P.S.

I didn't learn much about the world of MMA during the course of this blog, but I did renew my love for writing. My first and second majors at USF were journalism and creative writing. I have since moved on to Physical Therapy but still dream of writing a novel someday. Just for fun. I used a lot of this class as an outlet for my creativity. I truly enjoyed this Expository Writing course and would definitely recommend it to anyone looking for  a great course with extensive writing. Keep on pushing forward guys. I'll see you around someday. :)

See you later...

Everything must end. This is true of all things in life. The good times the bad times the just alright times. Everything. Everything eventually ends. But don't be sad. It is in the end that new beginnings can arise. Yes, the sun falls beneath the earth every night. Every night the sun falls but that does not mean it isn't still there. It is in time. In time it will rise again. It will rise again and soar up above your head and shine its warmth upon you. You will smile and you will know. You will know in your heart that this isn't just the end. It is just the beginning.

Poor

I'm poor. What college student isn't? O.k. I guess some are spoiled. I've seen kids pull up into the USF parking lot with their BMW's and Mercedes. They're spoiled I guess. And when I see it it always makes me wonder. It makes me wonder what the fuck these kids are doing here. You already have a BMW and you haven't even graduated from a public university yet. Shouldn't you be in some Ivy league school where you graduate based solely on your parent's name or paycheck? And then don't you move on to be in charge of some huge corporation or wait wait, you get into politics right?
How do your amber waves of grain taste America? I hope you choke on them you asshole.
So maybe I'm angry? Maybe I'm angry because I can't even afford to get my ass kicked. Do you know how expensive the average MMA gym is? I called around and got some prices and even went to a couple free lessons. But every time they walked me into their office to do the whole, "salesman pitch" thing I couldn't help but to laugh. I can't even afford to get my ass kicked.
So these MMA gyms cost around two hundred dollars a month. Two hundred dollars. And I use the term "gym" loosely. These facilities don't have weights or cardio machines. They have sweaty mats and cages and long ropes to work your forearms. To gain strength as a fighter you still need a different gym membership for strength training. So add that to the cost. And you probably won't ever get health insurance either. Most professional fighters no matter the age still don't have health insurance. So you have to pay for your hospital bills in cash. And I'm poor.

UFC 131

Pictures say a thousand words. In the case of the above picture of Shane Carwin, I'm sure most of the words involve references to the need for pain pills. Shane, who has beaten all his opponents by KO or submission in the first round, got beat. Got beat badly. Junior Dos Santos broke his nose. Broke his nose, put gashes underneath both of his eyes, and tore apart his reputation. A thousand words. But actions speak louder.
If you remember one of my last blogs about Brock Lesnar coming down with Diverticulitis, you might remember that he was supposed to take on Dos Santos for this title contender bout. But Brock got sick, pulled out, Shane stepped in, stepped up, got knocked down. I'm sure Brock is laying in his recovery bed right now, after getting a foot of his intestines removed, feeling a hell of a lot better than Carwin does. After seeing this fight he might pretend to have another Diverticulitis flare up in order to avoid stepping into the ring with Dos Santos. I would. Who knows? After looking at Carwin's face he might be in the hospital laying on the recovery bed right next to Lesnar.

My three fights

You know, let's have fun with this post. Everyone likes fun! Fun, fun, fun! Plus, I'm in a little bit of a pessimistic mood today. So, if you could take three people into the octagon for a fight, who would they be? And no, please don't say your father or mother because you never felt loved enough...this isn't a psychiatric thing. This is for fun! I'll start this off with my three picks for the octagon.

First off, I'm definitely going to have to pick T.I. You know, the rapper from Atlanta. The super tough guy. The rapper that always talks and dresses like he's so bad ass. I'll bet my favorite care bear stuffed animal that he's not. If you've ever seen him talk on t.v. or in interviews you have probably witnessed his annoying demeanor. T.I. I pick you!

My second pick would be Florida Governor Rick Scott. He not only looks like the crook that he is, but he also looks like a child molester. Doesn't he? Look at those creepy molesting eyes! Oh, my blood boils when I hear how stupid the citizens of this state, and furthermore, this country are. This dumb ass turned down more than two billion dollars from the Federal government to help assist our state in creating a light rail from Orlando to Tampa and possibly Miami. This asshole already ran a health care company into the ground by being corrupt and stealing money from Medicare and Medicaid. And the dumb citizens of this state vote for him. And why? So, Governor Rick Scott, please don't veto my request to kick your ass. I mean, technically you should be in prison right now getting it up your ass anyways.


Finally I would have to pick a royal rumble with Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj. I mean, how in the hell did either one of these ignorant and uneducated kids get so goddamn famous? Lil Wayne, maybe you used to be good. But the fact that you don't even write your lyrics down doesn't mean you're good. It means you're lazy. Here's your talent:

"Excuse my charisma, vodka with a spritzer
swagger down pat, call my shit Patricia
Young Money militia, and I am the commissioner
you don't want start Weezy, 'cause the F is for Finisher
so misunderstood, but what's a World without enigma?
two bitches at the same time, synchronized swimmers
got the girl twisted 'cause she open when you twist her
never met the bitch, but I fuck her like I missed her
life is the bitch, and death is her sister
sleep is the cousin, what a fuckin' family picture
you know father time, we all know mother nature
it's all in the family, but I am of no relation
no matter who's buying, I'm a celebration
black and white diamonds, fuck segregation
fuck that shit, my money up, you niggas just Honey Nut
Young Money running shit and you niggas just runner-ups
I don't feel I done enough, so I'ma keep on doing this shit
Lil Tunechi or Young Tunafish"

 Case in point. Those lyrics are terrible.
Now what about Nicki Minaj? Yeah, she's just as terrible. Every time I hear her annoying voice on the radio I wanna veer my car into the nearest telephone pole. People think she's so talented because she can do inflection in her voice? Five year old's can do that. Here's a taste of her so called.. "talent".

"Ok i was on my way to school i do's i me hopped out the drab grabbed my juciey i hop skipped and jumped past them hoopdies but wait i forgot to grab my lose sleeves i doubled right b-back like who's that i did a little dance b-kat-b-boom-kat i like how the jocks be watching me me so i grabbed my crotch and say hehe i be like bum stickety bum sticky bum while i popped ma gum they lookin tum tickety tum think they stepped in some uh i said excuse me hunny im b-bugs bunny aint funny got my guarantee aint gona if i may cos we the mean girls yes we're so fetch and when we in the yard be jumpin double dutch with back to the future pearl you were the best now i got everybody lookin at me i got everybody lookin at me"

Wow. Sounds like an inner city second grader's attempt at writing an essay. Just plain terrible.
So...who would you take into the octagon?

balls out

"Why the fuck can I see your balls, Privates?" The Drill Sergeant's voice thunders across the courtyard. I panic. Was he talking about my balls? I force my head up off the mud in the middle of my flutter-kicks and check to see where the Drill Sergeant is. He's about fifteen feet away. Fifteen enormous steps away. He's standing in front of the fat kid. He's standing in front of the fat kid fifteen enormous steps away but I still panic. Welcome to boot camp.
I never wore boxers under my gym PT shorts again. The embarrassment of being singled out because of your balls showing was enough for me to learn my lesson. With the guidance of our father figure, Drill Sergeant Barbosa, we all bought spandex shorts to wear underneath our gym shorts. This was a good thing. This was a good thing because it made sure our balls would never be seen by another Drill Sergeant again. Our balls learned their lesson.
It's seven years later. Seven long years later and I'm pretty sure I still have the same spandex shorts for my balls. I'm throwing my clothes in my hamper all across the room like a dog digging up a bone and I'm furious. I call myself a fucking idiot. I feel like punching the wall. I must have thrown the spandex shorts out when I moved two months ago. I must have thrown them out because I thought I wouldn't need them again. It's two months later. Only two months later and I need them. I'm such a fucking idiot. So I go to my first MMA lesson with the chance of my balls being seen again. Hopefully my balls don't learn another lesson this time.Hopefully.

I'm sorry

I knew my father would be upset. He wanted me to be a baseball player. He wanted me to be more like my sister. My sister who was one of the top five high school tennis players in Europe. He wanted an athlete. He was stuck with me. I knew he would be upset.

You see I was different. I liked the smell of the dance floor. I loved the studio where the ballet dancers tipped around on their toes and slid around on the wooden floorboards with grace. The studio where the early evening sun would splash the ballerina's shadows on the white wall across from that enormous window looking into the parking lot. I was a boy who loved the dance floor. I was different. 

I skipped baseball practice again that day. I skipped because I wanted to go to the dance studio. This was becoming a frequent occurrence now.But today was different. I was excited. I had a new pair of spandex and leggings in my baseball bag. The bag was a lot lighter than usual. Damn was I tired of carrying around those bats and gloves. I felt like Jesus when he was forced to carry that cross around town three days before Easter.But today I was free. 

I was stretching out my legs in the corner of the studio. The sun was beginning its descent towards the skyline, the warm glow upon my face. The glare through the huge window wasn't too bad at this particular moment. I only had to squint a little and I could clearly see most of the cars in the parking lot although they were a different color. 

Then my heart fell. There was my father's rusty, beat-up station wagon screeching into the lot. I panicked. There was no way he could know I was here. What was he here for? I thought about running for a second. Running away and never coming back. I wish I ran. There was my father's rusty, beat-up station wagon screeching into the lot. 

My little brother must have ratted me out. That little piece of shit. I watched my father storm into the studio and stomp his way towards me. He wanted to know what the fuck I was doing. Why wasn't I at practice? Why was I wearing spandex? What was I a fag?

Sorry dad. Sorry that I wasn't an athlete like you or my sister. Take me home and hit me. Use your belt if you have to. I knew you would be upset. I knew this wouldn't be the only time I would have to fight for what I believed in. I might as well get used to it. I was different.