Brock Lesnar vs. Frank Mir (UFC 100)
The Brutal, Dickish Revenge
Brock Lesnar is a human cheat-code. He is 300 pounds of muscle and judging by the way he darts around, I don't think mass and inertia were properly explained to him. He has so much wild animal meat inside him at any time that bears unsheath their penis bones when his scent catches the wind. Brock Lesnar is exactly what you would use if you were making an army of super clone soldiers, which explains why his outgoing voicemail message is, "I am one of you, ordinary human. You can tell me where the resistance is hiding after the beep."
Brock is such a physical beast that in his first UFC fight, his second MMA fight ever, he got matched up against the former UFC Heavyweight Champion, Frank Mir. Despite having about 70 seconds of professional fighting experience, Brock was manhandling Frank. He threw him down, punched him down, and scientists everywhere started calling each other, trying to figure out which of their colleagues had finally figured out how to turn into the Hulk.
Frank is a crafty submission artist, though; and while Brock was standing over him and deciding which part to smash, Frank expertly pulled him into a kneebar and tapped him out. It gave hope to martial artists everywhere that they might stand a chance in a Bigfoot attack if his joints work like ours. They don't. In fact, that's where Bigfoot keeps his milk sacs. All you're going to do is cover yourself in salty ape whey, but I'm getting off topic. After this fight, Frank Mir and Brock Lesnar both turned into impossible assholes.
Brock Lesnar vs. Frank Mir I:
For a year and a half, Frank told everyone about how stupid Brock was for getting caught in such a basic kneebar. Frank also told everyone how awesome he was for pulling off such a brilliant kneebar. Being a dick is more of an art than a science. Brock's approach to the trash talking was more primal. He was going to revenge fuck Frank Mir's corpse until his ghost had a baby.
When they had their rematch at UFC 100, complicated circumstances had led to each of them being a UFC Heavyweight Champion. Not only would they unify the belt, we'd finally see who was deadliest: Ardipithecus or Douchebag. The fight started like their first one-- Brock used his secret technique of being fifty times stronger to hold Frank down by his neck and face and punch him. The only moves Frank managed to land were several thumbs up to his corner to signal that he was still alive, somewhere under the feasting manananggal.
One criticism of Brock's fighting technique is his lack of patience. In his early MMA fights, he tended to frantically whack at his opponents like his mother just deleted his save game. This never really mattered since a sloppy half-punch from Brock Lesnar is an extinction level event for spinal fluid. He has more muscles in his forearms than a clown has in his four freezers. Brock had to marry a pro wrestler because when he shifts in his sleep it's the equivalent of The Bushwackers Irish-whipping you into a steel ladder. However, Brock's thirst for revenge had focused his rage. He wasn't spazzing away with tiny shots-- he was measuring his punches in pure hate. By the end of the first round there was so much of Frank's face on Brock Lesnar's knuckles that to this day, Frank can still taste it when Brock reaches into an elk's uterus to hide his valuables.
When Frank survived the first round, the remaining parts of his brain took one look at the beast that almost killed him and thought, "If we're not dead, that can only mean one thing: we are invincible." It's the only reason I can think of to explain why he got close to Brock and attempted a flying double knee. It had all the foresight of going to an Alabama family reunion without a condom. Sure enough, Frank bounced off and fell onto his back. It was such an open invitation to a ravaging that I think he might have been trying to confuse and overload Brock Lesnar's sex glands.
Brock fell on him like he was working a jackhammer, and Frank's desperate attempt to roll away from the beating only made things worse. The referee stopped the fight right before it became a recipe for Swedish meatballs. Brock celebrated by taunting the bloody remains of Frank Mir. He screamed, "Talk all the shit you want now!" Then, mad with revenge, he started flipping off the crowd. Because seriously, fuck those guys for just sitting there and letting him liquify a human. 12,191 MMA fans in attendance and none of them thought to bring tranquilizer darts? That's poor planning. There aren't enough Coors Lights in The Mandalay Bay Events Center to drop a Brock Lesnar after it's made a fresh kill.
Brock Lesnar vs. Frank Mir - The Revenge Match:
Fred Ettish vs. The Sport of MMA (CFX Gladiator Evolution)
The Symbolic Revenge
When Fred Ettish made his pro debut in 1994 at UFC 2, he suffered one of the worst losses in the sport's history. His opponent was a kickboxer named Johnny Rhodes who had what seemed to be a 400 pound weight advantage. It was an onslaught of tragic comedy. It looked like a hobo broke into a karate studio and started beating up a nine-year-old and everyone was content to see how it played out. Through a series of unblocked incoming punches and ineffective outgoing kicks, Shorin Ryu Matsumura Kenpo Karate seemed to be telling Fred, "I've been lying to you your whole life!" Very quickly his strategy became curling into a ball and hoping the local blood bank was well-stocked and didn't charge extra for poor decisions.
Needless to say, The Internet was a total dick about it. Websites were devoted to Fred Ettish's fetal fighting style and for fifteen years he was a cruel punchline. For instance, just look at the end of this very sentence where I say that he lost at UFC 2 so badly that police dogs still confuse his scent for missing battered women.
Two years ago, 53-year-old Fred Ettish decided he had had enough of this shit. He wanted to get back in the cage and avenge his loss. At age 53, that would be crazy, right? Kind of, but Fred's problem was never a lack of balls. He signed to fight a kid named Kyle Fletcher in Brainerd, Minnesota. Ettish wanted revenge on an entire sport, and poor Kyle Fletcher just became the face for it.
When the bell rang, Fred kept Kyle away with front kicks. They were effective, so Kyle tried one of his own. Kyle learned an important lesson in combat: when two people are throwing front kicks, the slower one gets smashed in the dick. Fred is a sportsman and didn't intend to step on the dick of the allegorical representation of his vengeance, but I imagine it felt pretty good. In his mind, thousands of his Youtube critics had just started peeing blood. Or as they might describe it, "lol call 9/11 my dum n****r penis is pee bleding."
Kyle came back and almost knocked Fred out with a knee, but remember what we learned from UFC 2: Fred Ettish can stay awake through 38 different types of clinical deaths. Ettish remained calm and fought off a clumsy guillotine attempt by Kyle. When the fight was back on the feet, Fred slammed Kyle into the mat and drove punches into him until he tapped. Fred Ettish didn't simply get revenge-- this 53-year-old man fucked the God of Revenge's girlfriend.
Cheick Kongo vs. Pat Barry (UFC Live on Versus: Kongo vs. Barry)
The Instant Revenge
Frenchman Cheick Kongo is an intimidating slab of dark continent. A fight fan might know him as the man who elbowed Paul Buentello in half. A non-fight fan know him as the awesome-sounding name on his wife's bucket list. If Cheick Kongo was standing behind Abraham Lincoln when he signed the Emancipation Proclamation, the South would have totally agreed.
Unfortunately, intimidation doesn't work against Pat Barry. When he took on Crocop, the most dangerous kicker who ever lived, Pat stopped fighting to give him a hug. Pat Barry has so little concept of danger that his cause of death is probably going to be dry humping a gorilla in front of a camera phone.
In a pre-fight interview, Pat Barry laid out his strategy to negate Cheick Kongo's significant reach advantage. "As soon as we start, I'm going to throw some bombs at his head." Cheick didn't need a translator for that because thanks to the last few centuries, every French person recognizes the phrase, "I'm going to throw some bombs at his head," in at least 20 languages.
Two minutes into the fight, Pat Barry executed his strategy perfectly. He stepped in and blasted an overhand right into the side of Cheick's head. Kongo went down and scrambled to escape, but every direction he tried led to a Pat Barry fist in his face. Referee Dan Miragliotta watched Pat deliver what most referees would consider to be three knockout victories. Half the punches seemed to be waking Cheick up while the rest put him back out until finally, miraculously, he wobbled to his feet. Pat, almost as a technicality by this point, moved in to punch him all the way out. Little did he know that while Cheick Kongo was rolling around on the mat wondering where the fuck he was, he was hatching an elaborate revenge plan.
While he stumbled backwards on jelly legs, Cheick flung a right hook into the blurry figure trying to kill him. It made contact with something, so he threw an uppercut. Both punches hit as perfectly as any punches ever thrown and Pat Barry went limp. He was somewhere beyond human pain, moving towards a beautiful light. Meanwhile, back in the Octagon, Dan Miragliotta was letting Cheick bonk him in the head fifty or sixty times in case one of them woke him back up. It was only fair. There was so much brain damage caused in this fight that both men are now required to wear Surgeon General's warnings.