Ranger Up at UFC 100
Two members of the Ranger Up crew – Kelly and Nick – just got back from UFC 100, an event that by many independent accounts, they both spent in an over-the-top alcoholic haze. Here’s point, counter point with Kelly and Nick. Mr. Crigger will begin:
Kelly Crigger’s UFC 100 Flashbacks:
Upon linking up with Nick in Vegas I notice he’s wearing a froo-froo pair of designer jeans with big white splotches on the buttocks that resemble semen stains. He claims to have ripped his regular jeans and bought these in a hurry. I secretly think he wants to mimic RU fighter and gambling enthusiast Dale Hartt, who also wears spermizoa stained jeans and cannot sit still. Nick and I are both fearful.
I was on the strip walking and I dropped my phone. When I bent down to pick the damn thing, I tore the ass right out of my jeans, which was awesome because everyone got to see my Spiderman underoos. I walked into Caesar’s Palace to get replacement denim and the only options were jeans that cost more than my car. I bought them, but will be seeking counseling ASAP.
John Tackett retires early for the evening and makes no bones about it. I think he’s afraid of what might happen when Hartt decides to go cow tipping in the Mojave.
Oh, how I wish I had taken his lead…
At the expo, Nick refuses to stare at the woman modeling New Whey protein in the booth next to us. Instead he keeps saying, “Is that Rampage?” and pointing nowhere so she looks away while he checks out her rack.
Erroneous! Erroneous! Not only did I stare at her, but she is likely going to be a Ranger Up Girl in the future. Plus, you know…Steve Mazzagatti looks a lot like Rampage…
Nick takes a cell phone picture of the street corner where Tupac was killed. I am not as impressed since my attention is on the eccentric (read: scary) street walkers who appear to be sizing us up for a drive by.
Crigger is 107 years old, and hence doesn’t acknowledge the awesomeness that is Tupac. Had Abba been gunned down on that street corner, then maybe Crigger would share my pain…
At ace MMA photographer Tracy Lee’s party, a man is struggling with the decision to join the Army and seeks my advice. Nick would rather talk about Party Starter – a two chambered spray bottle that holds alcohol and mixer. Priorities, Nick.
You can adjust the freakin flow rate for varying alcohol mixes and then fire a shot five feet across the room. It’s up there with penicillin as far as I’m concerned.
Nick tells Rob Roveta, “Don’t mind him. He’s usually sleeping in a trunk right now.” I can’t figure out who he’s referring to.
Drunk Crigger tells the guy throwing the party and one of the more influential agents in the sport that he can “get him in because he writes for Fight! Magazine”. When he said “Fight! Magazine”, he flexed mightily and let out a primal scream.
Danny Acosta walks by just as Nick bends over to pick something up. Nick accuses him of trying to have butt sex with him and repeats this fact to everyone. Having previously admired Nick, Acosta is currently seeking grief counseling.
There really is nothing funnier than telling tons of people you don’t really know that a guy you just met is a known sex offender. Am I right?
Nick dances at Tryst like Elaine from Seinfeld. Clearly this man’s not playing with a full set of sharpest knives in the drawer as his elevator doesn’t go up.
Ever since I tore my hamstring break dancing to Thriller, I haven’t been the same man…
Despite a massive hangover and really being drunk still, I head to the expo while my CEO and fearless leader sleeps in.
While technically true, this statement is…Look! Platypus!
As promised I bring Greg Jackson to our booth to sign autographs for his adoring fans. He’s joined by female fighter Julie Kedzie, who’s sporting a black eye from her last fight. Somewhere Nick wakes up.
Julie Kedzie is hot. I sensed a disturbance in the force.
An Australian man asks for my picture and autograph. He’s flown all the way from Sydney just to meet me. I am thrilled at the prospect of finally having a stalker.
Just because you met one of the twelve people that read your book, does not mean he came to the states to see you, nor does it mean he is your stalker. By the way kids, you can buy Crigger’s first book, Title Shot, here.
My phone signals a new text message. Someone whose name rhymes with Schmick allegedly forgot his badge and allegedly had to take another cab back to the hotel to retrieve it. I’m sure this Schmick guy is really just trying to squeeze in more sleep.
I honestly don’t remember this because I was still drunk.
Nick takes a picture with Tim Creduer and Forrest Griffin. Neither man smiles because Nick is secretly caressing their smooth buttocks while whispering in Forrest’s ear, “have you seen my new jeans?”
Crigger is just upset because now I am all metro-ed out and he is still sporting Husky Bugle Boy Jeans.
After berating me for refusing to drink any more alcohol, Nick rallies…with a Bloody Mary. Way to set the example.
Oh wait, you were saying drinking is bad?
After the fight we are too impatient to wait in line behind 1000 people to get a cab, so Nick makes the executive decision (he is the CEO after all) to walk to our next appointment-Planet Hollywood. During the three hour trek down the Las Vegas strip, Nick continues to repeat the unending mantra, “it can’t be that much farther. I can see it from here!” not realizing he’s looking at a massive neon sign on the top of a 70 story building.
It was just over the next hill…I’ll show you on the map…
And now Nick remembers UFC 100…
Nick’s UFC Flashbacks:
By the time Crigger arrives in Vegas, I am sitting with John Tackett (3/75 RGR and owner of Fighter Link) and Dale Hartt (UFC Fighter and Naval veteran). We have been drinking for hours. Dale tells us we have to come to this great restaurant. Crankypants Crigger lets everyone know he is starving and his colossus body can’t possibly last another moment without food. Dale says it will be worth it. He then proceeds to take us on a seven-hour journey through time and space that ends at an Irish Bar.
Where I finally got a healthy portion of Shepherd’s Pie that raced through my stomach so fast it came out looking like Lucky Charms and a Vegas roll.
There is a 23% chance that something Dale Hartt does will directly or indirectly result in my death. There is a 6% chance that there will be a unicorn involved.
And another 3% chance that the unicorn will be ridden by a Lucky Charms leprechaun who was recently birthed from my colon. How many times do I have to eat my shoes before you believe I’m hungry?
As I leaned back at the bar at Tryst, I remember thinking, “Hey is that Mark DellaGrotte flying through the air?” That thought was followed, along with a giant Aryan body, with the thought, “Why the fuck is Crigger throwing Mark DellaGrotte?”
I thought I was at a midget tossing tournament and you know what they say about those…it’s better to toss midgets than toss salad.
Moments later. “Why is Crigger trying to throw Marcus Davis into a swimming pool? That seems like a bad idea…”
At age 80, Ronald Reagan started claiming he had no recollection of half his life and got away with the Iran Contra affair because he was diagnosed with alzheimer’s disease. I am forty and therefore have halfheimer’s disease and don’t remember any of this.
Tim Credeur is Forrest Griffin’s much smaller doppelganger.
What’s a doppelganger? Is that a juggernaut’s cousin or a fluffer’s hand maiden?
At the UFC Expo, the tiniest girl I have ever seen in my entire life walked up and proceeded to badger, intimidate, and cajole everyone into listening to her and doing exactly what she said. Then she kicked us for good measure. She is also apparently the little sister of a dude I went to West Point with.
That damn leprechaun is persistent, isn’t he? Humans that short should be able to scratch their toes without bending over.
The guys that write for Fight! Magazine are a little handsy…
If by handsy you mean tried to have sex with you when you bent over to pick up your cell phone and ripped your jeans, then yes…they are.
Joe Silva may be the most tolerant man on the planet.
And Clay Guida is one step back on the evolutionary scale. The fact that he has mastered bi-pedalism and his opposing thumbs is a triumph of evolution. I kid. Guida is a good, albeit abnormally resilient, dude.
Holy shit, it’s midnight after the fight and I don’t see Crigger anywhere!
I was doing an impression of my fearless CEO and letting Calgon take me away.
Holy shit, it’s 0300, and I linked up with amputees, active duty soldiers, and all around BAMF Mark Little and Chris Carlsen, my new best friends. When I told them I was going to crash because I had a 9:30 flight, they told me to Ranger Up. Turnaround is fair play. Cocksuckers. They’ve goaded me into entering an all night beer pong tournament.
Again, I’m asleep.
It’s 0530 and Chris has peeled off to hit on some girl. Mark and I are winning game after game of beer pong. In each game, we are down by 4 cups and then rally for victory. Crigger just woke up and wants to know where the fuck I am.
Catching a flight is a bitch, huh?
It’s 0730. No one wants to play anymore. Mark and I are victorious. Our last victory was against a dude who was on his mid-tour Iraq leave. The cool thing to do would be to have thrown the match. We aren’t cool. We still make sure he had a great time. I remark to Mark that it is light outside. He says something like, “No shit. It’s 0730.” I have a plane to catch in two hours. I have not packed yet. I am drunk as a fucking skunk. By now, thanks to social media outlets like Facebook and Twitter, my friends on the east coast, my brother, my new friend Suzy, Her Majesty the Queen, Leonardo DiCaprio, Tony Eason, a Leprechaun, a Goat Herder from Spain, and Pope Benedict all realize I am still playing beer pong and are lighting up my phone with texts. They are all telling me to go to the airport comma idiot. I believe they are all cowards.
On my way to the airport I see Nick on the corner where Tupac was killed. He’s wearing ripped jeans and has Mark on his back Yoda-Style wielding two glocks for 360 security, while they both huddle over a beer pong trophy that resembles a prosthetic leg screaming “my precious!” and return heavy machine gun fire with a local gang. A leprechaun lays dead in the street.