It's the biggest card of the year, and I remember all of twenty minutes.

It was a perfect storm: I had just moved back to Chicago, my friend was throwing a housewarming party, and the UFC was putting on their biggest show in the history of the promotion.  Heavy drinking commenced with a summer sun beating down from above.

When the show started, I found myself plopped down on a comfy leather chair in front of a 100-inch-plus projection of fighting goodness.  I rallied my friends (casual fight fans at best) to cheer on Sexyama against the evil scourge of a poorly rendered Johnny Cash tattoo.

And then things started to get a little hazy.

I remember catching the replays of Henderson's knockout over Mike Bisping.  St-Pierre/Alves is just one big blur of Georges sitting up in Alves's guard.  The adrenaline rush of Brock Lesnar's phallus covered chest helped retain the image of Lesnar pounding a mentally destroyed Frank Mir and the aftermath.  And apparently Jon Fitch beat Paulo Thiago after that.

In my darkest and most impressive moment as a Bloody Elbow staff member, the UFC 100 post-fight analysis was done without an ounce of sobriety.  I felt like a bona fide writer for the first time in my life.

Full results after the break.