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.
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
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?”
Cro Cop: “You get to punch him in 24 hrs.”
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.
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.
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:
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