In the world of mixed martial arts, it’s kill or be killed! Or, you know, stop killing when it’s pretty clear that you easily could kill if you so chose to. Sportsmanship gets another weird definition as this guy taps himself out rather than take full advantage of an an inferior foe.
In the world of MMA, there are clear winners and clear losers. The guy who won usually has smears of the guy who lost all over his winning personage. The guy who lost usually has to have all of his dislodged parts gathered up in a duffle bag after the fight and reassembled to the best of the knowledge of friends and family. But in this fight, the winner is the loser, and vice versa.
In this battle of amateur fight-men, Mike Pantangco (in the white trunks), spends a couple minutes applying indentations to the skull and torso sections of this life like Jeremy Rasner-style punching bag. When the very handsome and virile Mr. Pantangco’s last face jostling punch seems to rattle the late Mr. Rasner’s legs back to a point prior to his mastery of bi-pedal locomotion, Mike does something shocking to the MMA-watching community and DOESN’T continue to pummel his defenseless husk, but instead taps out himself, effectively forfeiting the fight by choosing not to forfeit Mr. Rasner’s future motor functions.
It’s an act of sportsmanship that is not often seen in the world of professional savage-fist-and-knee-assault and which some have actually taken as something of an insult on the part of Mr. Pantangco. Because now-a-days, if you don’t take full advantage of any situation presented you, up to and including potential manslaughter, you’re being a total dick.
Have you ever been publicly praised by your boss and heralded as “one of the classiest people on Earth!”, for choosing not to continue to savagely pummel an unconscious rival until being forcibly removed from their carcass by authorities? UFC fighter Brian Stann has, and that seems like a bad thing to me.
Now, I enjoy fighting to the ultimate as much as the next reptile brained hair covered mammal. If there is an individual with whom I have an otherwise readily resolvable difference, my first, natural and only instinct is ALWAYS to elbow it until the problem is easily wiped off of my arm joint. I also want to make sure that any ultimately fighting men that might happen to read this know that I don’t have any problem with the entirely rational and completely thought through decisions you make to continue raining uncontested blows upon the face of your opponent until you are tackled off of them. That’s your call and I think it is a completely right and handsome call of you to make, so please, ask your friends “Lefty” and “Widow Maker” to unclench and enjoy the rest of this article with the warm understanding that everything you punch had it coming and I completely support your punching it until you see fit to be forced to halt your hard wired programming of “skull liquefaction”.
I’m familiar with the ultimate fight, I’ve watched several in my day. Highlight DVDs are made entirely of muscular gentlemen wailing away at the craniums of the forcibly sleeping. It’s just a little weird, to me at least, to heap so much praise upon someone doing something that should really be the rule, rather than the exception.
In his fight with Alessio Sakara, Mr. Stann completely overwhelmed his opponent in the first round, putting him to painful bed with a series of elbows. It was after this that Brian did something that initially, most spectators couldn’t wholly understand. Without any out side provocation from the official who should have been leaping across the octagon at him, Brian Stann simply stopped demolishing Alessio Sakara’s brain pan.
This unexpected act of humanity by fighting man Brian Stann, one of the apparent universally regarded “good guys” of the sport of hitting other people with every blunt edge of your anatomy, prompted UFC President Dana White to announce to the Twitter machine how classy a gesture not taking liberties with the defenseless husk of Alessio Sakara was.
Now, obviously I’m not suggesting that UFC needs to be toned down, it’s infinitely more controlled than it was in its infancy, I’m just saying that it shouldn’t be such a shocking show of sportsmanship for a guy to wave a lazy, neglectful referee over to show him that he should have done his job already, that the sport itself feels like it should give this guy a trophy for having even a shred of human decency.
“He’s such a good guy, you almost want to hate him.” wrote “MMA Fighting”s Ben Fowlkes, I assume while breaking kittens legs and ensuring that they healed incorrectly. “Except, he’s also the kind of good guy who will stop a fight when he sees his opponent has been knocked out.”
That shouldn’t be a thing. What he just said. There shouldn’t be a place where it should be astonishing if someone stops fighting someone who no longer possesses the ability to fight back. Rule number one in every sport played by anyone every where should be “If your opponent has the motor function of a soggy dish rag and is unresponsive to any form of visual or aural stimuli, please stop punching them until they can be officially declared dead.”
So, good fight Mr. Stann, congratulations on being a rational individual, capable of remorse and able to recognize when your fists have transitioned from sporting equipment to state’s evidence. Now might I suggest you sit down with Dana White for a dish of delicious frozen yogurt and explain to him why being so excited about one of his employees choosing of his own accord to be a human being shouldn’t be so god damned tweet worthy.
During my customary afternoon search for all cock related news stories, I came upon a rather ridiculous article.
The basics of the story all fit together like well worn pieces of your classic, run of the mill stupid criminal news Madlib: Two guys pulled over for a routine traffic stop, cops see something suspicious in the back of their truck and take a little peaksie and naturally, inside the box is a felony jackpot. The obvious, immediate reaction that I have to these stories is the same that every right thinking potential criminal would have. If I am going to be driving around, a box of felony in the bed of my truck, I make damned sure that my vehicle is in perfect working order, with every flasher and blinker and bobbler and boobler all flashing and blinking and bobbling and boobling to it’s utmost, factory specifications so as not to attract any sort of unwanted attention to myself, and my cargo of prison time. But for every intricately planned and flawlessly executed Las Vegas casino heist filled with close calls, beautiful criminal master minds and crisp, tightly paced, world class banter, there’s a batrillion idiots with rickety pick ups, hauling around crates of loosely packed crime, just begging to be pulled over on their way to more criminality.
But what set this story apart from the rest might not be what you’ll initially think. You see, the two master criminals were hauling a box of chickens. As I understand it, hauling chickens in a box in and of itself isn’t a felony, but professional MMA chickens apparently have to take a bus. These two gentlemen were immediately arrested for improperly transporting bad ass chickens, and while they were taken away the coppers made a trip to their no doubt lavish hotel/casino, professional poultry fighting association sports arena where they found a “fairly large scale” operation of nearly 250 bench pressing chickens and their “fighting implements”, by which I assume they mean silk trunks and knuckle tape.
Now, even at this point, still not a story worth more than a simple glance and quick calculation of exactly how many buckets of original recipe that was that they just discovered, battling for the enjoyment of all of those enthuseists of fight. What did grab my attention was this.
All of the brave, fighting fowl, just trying to make an honest buck and claw their way out of poverty the only way they know how, with their claws, all nearly 250 “game birds” that authorities “rescued” from this fighting ring, were summarily executed.
They killed every last chicken.
I’m no stranger to taking up the fight for an unpopular cause, on more than one occasion I’ve argued in favor of bunny stabbings and I once talked a young mother out of ever caring for her new born child, but right now I am going to take an unpopular, but correct stand.
I am arguing in favor of cock fighting.
After shutting down this “disgusting”, “inhumane”, “blood sport”, and saving these poor, not exactly defenseless creatures, Henry Brzezinski, Chief of Animal Services did in one fell swoop what he was supposedly saving these animals from. He told reporters that “The birds were humanely euthanized because they were either in bad shape physically or their behavior was too aggressive for them to be rehabilitated.”
So then, what exactly was accomplished here? I think the only person who got anything out of this was this sick-o Brzezinski who got to live out a mass execution fantasy that would normally be frowned upon but that he suddenly had a workable excuse to follow through on.
The end result of this is 250 dead chickens, bottom line. So how is their “humane” euthanizing any better than fighting to the death in the ring, like the modern day gladiators that they are? This state is in a financial crisis and we’re just going to throw away 250 perfectly good fighting chickens? You caught the guys, good for you, I’m not defending animal sport fighting as a whole, obviously it’s barbaric and deplorable… But if you’ve got 250 chickens that you’re just going to put down anyway, where’s the harm? Put that shit on Pay Per View with all proceeds going toward future farm animal fighting death prevention programs.
If there is one and only one thing that I do know for certain in this life, it’s that this was not what any of these magnificent fighters would have wanted. What this man did was rob these majestic birds of their pride and dignity. They were fighters, fighters of cock, and they deserved to die in the ring, doing what the betting public loved, clawing and scratching their competitor’s body to ribbons with the assistance of razor blades tied to their feet. That’s all they knew, that was their entire world and this man took it upon himself to decide what was best for these courageous, talented, crazy attack chickens.
So shame on you Mr. Brzenzinski, may you be haunted forever by the muscular, angry ghosts of 250 fighting chickens, stricken down in the prime of their careers. This is truly a dark day in the world of sport; a day that shall forever taint the proud name of cock fighting.
What ever happened to the good ol’ fashioned faint? Back in the Victorian era when women would actually faint so much, they had “fainting rooms”. A whole damn room with a luxurious couch just for slowly falling down on with the back of one’s hand on their forehead! That’s damn fancy! But the price of vanity was high with the much sought after “hourglass” shape and women would cram themselves into a corset that was then tightened to the point of rib cage crushing, internal organ crowding and the inability to breathe normally. Sometimes I see this in modern day life, but the corset has been replaced with black stretch pants. But I digress.
These days we just need a barstool and the ability to run up a big tab down at O’Malley’s Mad Irish Hole in the Wall. Wait, that’s passing out, and that is not to be confused with fainting, which is not to be confused with blacking out, which is not to be confused with vertigo, or spinninghead, giddiness, wobbliness and shakiness. Although they all sound EXACTLY the same, they are all different.
Now if you throw ‘feinting’ into this mix of wobbly goodness, you will be totally confused unless you see how it is spelled. Feinting is actually when you fake a move, such as in boxing or MMA when you pretend to throw a punch at one area of the body and actually hit them in another area. Now that can then also be misconstrued as pretending to be injured or dead to fake out your enemy, which then throws another spelling conundrum into the mix with the “Is it Fainting or Feinting”? There is a breed of goats that seem to have it down pat, but, are they actually fainting? Or are they “feinting”? It’s a question that only the goat will know, and goat handlers can only speculate when chasing these poor creatures around with umbrellas.
Some people faint at the sight of blood, some when they’ve seen a ghost and others when the alimony settlement is made in court. Enter, the smelling salts. These fancy little contraptions have been around since the Roman times and are mentioned as early as 77AD in writings of Pliny the Elder, which then leads to another very strange connection with all this. Pliny the Elder is also a modern day beer made by Russian River Brewing Company. Now one would think that if you imbibed enough of Pliny the Elder, one would need the ‘sal ammoniac’ (smelling salt) that Pliny actually writes about to come out of a ‘passing out’, which is not to be confused with a fainting,
but the more I read into this whole nonsense of losing one’s consciousness in whichever way one sees fit, I have no idea what any of it means anymore.
So let’s have one more Pliny the Elder in an attempt to reach the vertigo effect and cheers to corsets and to fancy couches for falling down on when one feints, or faints.