UFC 121: Conan O'Brien (Brock Lesnar) Defends his Belt

This Saturday, October 23,  two impossible monsters are going to be locked in a cage and allowed to punch and strangle each other for up to 25 minutes. What I'm talking about is the main event for UFC 121: Lesnar vs. Velasquez aka A Juiced Up Talk Show Host vs. A Stone Wall made Flesh.

He'll make NBC pay in pain.

VS.

 He was created to punish villagers.

I'm sure not sure who will win this contest. I'm just happy that A) I'm not going to be in the cage or in any physical range of this clash of mythical beasts and B) I'm not either of their training partners.

Besides looking like Conan O'Brien struck a deal to become a Norse god, Brock Lesnar is built to kill men with his hands. His limbs are "you're not getting your toy back" long, he has the strength of a gorilla that just walked on broken glass and can tackle you as quick as Mini Cooper. Not to mention that he can do this all with the what will feel like the weight of the Earth coming down on you.

He's what Nazi's wished they could engineer.

His standup sucks (I hope he doesn't read this) but that's just because he's spent most of his life crushing rib cages and necks in the nook of his arm. Why would you bother making a fist to hit someone when you can grab them by the shoulders and fold them like an accordion?

Cain Velasquez looks like something out of an old fairy tale or story from the Bible to scare kids out of stealing or sleeping contently. They say he has extremely good cardio and never gets tired, like a Frankenstein like killer from one of those slasher films. Besides being well accomplished in making people fall down and forget how to stop hurting, he violates one of my rules of fighting.

He has ears from Middle Earth.

He's only smiling cuz he OWNS you.

Rule: Don't fuck with people with Cauliflower Ears. You only get that from being an ogre or spending so much time slamming your head into a dude in order to slam him into a  mat or parking lot that your ears look like a dog's chew toy. It's nature's way of telling you that this person is crazy and likes to fight. Often. It takes years of hard work and lack of physical preservation to acquire those kind of trophies. Not to say that this is any indication that Cain is better than Brock, I'm just voicing my own fears. Although I'd like Brock to know that I'm just as scared, if not more of him. Cain seems to smile more.

Which brings me to my other rule.

I'm not necessarily afraid of fighting someone larger than me, I know that there are blind men and fat women that outweigh me, but I will NEVER fight someone that is crazier than me. That's a fight that can't be won.

They say it's not about the size of the dog in the fight, it's size of the fight in the dog.  Which translates to when you're beating the shit out of someone and they go Tyler Durden on you and laugh about it, then you're in trouble.

Now that I'm done elaborating on my cowardice, here's my pick for the fight.

I'm thinking that this fight will make it into the third round. At that point  Brock and Cain will disappear in a ball of light and be whisked away to some alien planet where they'll  be paired together and have to compete in a gladiator style tournament against the toughest aliens in the universe. The two will have to work out their differences, that being Brock's disrespect towards Cain's Mexican heritage and Cain for correctly thinking that Brock's a dick.

I Shouldn't Have Kids

I got a flyer in the mail the other day that tried comparing taking care of a child to getting an oil change.   It had a picture of  some strange baby, crawling or rolling around on its back, I can't remember, looking up pathetically with the wording "Would you forget to change me?" placated across the bottom.

Would I ever forget to change a baby? I wish I could. They can scream and cry to remind you that they stink. They are also protected by laws and have mothers that will tell you that's its "your turn". Would I be inclined to ignore a baby?

Yes.

 Hell yes.

I'm way more likely to want to take care of my car, not that I do a good job of it, rather than tend to a baby. Why? My car serves a function. It allows me to drive places and pay for insurance that I 'll never use. It keeps the rain away and lets me sit in traffic.  It's not like some lazy, vomiting, diaper soiling baby.

Babies and children are leisure-time vampires and I want nothing to do with them.

This isn't because I CAN'T take care of living things. It's because I choose not. I once had a pet turtle as a kid but realized it wasn't going to become a talking ninja,  got bored with it and dumped it on my sister.

In short bursts I'm able to take care of living things. I've baby sat my sister's dog several times and it's still alive.

I was even a summer camp counselor once and as far as I know, all my kids lived. It wasn't a sleep over camp though, just a day camp were their parents would come and rescue them pick the kids up at the end of the day. Fortunately for the kids and myself, my group was composed of a bunch of nine year old boys, fully capable of seeking out and asking for any food or assistance that I was too negligent to provide for them.

I do like kids...when they're not screaming or asking for food. They're cool when they're smiling and laughing but I shut down as soon as they start grabbing at things or pleading to be let out of strangleholds. After that I just want to knock over their stroller, pacify them or cram them in a microwave. (Calm down. I wouldn't turn it on.)



My mom tried to convince me to keep a plant in my apartment. I clearly let her know that the plant would be dead in a week. Unless it was a cactus. Then it would be dead in three weeks.

Prince William isn't real.

If you didn't know, fancy-pants, British Prince William rescued a man on his first mission while serving the Royal Air Force. So that makes Prince William a prince, a helicopter pilot and a superhero. Otherwise, he's not a real person. He's a fucking work of fiction.

Where most people in his position would be busy snorting their family's fortune away and apologizing to judges in court, his majesty's royal overachiever is busy playing Johnny Quest.

Last week, I baked some chicken for the first time. I didn't burn it. I'm a fucking champion.