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Belated Recon: UFC 137 REAL IN THE FIELD (PART 1) Dana's, BJ's, and Crocops Oh My!

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Vegas Baby.

Can you consider something to be "Belated" when it has nothing to do with a Birthday? I would have to go with the age old adage: "fuck it, yes it most certainly does." And what with Mr. Penn all vocal and whatnot this week, I figure what great timing!

I went to UFC 137 my friends, and it was glorious. And I really want to tell you about it, as you are the only ones that really understand me (isn't that fucked up?). I apologize for the delay in my regaling you with all the various happenings regarding that particular weekend, BUT:

1. It was in Vegas, and I have never been to Vegas before. I got pretty fucked up. This necessitated physiological recovery time, that I could both accurately recall events and the conversations that went along with them. Looking at pictures that were taken for extended periods of time helped immensely. We've all been through these sort of Memento-esque reconstructions of The Night Before, I'm sure. You dirty lushes.

2. I'm a lazy Mutherfuker.

We all know I been pretty hyped for this card, starting like way back in the day when they announced Nick would be slapping Georges around like a fruitcake come October 29th. Giddy like a little schoolgirl I was, Joe! Even long before the announcement that my absolute all-time favorite fighter BJ Penn would also be on the card in a title eliminator, I was making sure I would be present for Georges' inevitable Stocktonization, also basking in the suffering of Jon Fitch all the while.

Needless to say I had my tickets in like, 15 minutes son! No Pre-Sale shenanigans fucking me up this time, I was Fight Clubbed up and ready to roll (Ike was, anyways). 4 Seats, Section 211. See right down into that Octogon without being too far away, not too shabby Govna! You can imagine my dismay, my horror, my outrage, when not 4 hours after buying my tickets, Dana goes all Power Trippin' and pulls Nick from the card for not showing up for the fucking beauty pageant? Well, two beauty pageants really, but who gives a fuck?

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Not this guy.

We all know I was a little upset at Dana for this, and understandably so. How could any sane, rational, god-fearing man not be? "Nick Diaz is a fuckin' FIGHTER" I said. "You knew what you were getting Dana! YOU KNEW," and so on and so forth.

Dana then pairs my two favorite fighters together in what is sure to be a guaranteed Throw DOWN, a Battle for the Ages. I then proceed to fellate Dana, figuratively speaking of course. The equally dangerous Carlos Condit would be moved up for the title shot in place of Diaz, and while The Carlos as an opponent lacked a certain panache, he presented just as much a chance of inflicting some pain on GSP and that would almost be as cool.

I just really wanted to see Nick call Georges a bitch is all. Oh well. C'est la vie.

***

It's 8am on October 27th, Eric, Brazilian Hotwife, and me are freezing our balls off in a gravel parking lot waiting for a shuttle to take us across the highway into Edmonton International Airport, then onto the beautiful land promised in my dreams. You may remember Ike and Eric from when we went to meet Jon Jones. Ike swore up and down he would meet us at the airport, and I have resolved to leave his ass should he not be on point today. Hotwife is bitchy, and in the sickly half-winter morninglight Eric is actually, literally, fucking green. Mid-Terms are over, and despite my advice, he has been abusing cocaine and alcohol for about 3 days in celebration prior to our departure date. Despite the sour moods of my fellow travellers, I refused to have my milk curdled too. Partly because the night before, Hotwife and I went to the World Renowned West Edmonton Mall to pick up a few things for the trip, and who do I see walking right besde me on the opposite side of the rail but Ari Shaffir.

"That's fuckin Ari Shaffir," I say to Hotwife. Ari looks over at the sound of his name and waves.

"Hey man I'm a big fan, what the fuck are you doing here?" I don't know why I said this, as I knew he was there to do a show at The Comic Strip and we had actually spoken on twitter about him not going to UFC 137.

He seemed to be in a hurry, "I'm doin a show, actually. I'm supposed to be on like, right now."

"Well, do you want to go blaze beforehand? I know your late and all but-"

"Yes. Lets go."

"Ok then." So me, Hotwife, Ari, and some other dude that recognized Ari on the way out went and blazed and shot the shit for a few minutes. The other dude kind of stole my thunder because he had a podcast of his own and actually had relevant shit to say. Whatever, fuck that guy. I only mention this story because it's a pretty fucked up coincidence in that I will also meet Joey Diaz approximately 48 hours from that time about 5000 miles away. If you are a Joe Rogan Experience listener like me then I'm sure you can appreciate the odd circumstances.

Anyhoo, I am going to fucking Vegas, to party my ass off and see my two favorie fighters BJ Penn, and Nick Diaz throw down, not to mention Crocop, Nelson, Cerrone, Mitrione, Kongo and whoever else I could successfully stalk down like a creepy weirdo. Everyone else may be a sad panda GSP was off the card, but not THIS guy! There's the shuttle, "YEA! Let's do this!"

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GSP Fans.

Eric leans over, plugs one nostril, and spews an ungodly stream of nose juice onto the gravel, gags, and gets on the bus.

...

Ok then! Let's go!

***

I like flying, I just hate sharing space with other "people" (God damn sub-humans is what they are). This time was no different, and I've definitely had worse experiences, BUT... About half an hour into the flight the bacon and fries I ate earlier was forming some sort of weird gastrointestinal clusterfuck inside of my torso. At first I felt like a had to burp, but couldn't. Then I felt like I had to let a huge fart go, but I'm not a total dick so I couldn't just power down on my core and let fly with so many people in the immediate vicinity. So, I got up to go to the bathroom like a non-savage. Problem was it was one of those situations where the prisoner would would not come easily, and the force I was exerting was sure to guarantee something along the lines of 130 decibels were it to finally escape it's confines. Also, I got pretty baked before getting on the plane so I was feeling quite paranoid about releasing. The fact I could see the shoes of the two flight attendants through the little slats near the bottom of the door as I'm doing this was not helping either. Fuck it, I'm going back to my seat. Once there, of course I feel like it could slip out rather easily, so back to the john I go. I actually do this little dance 2 or three times on the way to Vegas, with no success at all. My gut was beginning to feel like Tetsuo looked at the end of Akira, sweet baby jesus get me off of this plane!

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Too much?

It's almost 1pm local time, and as we approach Las Vegas I am struck by how in the middle of the desert it actually is, and, let me tell you, it's literally in the middle of the fucking desert. For hundreds of miles on every side, there is nothing but sand, lizards, and spiders. Seriously, what would happen if they ran out of water and gas? Fucking walk to the ocean? The dull gleam of the Strip on the desert reminds me of toys in a sandbox, and what is Vegas if not a playground for grown ass men? Between my desire to get to the UFC Press Conference at 1pm and the atrocity happening in my gut, I was ready to bust out that plane like a 5-day nut. My bipedal motion along the walkway mercifully facilitates my bodily functions, and I let a 35 second fart out into the Vegas atmosphere as my welcoming gift to the Strip. The cab we hop in is playing "Don't Stop till you get Enough" by The Jackson 5. Awesome.

"The Luxor, please."

The lobby of the Luxor Hotel is what you would expect ancient Egypt to look like, only if Egypt was run exclusively by Mexicans and they had mastered modern plastics. And slot machines. Lots of slot machines. The hubbub is particularly abbub as in addition to being a UFC weekend, Vegas is also hosting the World Bull-Riding Championships or something, and the place is PACKED. Wall to wall honkies, hoes, and affliction shirts as far as the eye can see. Ike is haggling for a better room as he is convinced that "They will totally upgrade us if we ask for a better deal," The Cambodian Death March in my colon a non-issue to him, and everyone else is just as unconcerned that we are about to miss the UFC press conference.

A word of advice? Only travel to UFC events with fellow HARD CORE MMA fans, or you may run the risk of them wanting to go to Wolfgang Pucks for a stupid fucking pizza instead of a UFC press conference for a really cool Dana.

When "Ok, what exactly would you guys want to do RIGHT NOW that is more important than me going to this conference that we can't do in another 45 fucking minutes?" was met with nothing but blank stares (sniffles from Eric) we were finally on our way to our first UFC related shenanigans of the trip. "Not fuckin curdling it," as I mumble to myself The Brooklyn Bridge at New York New York Hotel comes into view. Oh, I went poop before we left. It was nice.

It's almost 1:30 as we approach New York New York, and as luck would have it coming from the direction of the Luxor had us approaching the Confrence from behind, and as I get closer who the fuck do I see signing shit and shaking hands than fucking Mirko Crocop. My nerdgasm shorts out my brain and, rather than run up and speak to the man, I look behind me for Hotwife and the camera.

"Babe! Over here, hurry!" She flips me the bird. I'll let that soak in for a second. I asked my wife, to hurry to get a picture of Crocop, little boy inside me alight with wonder, and she fucking flipped me the bird. As I turn away in disgust back to Crocop, he is literally running in the other direction. Chance? Missed. Fuck? Me. Don't fight with your Wife on vacation boys. Just don't fucking do it. In her defence, once she realized what she had done, she did feel bad. Bitch.

Roy Nelson and his Homeless beard came out next, taking his time, shooting the shit, signing and taking pictures with whoever wanted them. I was angling for a Pic with Roy along with Hotwife (who is a huge fan of Roy) when I see this little dude come from behind the curtain (which was actually the stage front of the press conference). If nerdgasm was what happened to me when I saw Mirko, I don't know what the fuck to call what my brain did when I realized I was looking at BJ Penn in the flesh. And he's walking over. To me. Why didn't I wear my fucking Team Penn shirt god dammit!

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE ROY NELSON!" I scream at the top of my lungs, in my mind. A talking head in a suit appears out of nowhere, Cameraman in tow. He intercepts BJ before he can get to where I'm at. I feel like a 12 year old waiting for his... I dunno... a 12 year old waiting for BJ Penn I guess. Talking Head has questions. Fucking media.

"So, mur murgh murmmmmm murgle?" Is all I can decipher from distance.

"HE"S GONNA FUCK NICK UP! THAT"S THE ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION!" I scream, with my mouth. Apparently being around BJ gives me Tourette Syndrome. The Cameraman glances at me with one eye, quite displeased.

"No!" he silently mouths at me.

"OH YEA! NICK"S FUCKIN DEAAAAAD!" Was that me? The gathered Loogins "WOOOOOO!" in agreement with my statement. This is when I notice everyone has beers on the street. What the fuck?

Talking Head realizes it isn't getting any quieter out here, and releases BJ to his adoring masses. Well, there was like 10 of us there, at least.

BJ is looking at me. "Hey man, hows it going?"

Me: "Uhhh..."

BJ: "Good?"

Me: "Uhhh.... Yea."

Hotwife: "BJ He ees your beegest fan we came all the way from Canada to see you can we get a picture pleeeez!"

BJ: "Oh really? Of course, thank you for coming." Sniggity snap I got a picture with BJ. SICK.

Me: "Your fuckin awesome man, I love how you fight. Awesome... Awesome." I'm a retard.

BJ: "Thanks man I appreciate it." He shakes my hand. Why do all fighters shake hands so soft?

BJ moves on to the others waiting to talk to him. I am in a pretty good mood, to say the least. Meeting your favourite fighter of all time will do that, I highly recommend it.

For whatever reason, Nick Diaz does not come out to meet the fans. Cheick Kongo, Matt Mitrione, Chris Lytle do however, and they are all cool as fuck. Meathead assures me that my prediction of a first round knock out and inevitable ascension to heavyweight gold is all but guaranteed. He seems to like me.

Lytle looks pleasantly surprised when I ask him how the campaign is going, and looks like he wants to keep talking about it but sluts, as they say, are more important and he is eventually drawn away from me by boobies.

I avoid Kongo altogether.

Hotwife: "Do you theenk Dana will come out too?" And as a matter of fact, I do.

Eric and Ike begin to whine about having not eating for 8 hours or some such nonsense, and would rather not wait for Mr. White, especially since it was not a guarantee he would be showing that bald head. After 3 beers and 45 minutes, they bounced to Wolfgang's (which is pretty fucking good, as it turns out). Me and Hotwife decide to wait it out, as we can still see Dana answering questions. We go around the front of the conference, then to the back, then to the front, again. Security all seemed to be convinced that Dana will be leaving out both the front and back. I recognize Dana's Big Bald Bodyguard milling around the front, so that's where we stay.

We meet a nice gentlemen from Manchester who has "A tew undered quid bet wit me mate tha' I cannuh meet Dana," who is also in posession of framed, signed Anderson Silva gloves. "Six hundred Quid," he says. I make a mental note to not go to that store lest I find myself without rent money.

About 2 hours later, Dana finishes up with Gareth Davies, who has been talking his ear off for a fucking hour. Not that I would plan to wait that long just for Dana, but it just became one of those things where you've already sunk all that time into waiting for something you'd be crazy to bounce on it now, y'know? And, hey here he comes!

Dana: "Hey guys hows it going?" He seems genuinely happy to see us. Weird.

Me: "Awesome man, awesome! Could we get a picture with you?"

Hotwife is speechless, she is a huge Dana fan for some reason. Cult of celebrity and all that, I assume.

Dana: "Fuck yea! C'mere." Dana grabs me like I'm his homie and Hotwife gets the picture. I look fucking retarded, as usual.

Me: "So when are you coming to Edmonton man? If you think Vancouver sold out fast just fuckin wait!"

Dana: "We are actually planning two shows for Edmonton for 2012, believe it or not."

Me: "Are you fuckin serious! That's sick!"

Dana: "Yea man with this new FOX deal we are stepping up to a fuckin crazy amount of shows, we are literally going everywhere so don't even worry."

Hotwife: "Oh my god Dana you are so awesome pleez can I have a peecture weeth you! We are going to BJ's after party are you goeeng to be there so we can party it up!"

Dana (Laughing): "I'll see what I can do sweety." Sure Dana, I'll be looking for you, I think as I get the picture.

Me: "I just want to say that, as someone who watches NO other sports at all, thank you so much for what you've done for Fighting and providing so many quality scraps over the years. Fuckin' awesome man."

Dana: "Hey, y'know, its my pleasure really. And get used to it man because it's only going to get crazier and crazier."

Hotwife won't let go of Dana, which resluts in an awkward moment.

Dana: "Sooo... You guys are married hey... Where you guys from?"

Hotwife: "Brazeeo!"

Me: "Canada."

Dana: "Holy shit! Your guy's kids are gonna be the craziest fuckin MMA fans ever!" HAHAHAHA for sure Dana. I can literally see the dollar signs in his eyes as he is saying this. He thanks us profusely for coming, and moves on to Mr. Manchester, and they both rub their fingers together in the international gesture for "Fuck you, Pay me" in the picture for his Mate.

Tew Undred Quid indeed!

Be Sure to Watch for UFC 137 REAL IN THE FIELD (PART 2) Chuck vs Rampage 3, Weigh-Ins, BJ's Mom and Mayhem!

Now here is the Pics you untrusting fucking JACKALS.

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Note the Bodyguards Eyeline.

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\The FanPosts are solely the subjective opinions of Bloody Elbow readers and do not necessarily reflect the views of Bloody Elbow editors or staff.

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