UFC 102: My First UFC


“The dog has to take a shit.”

“Never! There is no stoppping! We will eat him for sustenance if we have to! This is life and fucking death, man!”

The Better Half sulked in her seat while the dog whimpered and began a long silent stream of death farts.

It was 5pm when we hit Aberdeen. I did the math and realized that would put us at our hotel in Portland right around 7pm… right when the show was supposed to start.


I stepped on the gas and reached for my Blackberry.

“Traffic is a fucking disaster. All is lost! This is now a suicide mission,” I typed.

“I’ll leave two tickets at the door,” came the reply.

Pickles and cheese rolled down the front of my shirt, leaving a sickly yellow trail of mustard as I crammed the remains of my lunch into my face, swerving in and out of traffic at 100mph and throwing all caution to the wind. A ninety year old grandmother with her family in the backseat nearly had a stroke as I bore down on her, honking and screaming and waving my hands.

“Get out of my fucking way, you whore! There are innocent lives at stake here, god damnit!”

I reached behind me and began strangling the dog.

“We must kill him now before he suffocates us all with his poisonous canine gases!” I explained to The Better Half as she wrestled the dog and steering wheel out of my hands.

By some miracle, we hit the hotel just before 7 and made it to The Alladin at around 7:30.

There was a line around the block of people waiting to get in when we arrived.

… wtf?

I made a quick phone call to Angry Amadeus using the top secret toll free Mod Line.

“What the fuck, man?”

“The show doesn’t start until 9.”

“Oh… cool… let’s get a drink.”

True to his word, Rogan left two tickets for “The Voodoo Chicken -All Knowing, All Powerful and Grand Poobah of The Universe” at the door. They asked to see my Gigantic Glistening Wang to prove it really was The Great and Mighty Voodoo in The Flesh gracing their presence and then I found my way to one of the ultra-modern, ultra-comfortable seats in The Alladin Theater…. and by “ultra-modern and ultra-comfortable” I mean, “I’m pretty sure my ass is permanently disfigured”.

The Alladin had a full bar in the back and for just $80.00 you could enjoy a nice flat beer from Seattle -the town I had just driven 160 miles to get away from, while Ari Shaffir and Joe Rogan worked their special blend of perverted entertainment. After all, you’re gonna need a beer or two if you expect to sit in those midevil torture devices for more than fifteen minutes.

The Better Half and I took a seat next to Angry Amadeus and his buddy -whose name I now forget, so we will call him “Sleepy” -for reasons that may or may not become evident later on in this story.

Ari really does get better every time I see him… and he didn’t exactly suck the first time I saw him, so believe me when I say he brought the house down. I saw him not too long ago in Seattle, so about 50% of his act was not new to me, but even the bits I have heard before have been expanded on and fleshed out. Plus, he introduced knee fucking to the crowd and at one point even got down on his knees while giving a rather vivid re-enactment of every blast to the face from every porno you have ever seen. In fact, Ari’s set was so intense he even permanently fucked up the mic stand when it got in the way of his fearsome comedy… all that from a Jew in a cardigan.

Who knew?

If this dude comes to your town and you do not go see him -you are a douchebag. I’m sorry, but you just are. There’s no excuses and nobody likes a douchebag.

If Ari brought the house down -then Rogan built it back up just to tear the fucker down again and scatter the pieces across the four corners of the earth -never to be found for they could not possibly live up to the glory of that moment in time when Joe Rogan issued his mighty guffaw under their rafters.

I’d say about 3/4ths of Rogan’s set was new to me. Which is saying a lot considering that motherfucker uploads his shit to YouTube every five minutes. The new move to Colorado is a big topic and I think the dude just started winging it… just hanging out with a packed house of his closest friends… eventually, he was telling us a story about how he found himself in some backwoods strip joint with some giant roided out gorilla friend of his and a radio DJ about 10 or 15 years ago and suddenly stopped at the word, “space-animal”.

“… space animal? What the fuck does that mean… man, I’m high. Anybody got any questions?”

That’s what I love about Rogan’s act. It’s like some sort of stand-up/speaking tour combo. Every single time I have seen Rogan, he’s always been a class act -taking the time to answer any question from anybody and then hanging out afterward so all you creepy motherfuckers can touch him and get your picture taken… and the Q/A sessions are often just as entertaining as the comedy.

For example, imagine my surprise when I heard someone shout out, “Where’s The Voodoo Chicken?”

That’s right… not “Will you get high with me?” …or “Can Brock kick Fedor’s ass?” The most pressing question of the evening was -where the fuck is The Voodoo Chicken. Of course, Joe had no problem finding me in the crowd as he proudly exclaimed, “That’s Voodoo! He’s my friend!”

This moment had interesting ramifications when I wandered outside after the show. It turns out, the doors were locked from the inside and the door Nazis were not letting anyone back in. As I considered hailing a cab and calling it a night, I got a text message from Joe.

“Where are you? People are asking about you.”

Apparently, a rather large group of my fans had all patiently waited for everyone to exit the building and then approached Joe in the hopes that he might somehow know how to locate me. I banged on the door and showed the door Nazi my phone.

“Look dude, Rogan’s looking for me, right now.” He glanced at my phone and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could -some giant eight foot tall used car salesman looking motherfucker busted through the door and grabbed me by the hand.

“Are you Voodoo?” he asked. I never really know how to answer that question, but he must have caught a glimpse of my Gigantic Glistening Wang because the next thing I know he’s quickly ushering me back into the theater.

“I’m BadElvis,” he explained… also known to me as “Vigo Granitelli” -one of the bestest and baddest motherfuckers to ever grace this here corner of the Internets and I gotta admit it was a pleasure finally meeting him… even though I forget his real name now… and didn’t really have a chance to say more than maybe 10 words to him… but what we have is special and we will cherish this weekend’s fleeting moment forever.

Someone shouted, “There he is!” as I was pushed back into the theater and mobbed by my adoring fans. sbgarner seemed particularly excited to meet me and after Joe and I exchanged some totally not gay high fiving some dude whipped out his camera to take a picture of himself with Joe.

“I want you in here too!” random guy said to me, while motioning in my direction.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

“I’m just a fan.”

… so right now, as I type this there is some dude out there showing off his pictures of Joe Rogan and “that Voodoo guy.”

“Who the fuck is that?” his friends will say.

“I don’t know, but he’s really fucking famous.”

I finally found a moment to pull away from my fans and walked outside with Joe and the entourage. Some nutjob attacked us almost immediately and began leaping up and down in the air frantically insisting that he take us to each and every totally fucking awesome hotspot in all of Portland… in fact, this dude was desperately insistingcreepily insisting… Like he had bigger, nefarious plans and we might all wake up the next morning missing a kidney.

This madman was thus forth christened, “Roofie Boy”.

“Dude, seriously -you’re freaking me out. This isn’t some sort of gay thing -is it?” Rogan asked.

“I can assure you I am not gay!” Roofie Boy said most emphatically.

In an act of self-defense, Joe whipped out his iPhone and began video taping Roofie Boy. Probably so the police would have something to work with once they found our cold, dead pants-less bodies the next morning. Roofie Boy broke out in a cold sweat as Joe slowly began to beat him down verbally. Suddenly, out of nowhere -some giant flaming homo leapt out from the shadows and rushed to Roofie Boy’s aid.

This was a mistake. This merely provided Rogan with a new subject for his impromptu film and a new target for his verbal assault.

“I have two Masters degrees and make $80,000 a year,” Roofie Boy’s totally not gay friend suddenly shouted out for no apparent reason.

Rogan turned to me and asked, “What do you think?”

“He’s definitely not helping the gay argument,” I replied.

Eventually, we escaped Roofie Boy’s clutches and made it around the corner to someplace called, “The Original Hotcakes and Steakhouse”. That’s right -this wasn’t some knock-off all night greasy pancake joint like all the others. This was the motherfucking original!

There was no place for all of us to sit, so we had Matt Lindland tell two pencil necked geeks to beat it and we pushed the table they used to be sitting at up against ours to make more room. By the time I made it back to our table, I was seated across from someone I had never met before… in fact… believe it or not -this guy had never even heard of The Rogan Board! This dude was Matt Lindland’s autobiographer… and a screenplay writer… and a film producer… and an Iraq war veteran with -as he put it, “severe brain trauma”… which perhaps kind of explains all those other jobs he may or may not have. I’m pretty sure the Iraq shit was the real deal though, because I wasn’t the only one glancing toward the door and plotting the fastest escape route as he told us tales of rape, death, blood and severe brain trauma over our pancakes.

That’s when Roofie Boy walked in. He’d followed us to the restaraunt and was now casually sauntering in with his totally not gay friend and ordering pancakes as if this had been a part of their plan all evening and… “Oh… hey, look! That’s Joe Rogan over there! I wonder what his kidneys taste like?”

They calmly ordered their pancakes and sat at the table across from us… staring without blinking while their pancakes grew cold.

Roofie Boy, if you are reading this -you are one creepy motherfucker and I commend you. That’s some Mark David Chapman type stuff. Good job.

Also, watching Ari eat bacon is funny… I don’t know why. It just is.

Afterward, we all stepped outside and some greasy fat chick from the kitchen dropped everything and ran outside to hug on Joe. He stood there and took it like a man as she slowly hugged and squeezed and basically lubed him up with her grease covered body while the dishwasher took pictures. Somewhere out there a fat chick is masturbating to pictures of Joe with a look on his face not unlike that of a dog being simultaneously surprised and scolded for pooping on the carpet.

I think Roofie Boy must have slipped me something, because the next thing I knew -myself and The Better Half were standing on the street corner alone, with no idea how to get back to the hotel and not a cab in sight… and now that The Goon Squad had disappeared it suddenly occurred to me just how shady this side of town is… especially at 3am.

Just then there was a noise behind me. I heard footsteps and the heavy breathing of my attacker. My instincts kicked in and I pulled a Buffer 180 -landing perfectly mid-stride with my hands in full kung-fu position shouting, “BRRRRRROCK LESNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!”

“Uhm… is Joe gone?”

It was greasy fat chick from inside the restaraunt.

“Yeah, he left already.”

“Can you give him this?” she asked and handed me a black T-shirt.

It says, “The Original Hotcakes and Steakhouse” across the front.



“You look like you smoke pot!”

Eddie Bravo had known me for all of two seconds and already he was shaking me down for weed.

“Hi Eddie!” I said… mostly because I believe decent human beings should greet each other and maybe even shake hands when first meeting.

“A LOT of pot!” he replied.

Rogan, Angry Amadeus, The Better Half and I had been sitting in Joe’s presidential suite over looking the Willamette River while discussing America’s need for a eugenics program backed by a strong dictator when the demi-god of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu suddenly burst through the front door and demanded that I get him high.

I have to admit, I was tempted to teach Eddie some manners by putting him in a headlock and giving him a taste of the old Voodoo Noogie, but I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of Joe. So instead, I whipped out the stash and we proceeded to stink up the place… except for Rogan that is. He was busy preparing for the fight -which involves NO marijuana believe it or not and copious amounts of prayer to Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered-Serpent deity of ancient Mesoamerica. I think it’s some sort of Scientology thing. That Rogan’s a weird dude.

Eddie relaxed after a few one hits and eventually asked me my name.

“No… your name on the message board,” he corrected me -after I made the ridiculous mistake of telling him my actual name.

“The Voodoo Chicken.”

“Holy shit! You’re The Voodoo Chicken?”

Eddie Bravo -Grand Poobah of all things BJJ was giddy like a schoolgirl at a pajama party once he discovered he was in the presence of The One and Only Voodoo Chicken. He jumped to his feet and shook my hand even harder than he did when he found out I had weed on me. I actually even felt kind of bad when I told him I didn’t have time to autograph a post of mine that he printed out and keeps in his wallet. He and I have had a few interactions on the board and I’m pretty sure he’s jealous of my sweet “Monkey Steals The Peach” move, but The Better Half remained unimpressed.

“Why does everybody from the board think you’re some kind of god?” she asked.

“I don’t know… you have to admit, I AM pretty awesome.”

“No… you’re not… you’re an asshole.”

She’s allowed to say stuff like that because she’s hot and she puts my penis in her mouth.

I glanced down at our seats as Rogan handed me our UFC tickets.

Section A – Row 3 – South Floor

What the fuck, Rogan? I do believe the numbers one and two come before three -you cheap fuck. I was tempted to rip up the tickets and spit in his face for having insulted me so deeply, but I decided to take the high road even though Rogan was low balling me like that. So instead of having a pristine, unhindered view of the cage like I SPECIFICALLY requested -I had to contend with that hippy, Urijah Faber and his fancy locks waving in my face all night.

When did they start letting hippies fight anyway?

We exited the room in a cloud of pot smoke and headed for the elevators. Rogan’s suite was on the 16th floor and he and Eddie excitedly talked about the horrific oversized snot monsters that have been erupting from Joe’s nose the whole way down. A couple of guys got on the elevator before we hit the lobby and they recognized Joe and Eddie right away, but let’s face it -do you really want to shake hands with a guy that’s talking about pulling quarter sized chunks of flesh out of his nose on a regular basis? Instead, our elevator buddies just politely nodded while slowly succumbing to a contact high.

I won’t really go into the details of the fight, because I’m sure all you dorks have already rubbed yourselves raw over the thirty other UFC 102 threads that have been started over the past week. But I will tell you this:

All UFC fans are gigantic douchebags who should be sterilized and forced to learn how to read before enrolling in estrogen therapy.

That’s right. I said it. That makes you angry doesn’t it…? Really, really angry… I rest my case.


When Gabriel Gonzaga popped Chris Tuchscherer’s grapes with a devastating accidental kick to the baby maker -the UFC dorks booed as he lay screaming and convulsing in pain.

… wtf?

Every last one of you drunken UFC fanboys needs to get the fuck in line for a nice swift mind blowing kick to the nads from all 6 foot 1, 259 pounds of Gabriel Gonzaga… even if you didn’t boo while Tuchscherer watched his future family bleed out onto the mat, I’m sure you’ve done something else to deserve it -so get in line fucker. Look at it this way -that poor bastard only got paid $10,000 to stand up and take a swift kick in the nuts from Gabriel Gonzaga for your amusement… that’s barely enough coin to stitch his fucking balls back together. You couldn’t pay me enough to take that kind of abuse -especially, after having seen it in person. I’ve been rocked in the nuts before, but this dude looked like he saw fucking god… and the crowd was booing.

In fact, the only people in the building who seemed to have any shred of decency were the actual fighters themselves. Someone needs to start making Affliction T-shirts that say “IRONY” in big crazy letters with dragons and skulls and flames and totally not gay sparkly glitter.

Also, yelling things out like, “Submit him!” and “Kick him!” really helps fighters out when they are at a loss for what to do next. Nate Marquardt later admitted he had no idea what to do in his match against Demian Maia until a drunken douchebag in the fourth row suggested he “knock him the fuck out”.

Good call, random UFC dork… although I must admit, I am willing to excuse the guy who shouted out “Punch him in the heart!” for reasons of creativity and originality.

Other highlights include the moment I attempted to order a coffee from the beer stand during an intermission and the beer guy looked at me like I’d just asked him if he’d ever fellated a horse… then Brock Lesnar walked by and The Better Half had to change her underwear immediately… this is very unsettling to me, as now I must fight Brock for honor.

Do you hear that, Brock? The Voodoo Chicken is gunning you for you, motherfucker! You can run, but you can’t hide!

Once the fights were over we made our way out to the open area where the gorillas were aimlessly wandering about… clearly intoxicated by the potent funk of testosterone, steroids and cheap beer swimming in their fat empty heads… I braced myself for Act II of the evening’s entertainment… some gorillas began humping each other in the confusion while most of the UFC chicks just lay spread eagle on the ground… waiting for any passing stranger to deposit their bent chromosome riddled seed… giant, roided out gorillas were ripping their pants off and shitting right where they stood… then hunching forward up against the brick walls of The Rose Garden and releasing a potent blast of musk with a mighty grunt from some mystery gland apparently located somewhere near the taint. I made the horrible mistake of making eye contact with one of the alpha males for more than three seconds and the resultant rush of pure testosterone straight to his brain forced him into an uncontrollable rage. His eyes widened while the hairs on his back stood up and he let loose with a mighty roar at no one and nothing in particular… just anything to release the pent up anxiety and aggression brought about through a steady stream of steroid and stepfather abuse over the years.

The Better Half insisted on a pregnancy test as soon as we made it back to the hotel… not that she had actually been touched, but you just can’t take your fucking chances with a crowd like that. My eyebrows had somehow fused together and I’m pretty sure I grew a third testicle by the time we had fought our way out of the pack and found ourselves sitting on a bus.

Also -let me just say this: The girlfriends UFC dorks have are all really classy. Sarcasm? You decide.

Somehow Angry Amadeus, Sleepy, The Better Half and myself all made it back to my hotel without any anal penetration or shit throwing when Rogan sends us a text message saying he was at the big UFC after party they were promoting at the fight. But by then we were enjoying some fine sushi and porter over conversation like civilized individuals. Jumping right back into the fray of the gorilla pack seemed like an absurd thing to do at that point… Sleepy had an Appletini and fell asleep at our table while Angry Amadeus did the best damn Patrick Bateman impersonation I have ever seen… I fell asleep that night muttering, “I have to return some videotapes!”

Thanks for a great weekend Joe and to all my fans who missed me, I will be selling locks of my hair next time around… so there’s something to look forward to. Feel free to print this post out and keep it with you in case you actually do see me and get a chance to hear me tell you I’m too busy to sign it.

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