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: