"You guys want extra napkins?" "What for?" "For the blood."
Brooke surprised me with ringside tickets to Thursday Night at the Fights last week. Seven amateur bouts followed by the pros in the headliner. Holy haymakers, batman. The first couple of fights featured never evers wearing surf shorts and tennis shoes. They made up for their lack of skill with boundless enthusiasm to pound the living shit out of their fellow human beings.
The first blow to land solidly on a jaw caused the opponent's contact to fly out of his eye. The bright lights reflected off it as it spun out of the ring. Mr. One-good-eye won the fight in spite of the obvious handicap.
The fighters get to pick nicknames like "Carolina Clubber" and "King Sting." One dipshit forgot which sport he participated in and decided that he should be introduced as the "Karate Kid." He won his fight but Mr. Miagi would have been disappointed.
What didn't disappoint was the token cat fight. That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen two chicks duked it out for glory and the $150 that goes to the winner. One of them probably was the first girl picked for teams in gym class. I thought there was a mistake in the program until the second fighter entered the ring, it was much easier to tell that she was a female. Alas, the pretty one got her ass kicked by the driver of the Lesbaru, suffering the second broken nose of the evening.
We shared our side of the ring with "professional" photographers who seemed most concerned about getting as many shots of the skanky ring girls as possible. One of them was take-home-to- Mom pretty but the rest probably couldn't land a job pole dancing in Butte, Montana. They all wore skirts so short that it was easy to tell that they wore thongs. Actually it was hard to see some of the thongs through all the cottage cheese.