On Friday afternoon, Caroline came running in the house because she wanted a pickle. This has become a little tradition at our house and now, whenever she is helping P in the backhouse, she feels the need to eat pickles. And really, who can blame her? There is nothing more satisfying than a sweet gherkin.
As I was doling out the pickles, I asked what she and Daddy were doing and she answered, “We’re out back making bullets”. It was one of those statements that causes me to stop and ponder what my life has become. My daughter and my husband are out back making bullets. It’s a sentence that I never imagined would describe my life, along the same lines as “I’m going to wait until these shoes go on sale”.
But bless their redneck hearts, I love them and their propensity for manufacturing ammo right in our backyard. Nothing says we are right wing, red state Republicans like making homemade bullets.
Except for maybe this.
Saturday morning, P asked me how we go about purchasing a pay-per-view event through our Dish Network service. I wasn’t exactly sure since we have never ventured into the land of pay-per-view, and normally, you just push a button on your remote that allows you to buy a program. But when our Dish Network was installed, the helpful technician said foul, horrible things to me like “phone cord running along your living room floor” and “wires that will show”, so I chose Option B which was the no wire option, but also means that we have to call a number to order pay-per-view. And y’all really don’t need to know, nor probably care, about any of this.
My point is I asked P what pay-per-view event he was wanting to spend money on, because I felt like it was a safe bet that it wasn’t “The Holiday” starring Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet. Sure enough, he wanted to order UFC 71, which for you novices is Ultimate Fighting Championships 71 (and I don’t know what the 71 stands for). It seems that someone named Chuck Liddell was going to be defending his heavyweight title against someone named Rampage Jackson, and I don’t know much, but based on the names, I’m thinking Rampage sounds a lot more intimidating than Chuck. Rampage is a fighting name, whereas Chuck is more the name of an accountant who coaches Little League teams on the weekend.
So, last night we had some friends over to watch the Spurs game and then, UFC 71. I even poured some Sour Patch Kids into a bowl to make the occasion that much more festive. Good times.
I guess the UFC people figure that if you’re paying to watch this event, then they need to give you your money’s worth. It was the longest buildup to a main event that I have ever seen. They had multiple matches with lesser fighters to get the crowd good and ready for Chuck and Rampage. And speaking of the crowd, there were celebrities there including Andre Agassi, Steffi Graf, and Mandy Moore. Mandy Moore a UFC fan? Who knew? There was also a celebrity named Lil John and based on his shiny red tracksuit, gold grill, multiple gold chains and the fact that he has “Lil” in his name, I’m pretty sure he raps for a living.
Finally, and I do mean FINALLY, it was time for the main event. Rampage came out first wearing a classy, diamond encrusted grill in his mouth and stopping intermittently to howl at the crowd. It was all more than a little disturbing. Then, amid much ado, Chuck Liddell came out and basically strolled down to the ring like he was on his way to show little Johnny how to hit the ball off the tee. No howling, no diamond grill.
Which may have been his problem.
About 1 minute into the fight, Rampage landed a right hook across Chuck’s jaw and that was the end, which means we paid about .75 cents a second to see this event. Money well spent, my friends. Well spent.
Then, in the post-fight interview with Rampage, he was celebrating his victory over Chuck and said, “He didn’t even touch me. My new name should be NO TOUCH”. And at that moment, I decided that hearing that kind of eloquent, witty banter more than justified our purchase. Mr. Rampage (or should I say Mr. NO TOUCH), my hat is off to you, your right hook, and your clever repartee.
You made it a Saturday night to remember.