catholic having an appointment
at an abortion clinic. The beautiful plate of tomatoes, cheese, baked into a
crust was sitting right there in front of me. The smell was intoxicating; I
could just imagine myself shoveling this Italian beauty into my mouth. AND I
COULDN’T BECAUSE I WAS CUTTING WEIGHT. My dad looked at me like how most people
would look at a bum begging for money so he can get some crack. I finally caved
in and had a little sliver of that pie. It was so good in my mouth that I
almost forgot that I was in preparation to fuck start a southern bayou dude’s
face. I felt happiness and joy, no matter how little it lasted, and then it
dawned on me and I realized I’d have to burn off all that Sicilian
deliciousness. I went from happy now to feeling like a pussy that had his mom
walk in on him while masturbating.
7/29: I burn off the pie and am 8lbs of where I have to be
for weigh-ins.
7/30: I have my last meal at noon. I also just cave in to
the suffering and start enjoying it. I have officially turned into a masochist.
I also work at this bar that was a haven for over privileged debutants and
spoiled guys that were attending the Charleston School of Law. Usually
dealing with law school douches annoys me, after a week of calorie depravation
I have to restrain myself from signing their head with my mag-lite.
7/31: Me and Junior head over the gym at 4 am to wait for
Boze and RedNeckPromoter (fight promoter/t-shirt salesman) to get there. I lay
out on the air mattress that we have (no idea why we brought that) and wait for
everyone to get there. Chewing tobacco has become my only source of sustenance
and at that point all I can think about is the 11 hours it’s going to take to
Biloxi from Charleston. Around 5am Boze, RedNeckPromoter, and Cro Cop (one of
my training partners) arrive in RedNeckPromoter’s minivan. Cro Cop brings his
digital scale and I check my weight. 176.6LBS.
SWEET!!!!!
I’m only 6/10 of pound away from my target weight but
naturally as paranoid as I am (I believe in the Zombie Apocalypse, more on that
later) I think Corey’s scale might be off. We make our way through Columbia
while RedNeckPromoter runs his mouth about whatever it is that redneck’s from
Goose Creek (i.e. Noose Creek) likes to talk about (similar in behavior to
women). Even though I haven’t slept in the past 26 hours I strangely don’t feel
tired which I attribute to my body being in Beast Mode.
Beast Mode only comes out very rarely. Ever watch that seen
in Fight Clubwhere Brad Pitt lets that mob boss beat the shit out of him
before all of a sudden leaping on top of him and bleeding all over him while
screaming, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE I’VE BEEN!!!” and realizing that there are
some serious screws loose? Welcome to Beast Mode. All you can think about is
violence and pain, which in a normal state of mind is not enjoyable. In Beast
Mode these feelings bring on a sense of euphoria. All you can think about is
fuck starting faces and dancing around doing a Samoan war dance (watch the New
Zealand rugby team and you’ll know what I’m talking about). Violence is better
than pussy in this state of mind.
We make our first stop in some back water town in Georgia
and we check my weight again. 176.8 LBS
WTF????????????????????????????????????????????????
I gained 2/10 of a pound from Summerville, SC to Hick Water
Georgia Town (or whatever the fuck it was called). How the fuck did that
happen? Well I didn’t have time to bitch, I needed to lose weight like a guido
needed an Ed Hardy shirt. I start running laps while RedNeckPromoter was inside
getting a sausage and egg biscuit and came out and ate it while I was running
these laps (did I mention he sucks at life?). I do about 8 laps before the fact
that I’ve been going through the past week on about 2000 calories catches up
with me (and the fact that some dude that was 9 hours away was looking to fist
bang my face). I hop back in RedNeckPromoter’s minivan (God he sucks at life)
and we go to the gas station across the street. Now the bright idea for getting
my emaciated ass down to 176lbs:
1. Strip down to my boxers,
outside, in front of Hickwater town gas station
2. Cover my half naked body in
Thai Liniment Oil (and make me all glistening like pro wrestler covering
himself in baby oil but even more gay)
3. Switch to covering my body
in abolene (used to help fat bitches lose water weight well, look less fat
until they start having their lemon drops again.)
4. Put on a sauna suit (which
is the Snuggie equivalent of a trash bag)
5. Find out what my dick feels
when I put on a spermicidal condom the wrong way (warming sensation included)
6. ENJOY (or suffer if you are
not in my awesome realm of Beast Mode)
What did I do after this? Did I do some stupid meditation
shit to take my focus off the hunger? Did I make jokes along the way to keep my
mind? Did I find that internal piece that Native Americans find on their vision
quests? No passed the fuck out because Beast Mode was too much of a pussy for
calorie deprivation. I woke up a couple hours later, sweaty, headache,
sunglasses on my person, and realized we were stuck in Atlanta traffic. FUCK.
We are still 9 hours away and stuck in what is the interstate equivalent of
having a fat, needy bitch complaining why she can’t get laid (ironic that
RedNeckPromoter was driving). The image of me waking up can be seen on my
facebook page but if you are too lazy or just keep your browser on
eskimotube.com I’ll give you the visual:
1. Sweating profusely
2. Sunglasses (guido style)
3. Sauna suit (glorified trash
bag)
4. Fauxhawk (ritual before the
fight, when you don’t drink for 6 months and hang out with your friends you get
some weird habits)
I looked like a bum that had spent the better part of his
morning making knuckle children. As I sit up I get that sudden rush of blood
flow to my head that makes me just pass the fuck out again, but I stop being a
pussy and shake that out of my brain. At this point I’m officially starting to
get irritable and not give a fuck. I now know how cannibalism is possible.
Everyone around me looks happy because they have calories in them and I hate
them for it. I don’t even think about the fight anymore, just the fact that I
want something in my mouth that can go down my throat and eventually out my
anus. But we have another 8 hours to go. I’m starting wish
RedNeckPromoter would shut his pie hole and drive faster.
We make it into Alabama and stop at the only gas station
that doesn’t look like a Jeff Foxworthy joke. I strip down to my boxers (the trailer
park whores in the car behind us were already gushing like Ol’ Faithful) and
check my weight again: 176.6.
THIS IS FUCKING
BULLSHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Since we left Charleston my weight had not gone down even
with sweating my ass off in a crack head snuggie. I was getting desperate now,
we had to be in Biloxi to weigh-in in 5 hours and my weight hadn’t changed one
bit. To compound my frustration, RedNeckPromoter was trying to talk me into
teaching Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu at school that happened to be down the street
from, as well as a rival of, my instructor’s school. Now for anyone that has
trained at a Gracie school knows that is the equivalent of knocking up your
best friends’ wife and letting him think that he is the father. I nicely tell
him I’m not interested, instead of giving him an honest evaluation of his lack
of a soul.
As we are getting closer Boze starts calling around for
gym’s that have saunas, about as fun as a prostate exam, as Junior is driving
like he thinks he is at Talladega in a minivan. We arrive in Biloxi and I feel
a sense of joy come over me. I don’t know if the fact that I can get away from
RedNeckPromoter stinking up the car with the scent of febreeze and hillbilly
bowels, it’s even worse than you can imagine, or the fact that in a few hours I
can actually turn my digestive system back on. We find out that Rich Clementi
already has reserved us a sauna at the Hard Rock Casino. I walk into the casino
(with my sauna suit still on) with Boze and we make our way to the second
floor. As we head towards the Spa where the sauna is located we get weird looks
from the Cajun locals and I handle this like I do any awkward situation by just
moving forward and not looking back.
Nothing eventful happened in the sauna besides the profuse
sweating; I still had water in my body to my amazement. As we make our way back
to RedNeckPromoter’s minivan Cro Cop notes how it looks like I lost weight in
the hour that I was in there. I offer no response due the fact that I have the
motor skills of a zombie at this point. We head towards the restaurant where
the weigh-ins are being held and arrive at the time we were told to. As I walk
in all the fighters take a quick look at me and resume with feeling miserable
as they wait to weigh-in, I can relate. I sit down and notice that the guy I’m
fighting is sitting two rows ahead of me and looks exactly like he does on his
Facebook profile (it’s not stalking, its investigating as Spider would say). I
notice something on him that changes my entire attitude towards this fight.
Now I’m not a huge baseball fan, but I am a huge fan of the
New York Yankees (I was born in New Jersey, lived there till I was 5, and my
whole family is from there) so you can imagine what happened when I noticed
that my opponent had a Red Sox on. I started acting like a hysterical
black woman that just found out his baby daddy had been done tossing another
hoochie’s salad.
Frank: “OH HELL NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Cro Cop: “What?”
Frank: “HESAFUCKINGREDSOXFAN!!!!!!!!”
Cro Cop: “You get to punch him in 24 hrs.”
Frank: “HELLYEAHSON!!!!!!!!!!”
Cro Cop: “Calm down Frank.”
On top of this he was also a frat boy. OMG! This just gets
better and better. It’s like being in a bar and seeing this giant douche walk
in and wanting to punch him in the face. AND I GET TO PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE IN
24 HOURS. I was so fucking happy. You could have put Jayden James in front of,
buck naked, spread eagle, and that wouldn’t have gotten me revving like the
thought of beating the shit out of this guy was making me.
After listening to Lord Farquadt, as Boze described the ring
announcer, explain the rules and itinerary for the fighter (which is standard,
even though I got the impression he jerks off to himself regularly) we go ahead
and weigh-in.
Redsoxfan: 176lbs
Frank: 176lbs
WOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The post weigh in staredown:
I made the weight right on the dot even though I think the
scales were off and I should have been lighter. I don’t have time to complain
as I feverishly force pedialyte down my throat. I get about three quarters down
by the time the quesadilla I ordered pre weigh-in. I force the savory
cheese and chicken down my throat and almost go into a dairy coma from how good
I tastes. I never thought it was possible for food to give you an erection but
after 11 days of starvation I was making the ring girls there blush. After
downing the quesadilla we headed to Applebee’s and I ordered half of the menu.
I forced the steak and artichoke dip down my throat fast enough to make the
portly bartender do a double take. I had to stop every 10 minutes run to the
bathroom as the fecal matter that my body had stored for nourishment had to be
discharged. We get back to the hotel and I promptly pass the fuck out.
8/1 Fight Day: The next morning I wake up and instantly
crave food. I head downstairs to the lobby of the mid-level hotel that we are
staying and commence to eat everything in sight. Within 20 minutes I am eating
mass amounts of danishes, cereal, donuts, apples, and orange juice. After
consuming all that awesome processed sugar I walked to the gas station to get a
pack of Grizzly Wintergreen and headed back to the hotel. RedNeckPromoter
showed up and we headed to Waffle House so I could slam down some more
processed sugar, unbleached white flour, pork fat, and orange juice. My bowels
are asking no more and stomach is saying, “Bring it bitch!!” We get back to the
hotel and I down the rest of the steak that I had left over from the
Applebee’s binge-fest from the night before. After this I check my weight just
for shits and giggles. 185.8.
DAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In a little over 12 hours I’ve put on approximately 10lbs. I
also notice that my muscles are starting to fill out and veins are popping out
everywhere. Is this what roided up guidos feel like 24/7. My bulging muscles
have me checking myself out like a women trying to see if she has a lump on her
breast. Boze looks at me like I’m possessed by the ghost of Freddie Mercury.
After spending the next 6 hours or so watching Rocky movies (great for getting
in the mindset for putting knuckle to face) we head to the casino for fighter
meetings. Its 4pm now and the doors open (for all the locals to get
hammered and do cat calls at grown men with no shirts on) at 6 and the first
fights are at 7:30. My fight is due to happen at 9.
After the meetings are over we head backstage to get our
bags situated then we head back out to where the cage is to get a feel for it.
The cage is pretty ghetto to be honest which makes sense considering our
accommodations. Boze finds out that one of the guys he use to train fought
RedSonFan and said that he scares easy. This is where I make a mistake; I got
over confident and wanted to make this fight Rock Em, Sock Em Robots.
Back in the locker room before my fight nothing noteworthy
happened except for the doctor tell me my heart rate was elevated (no shit
Sherlock, that’s what happens when you’re about to have some guy try to take
your head off in front of a thousand people).
The fight before mine was pretty funny, The LactatingGuido,
should be self explanatory, got his face beaten and then got kicked in the
balls and lost the fight due to abandonment. His face looked like hamburger
meat that was extra juicy. Hopefully he learned that he should focus more on
keeping his hands up and less on his hair gel and puttiing needles in his ass
cheeks. As that fight is over I’m already backstage getting myself psyched up
to walk out. I come out to “Get Busy Child” by the Crystal Method which kind of
freaks some of the locals since they are either use to honky-tonk country or
hardcore metal walkout songs at these fights.
As RedSoxFan walks in we do our pre-fight stare down and I look
him dead in the eyes and try to “take his soul” as Boze puts it. He looks
around which makes me think that I have this in the bag. The ref comes out and
asks us if we are ready (this is when my sphincter is revving by the way) and
the fight is on.
DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING DETAILS THE DUMBEST THING I HAVE
DONE IN A FIGHT EVER!!!! EVA….eva…..ev……..EVA
EVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I charge straight at him, narrow stance, no footwork, and
got taken down right from the get go. What did I get for that brain fart? 3
punches straight to the face (pretty good ones actually). I tried pushing off
the cage the secure an arm bar but he cage was blocking. I knew this was not a
great spot to be in (I can be understated sometimes). I also knew I had space to
get my hips under me and walk my shoulders up the cage (like a pro I might add)
and work him across cage. I take him down. He goes for a triangle choke which
was pretty impressive and nearly caught me off guard. I posture up, stand up,
and see something that makes me happy. His UNCOVERED face. Thoughts of joy go
through my head at this possibility of turn his head into a piñata and knock
some candy out, and then he gets sneaky and up kicks me in the face. NOW I’M
PISSED. I drill two punched right into his face. After the second punch he
turned to his stomach and that’s when I took his back and sunk in the rear
naked choke. RedSoxFan tapped, I hopped on top of basking in the awesomeness
that is beating up somebody in front of hundreds of people, and my awesomeness
could not be denied then.
Even better, as I was drinking my post victory beers (which
were like an orgasm in my mouth) I hear: FRAAAAAAAAAANK
WASZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have a confused look on my face while RedNeckPromoter is
looking excited like he discovered porn for the first time and Boze is
enthusiastically (amazing since James has a poker face that could clean out a
Vegas casino) telling me to go up to the cage and “get that shit”.
I walk back into the cage (beer in hand), and the announcer
informs me that I am being awarded the Oscar Jackson Fighter of the Night
Award. The two that voted on the award are:
1. Rich Clementi (The
promoter)
2. Alan Belcher (UFC
fighter/RedSoxFan’s coach)
I came from a town that you would only knew existed if
you either paid attention in US History class (Charleston was the site of the
first battle of the civil war) or you have never seen the movie Roots (or Glory
I think, it’s one of the two about slavery). The guy I fought, whom was very
talented and trained with a very talented fighter in his own right, got beat by
a boy in his hometown by a ginger with a faux-hawk, from some po-dunk town that
routinely is advertised as a “DRINKING TOWN with a HISTORY PROBLEM.”
The ring announcer informed me that I was going to be
getting a free bar tab at the club next door and asked me what I felt:
Frank: “I LIKE BEER”
I think everyone in the club got a confused look on their
face. There was no kissing fans ass’s telling them how special they were or how
happy I was to fight there. I told them what I liked and stopped short of
telling them to send their finest whore back up to my lair (Howard Johnson room
I was sharing with Boze). A lot of fighter’s get this complex where they feel
they owe the fans something for risking their necks for not exactly the best
pay. That’s because most fighters are stupid, and do as they are told like the
cattle that a lot of promoter’s want them to be. Fighters are like any other
group of people, for every 1 that succeeds, 9 fall on their face faster than a
Nun doing 151 shots for the first time.
After all the fans in attendance bowed down to my
awesomeness, I went to the bar to get another beer before we headed to the
hotel to change. As I am getting that and a shot of whiskey on the house (well
played bartender well played) these two blondes come up. They came off as
whores in every way, and I mean EVERY way. They had tight shirts, booty shorts,
blonde hair, and that feminine exuberance that can only be found in girls that
are looking for a sugar daddy. THIS is where I found out what being famous
would be like. Where this thing called popularity could lead to. And it wasn’t
what I thought it would be, DEGRADING!!!!!!
RedneckWhore 1: (with an overeager look) “GINGERSAMURAI?????”
RedneckWhore 2: (with an equally overeager look) “OMG
(that’s “oh my god” for those that still use rotary phones)
Me: ______________________________(I don’t have a picture of
the look on my face. It was a combination of a what the fuck/look at those
titties.)
RedNeckPromoter: (looking at me like I should have bent them
over right there) “Go get that girls number bro.”
Yeah, these girls:
I didn’t get their number because they didn’t even take the
time to learn my real name (first name at least). Contrary to what some believe
I do actually like to take the time to get to know someone before I fuck
them. My usual rule is the hotter a woman is the less I need to know.
These girls I would have at least liked to have taken about 20 minutes to know.
The fact that they couldn’t remember my name extended that to a 1 hour period
to give them time to make up for this lack of judgement on their part.) They
eventually go back on the hunt for other fighters to fuck and we headed back to
the hotel to change.
Back in the hotel I’m in the middle of changing when we get
on the subject of what to do with the trophy I received. It was one of those
cup trophies that I distinctly remember that hockey teams would use for
imbibing mass amounts of alcohol while getting hit on by groupie whores that
want your fame in there Venus fly snatch. We decide that this should be the
appropriate plan of attack for the night and we head back towards the Hard
Rock.
8/2: We get to the bar where the after fight part was being
held and head up to the elevator. As we get out we notice all the fighters in
the club and Me, Boze, Cro Cop, and Junior start making our rounds. I have two
goals in this bar as I walk around with MY trophy:
1. Alcohol
2. Pussy
3. Pussy that will buy me
alcohol and give up said pussy.
I work to accomplish goal one and put drinks on my free tab
that I was told about in the cage by LordFarquadtRingAnnouncer. The bartender
informs me that no bar tab exists. I AM NOT HAPPY. I try to explain to them
what LordFarquadt told me and they continued to not have a fucking clue.
Eventually I just ordered a beer and realized that midgets with goatees are
liars in nature.
I make my way around the club, searching for girls that will
put out, and come upon TheLinebacker. Now before I say anything else I need to
explain something. I LIKE BIG WOMEN. Big women are fun to fuck, If more guys
went to the gym and didn’t take life so seriously they would realize this and
Oprah would get laid often and potentially knocked up (err, on second thought
the big bitches better be left to me). I have no shame in fucking a big girl.
NONE!!!!!!!!! I love pussy in all its shapes, colors, sizes, and moods.
TheLinebacker was a chubby chasers dream. She had big boobs;
a great ass, a face that was passable, and that southern twang accent that
makes guys want to be cowboys. She had this tattoo on her back that drove me
wild for some reason (probably my tattoo fetish), and she looked like she would
be fun in bed. Plus she wasn’t that fat. She just a had a big frame on her.
Keep in mind I was also way over the legal limit for the state of Mississippi
and I would have fucked anything that was disease free at this point. I started
talking to TheLinebacker and she was telling me how I fought with so much
passion or whatever got her panties wet. We had more
drinks and commenced dry humping each other on the dance floor and end up going to the club downstairs which was where
the fight was at. It had transformed from fight venue to a rave venue for acid
tripping bayou rednecks. As we got in there I realized that bringing the trophy
with us might have been too good of an idea.
A photo of me and linebacker:
I learned quickly why ghetto wrappers and ghetto ass dudes
in general wear a shit load of shiny jewelry otherwise known as “bling”. The
reason is the same that there are still light houses around today in this age
of smart phones and gps. Bling is a beacon of where to go when in doubt and
guess who had the bling? The ginger with the fauxhawk who was drinking straight
liquor with his group scary (smartass miscreants). We were attracting more
conservative and insecure white women than 50 Cent. From what I remember there
were 2 other girls competing over my jock besides TheLinebacker.
The first girl was Boobasaurus, I can explain why she was
called that but I would rather just show a picture:
See what I’m talking about?
The second girl was KleptoMidget. Why was she called this?
She tried stealing my trophy with her little hobbit hands and scurry off with
some frat boys. This did not sit well with Cro Cop as he hunted her down and
retrieved my bling/trophy/drinking glass with an efficiency that would have
made Dog the Bounty Hunter jealous. Cro Cop has a military mentality and when
someone breaks an honor code, he goes R. Lee Ermey (Apocalypse Now drill
sergeant) on people no matter how big or small or what gender they happen to
be. Unfortunately for this poor 4’10 girl/kleptomaniac she got the full
first-day-in-boot camp treatment. I think I could literally hear her spirit
break from the other end of the club under Cro Cop’s authoritarian tirade. Next
thing I know Crop Cop comes up with the trophy informing me of what had all
transpired which was a surprise to me, at the time, as I was drunker than an
entire Irish wake and wedding, COMBINED.
The merry go round of bayou whores continued until I had
pretty much locked my sights in on TheLinebacker. We made out in the club with
Boze giving me the “you’re going to regret this in the morning” look. I thought
she was hot plus it’s like Hurricane, Boze’s Muay Thai trainer, would say about
sex and preparation for fights, “You need 3 kinds of women: One to work your
power (big girls), one to work your speed and cardio (smaller/athletic girls),
and one just for fun (MILFs over the age of 30)” I always liked working my
power, and Boze gave me a legit reason to hook up with bigger women and I took
full advantage. TheLinebacker and me were all over each other like “bad fried
chicken smell” on a bum. We exchanged numbers and I headed out with Boze, Cro
Cop, Junior while RedNeckPromoter was trying to catch up. This is where
RedNeckPromoter made a HUGE mistake, he called out Boze on wearing an
Affliction shirt. What happens when you call out a 6’2 215 lb Muay Thai expert
that looks like the spawn of a Hell’s Angel and pale Mr. Clean with a goatee
and tattoos? The answer is a leg kick to the sciatic nerve that had
RedNeckPromoter crying like a bitch. I was laughing my ass off as we walked
back to the car.
The plan from here was to head to IHOP to use some pancakes
to soak up the alcohol still laying in my stomach and waiting to keep my blood
alcohol content above the legal limit. As we walk into IHOP Boze decides to
stay in the car and promptly passes out. In the restaurant I have to deal with
RedNeckPromoter bitching about why he can’t take a leg kick while texting
TheLinebacker about where we can hook up, all while Cro Cop is talking about
wanting to head back to Charleston and would be willing to do it since he was
the designated driver. This idea doesn’t sit well with me at first, because I
want my post fight pussy, but as she starts acting more sketch and annoying
about why we can’t hook up in her room that was next to her mom’s. I decide
that we should head back to Charleston which pissed TheLinebacker off. I
didn’t care, I had a girl waiting for me back in Charleston and figured I could
wait the 12+ hour drive to get it.
We head straight back to the hotel, wake up Boze, go up to
our room, pack our stuff, load the caravan, check out and head back to
Charleston at 3 in the morning. As I lay in the back seat I pass out and wake
up 4 hours later as we are passing through Florida. Hungover, hungry, having
bubble guts (thanks Wendy’s and Jose Cuervo) and drowsy. I felt like I had been
thrown through a spin cycle while one of those little aliens from Alien was
trying burst through my intestines. I demanded that Cro Cop pull over and I
guess the urgency in my voice was enough to convince. As he pulled over I
hopped out of the car, sprinted towards the bathroom while trying to not jumble
up my guts and mud-butting in my boxers. I storm the bathroom stall and rape the
toilet with a fecal rampage that no truck stop/gas station in the panhandle of
Florida had ever seen. I didn’t stick around to see if anyone went to ground
zero after I walked out but I’m pretty sure the effects would have been similar
to breathing in mustard gas, it was THAT bad.
As we got a couple hours outside of Charleston I started
picking up on a smell that was almost as bad as the shit storm I had laid back
on that Florida bathroom, but I say almost because it was mixed with a febreeze
smell. And then I heard an aerosol can going off in the seat behind me.
RedNeckPromoter was ripping ass while trying to cover up the evidence with the
febreeze (did I mention that he is a douchebag?)
We get back to Charleston around 6pm and I get back to my
folks house with Junior around 7. I spend the rest of the night pigging out on
cherry turnovers (thanks mom) and Guiness and pass out in a sugar and alcohol
induced coma.
8/3: More bad food.
8/4: More bad food plus I hook up with CowGirl and get one
of the best blowjobs I’ve ever had. Well played CowGirl, well played.
8/5: More bad food and alcohol.
8/6: TheLinebacker texts me, (we had been texting back and
forth for a few days) and PROPOSES TO ME. What did I say. No? Hell no? Is that
the only way that you’ll put out? None of those. I texted her back and simply
said SURE. Why did I say that? She had a big rack for one, I had been drinking
nonstop for the past few days, and I actually thought she might be the one (Did
I mention pussy makes me think stupid shit sometimes?).
Did I marry her? I’m not that fucking stupid, as cool as she
seemed at eh time eventually her crazy side came out and it was enough to make
am IRS agent cry. It suddenly dawns on me what this fight thing could
potentially mean. It could make women want to fuck me at the sight of me. I
won’t need any pick up lines, won’t need to do foreplay, shit I won’t even have
to pay for dates. Now I know how Tiger Woods feels around white women. Every
women is going to want a piece of me, like owning a piece of property. I’m not
a person to these girls, I’m not Frank Waszut to these girls, I’m Ginger
Samurai to these whores. That’s what fighting was doing to me, turning me into
an advertisement, a product. Basically any women that knew me from fighting
would just be using me as a dildo that comes with four once gloves and red
hair. Its like Forrest Griffin says, “Don’t be with a women just because she
wants to fuck a fighter.”
Lesson learned Forrest, lesson learned
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