I am officially launching my campaign to become the UFC Flyweight Champion.
You've never heard of me? Well whoop-dee-frickin'-doo. You'd never heard of Randy Couture back in 1987. Which also happens to be the year I graduated from high school.
The tale of the tape: I'm 6' 6" with a 78-inch reach. I walk around at 170 lbs. (12.1 stone), so I figure I can easily get to 125. I can't afford Mike Dolce, but so far I'm shedding pounds like crazy on a diet of lentils, frozen vegan burritos, Ex-Lax and Diet Mountain Dew. (I'm missing a lot of training because of how much time I spend in the shitter, though. Gotta get that sorted out.)
I'll be the Stefan Struve of the flyweight division—guys won't get in my zip code without tasting the sting of my bony jabs, kicks, knees and elbows. If you take me down, my spindly limbs can lock up submissions from angles you didn't even think were possible.
And if it turns into a war of attrition, I can win the grind too. I've got cardio for minutes.
Which brings me to training. I can't afford a gym membership just yet, but I used to work night security at TJ Maxx where I swiped a couple mannequins. I roll with them on a mattress in my mom's basement; they're pretty thrashed from my vicious G&P. I'll post some Youtube videos if mom will let me borrow her computer.
Training's temporarily on hold while I recover from a hamstring injury. I was practicing Daniel Larusso's crane kick when I felt it pop. I'm doing video work during rehab, though. I've studied all the fight scenes from Bloodsport, Hard to Kill, and Gymkata.
I don't expect an immediate title shot, of course. I figure I'll take a warm-up fight, then start calling out some top 10 contenders.
After that...watch your ass, Mighty Mouse. This. Shit. Is. For. Real.