Off the Sauce

I skipped work on Saturday night to watch UFC 91 with a bunch of guys in a room with a giant TV set. This entailed sitting on a couch and some chairs with several white, black and Hispanic guys with tattoos, watching another bunch of tougher white and Hispanic – but no black – guys with even more tattoos beat and choke each other senseless.

Some of the guys in the room wore shirts with skulls on them. One even wore a hat cocked slightly to the side.

“Hey Anthony,” I said. “Someone hit you in the head.”

“Huh?”

“Your hat,” I said, pointing. “It’s all cockeyed.”

“Shut up, dick.”

And so on.

Remarkable things were done in this room while the fights were on. Some guys consumed beer. Others ate various snacks. Occasionally, one would let loose with a burst of flatulence. This pattern repeated itself for several hours.

One-liners were tossed out at the rate of approximately seven per minute. Some of these were funny. Others bombed. In a three hour span, I made the room do “LOL” approximately a half dozen times. I made it do “ROTFLMAO” once. My comedic batting average was high.

I ate a full bag of nacho cheese Doritos. I drank three large bottles of Poland Spring. I used the f-word frequently. I got up to take a leak twice. I cracked two jokes linking Brock Lesnar with steroid use – or, on this particular night, a distinct lack thereof. When it was over, I fist-bumped two guys, soul brother handshake-hooked two others, and half-club-hugged another.

I did guy things.