Jon Dwight Jones, so, so serious...

Let's throw ourselves into a probably baseless character assessment of one Mr. Jon Jones in lieu of the many things I see around the interwebs right this moment, questioning his business acumen.

Let's see, we do know he's quite the gifted athlete, we do know he's quite cocky-cock, we do know he is very polite; and we do know that, in some way, he deserves his face, and that he can be holier than thou and a snitch, a bad driver and an avid, appreciative patron of titty bars, etc., but what we do not really stop to think about is how very serious he happens to be.



And that was totally not out of context, boys.

How serious? Serious enough to drop fuck-all in his life and dedicate himself to turning himself from scratch into something he wasn't quite ready to face at the time: the roles of provider, husband, father, and whatnot—and whatnot is what he got the most. Such are the stakes set for him who fucks without them proper considerations of the invisible magic of contraceptives (aka: doing it wrong). Then, the humorless post adolescent leaped into the most brutalest [sic] sport in the face of the Earth—short of X-arm, because human dignity cannot be transplanted from dead bodies yet—armed (no pun intended) with nothing but long limbs, an incredible wrestling base (for a college dropout), aplomb, naive creativity, and a triple maniacal drive to succeed. In his short tenure in this sport he has achieved what few old timers and fewer newbies have; a slew of accolades that most fans can, by now, recite clinically from the comfort of their mother's basements, crowded seedy bars, or soul crunching workplaces.

Yet, to this particular fuker, the most indelible idea I've formed of him over time has been that of an athletic phenom severely lacking in the self-consciousness department, perpetually concerned with setting a good example despite the aforementioned whatnot that keeps blindsiding him over and over again, be it fan reactions, widespread perception, or pushing the pedal to the metal and turning into the unstoppable object against one immovable telephone pole.

Along the way he has proven that, with his behavior, he has relegated himself into the role of the straight man in every good buddy comedy for, so far, he has just been unable to, on his own, place himself at the top earning bracket of his chosen profession despite both his considerable intellectual and athletic abilities having turned him into probably the most unrelentingly effective human-shaped killing machine walking this planet today.

And all that, fukers, could be all be different if he had the necessary asshole tendencies because he could, at the very least, break bank on the undeniable fact that he's just so good at making people hate his ass b/c he can't, for the life of him, take a joke or trash talk and, instead, he still wants as much of the piece of the pie as he should get if he acted differently. Instead he always ends up saying a form of the truth as he sees it that always seems hurtful, in some way—he won't sign replica belts because he's worked too hard for the one he has—sad day for you, Rampage is a slower shell of his former self and a bad role model; Rashad is an angsty, envious person who imploded his life; Hendo is a juicer he has no respect for.

Shit, and if that wasn't enough, he just got promoted to JON JONES: UFC 151's Bane. That's just who he is and, just today, got called a Delusional Brat by one Chael Sonnen who, unlike him, has not one of his problems.

He's officially crossed into Theon Greyjoy-bad territory, one would be tempted to say. Sheisty, huh?



Look at this cocky motherfucker, here.

Well...the correct answer to that would have to be a whisper saying "NO."

Wait, what?

Dafuq not? Look at what he just did—or didn't do, but whatevs!

For that we'd have to focus on the here and now, on these times when Jon Jones is, say, riding the highest high of his young life, barely dealing with a minor speed bump, here and there, in his take unprecedented takeoff into the land of fame, fortune, and fucking Nike. He's the undisputed, youngest, and probably the best looking, light heavyweight champ and... ...yadda, yadda. What truly matters is that despite it all: his unfunniness [sic], his preachiness [sic?], and his cocky-cockiness, he has, overnight, turned into something precious and, yes, valuable beyond mere athletics. He's seriously MMA's first true iconoclast.

Take it from here, Matty, and very seriously, so as to make sense of this madness:

"Unless you can get the top athletes and you're not going to do that. I mean the fighters, they're all whores, they just fight for the biggest purse and it's going to be tough unless you could somehow get all the fighters to agree to something like that and you know there's always somebody going to come up underneath who's not willing to do it."

He got put with his back against the wall in a shitty deal and he did what he thought was best. Just that—no more and no less. An entire event got canceled because of it and a million fan-boners cried in agony.

But, when seen in other, much blunter terms: he just gave the proverbial "Fuck you, Man," to, well, THE MAN.

That, fellows, is fucking hardcore.

It takes a kind of man to take the stand for what is correct when the choices are slim and the boot is coming down hard on everyone; it takes another, not at all less valuable, to do the exact same thing when he doesn't have to.

It truly doesn't matter as much why he did it because, well, he did it. He's the one athlete at the prime of his athletic peak, full promotional backing, and expensive wrecked cars, that said the simple word that nobody in his place has said, sending THE MAN into full Hasmo Fuck-This-Gay-Earth-mode when he made it very clear that he was not to be treated like a commodity.

He's Mr Lindland's Vengeance Come to Flesh. And he just fired the first shot. From here on out, who knows. For all we know his knees may buckle but as of today he's showed everyone that "Nobody Puts Baby (aka. his Career) in a Corner".

Thus, now, more than ever, the one problem in Jon Jones' life as a young man that qualifies as being bigger than any other happens to be that his balls are, perhaps, way too big for the nominal MMA fighter.

Again, why? Because he's the actual professional athlete that MMA deserves, but not the one it needs right now, for the looks of some people's flaring nostrils. So, we'll hunt him, though we dunno if he can take it. Because he's not our athlete and we are prissy fucks. He's neither a silent guardian 'cause he says many silly things, most of them contradictory, nor a watchful protector of our fun times because he wrecks them.

He is, well, not an asshole we want him to be, he's a bad driver, he's contradictory bordering on the hypocritical to some, he's wanting to be a role model and fails as much as he succeeeds, he is the probably the best fighter today, gets bummed that people don't like him, likes them nudie bars, stops burglars dead on their tracks, he has a shittiest sense of humor, he is well intentioned... ...He matters. Holy fuck, he does.

For the TL;DR crowd: Die in a tree.



EDIT: Fixed the pics.

\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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