Suggested Fight Music:
 LL Cough J “Mamma Said Knock You Out”
 Rage Against The Machine “Know Your Enemy”
 Limp Bizkit “My Way”
 Blur “There’s No Other Way”
 Kelis “Milkshake”
 Anita Ward “Ring My Bell”
Why I oughta! I guess it was only a matter of time until that chump reared his ugly head and challenged me to a duel. It has been coming Grueheads, those grapevine whispers have been getting increasingly more pronounced, and I had a sneaky suspicion that battle was inevitable. You ever tried to fight yourself? It’s a lose-lose affair let me tell you. Should I manage to land a lucky punch then, chances are, it will stung like all hell and victory will be a decidedly bittersweet affair. However, fail to make it through to the bell, and I can milk the adulation of the crowd from the canvas while attempting to realign my crooked hooter. Either way, I’m set for a kicking. This one has been hyped as a potential fifteen rounder and both combatants have been required to undergo a rigorous training program in preparation for the all important fight night. Of course, there has been a fair amount of trash talking from both parties, and it appears there is no love loss between the pair. This proposes to be the ultimate grudge match and should make for one helluva rumble in the jungle if nothing else.
Right now I’m in the locker room, attempting to gee myself up for the skirmish ahead, and under no illusions that it’s bound to be a bruising encounter. I can hear the crowd buzzing with anticipation and just hope I can give them the show they deserve. Been working on my left-right combo and practiced on a trifle back at my headquarters. Not sure whether I should be concerned over the fact that I struggled just to skim its surface custard but it did appear to wobble some by the time I landed the third haymaker so I’m counting that as a distinct positive. Fatigue will no doubt be a key factor so I also dedicated a fair wedge of my time to boosting my endurance the only way I know how. Not so much boxing as wrestling, this one-handed pursuit has done wonders for my left bicep and released a lot of the pre-fight jitters I was feeling so all’s well that ends well in my book. The chief concern is that my opponent will likely have taken the same steps as I and will be every bit as primed once the bell chimes. This one may well go right down to the wire and is odds on for a points decision after round after round of gruelling combat. I just pray that the judges are feeling generous.
So about that tale of the tape then and it would appear there’s absolutely nothing between us so, on paper, it’s looking like a mouth-watering proposition. We’re the same age, same height and weight, both boast the same shameful record, and even our reach is identical. With seemingly nothing whatsoever between us, I may just have to fight dirty, and have every intention of biting his ear off if he brings it in for a hug. Then there’s the low blow and my kneecap may well end up connecting with his crown jewels if it turns the tide in my favor. Anything I have to do to topple my foe is fair game and, if that means fighting dirty, then I just hope he’s washed his winkie. That said, I also have to be mindful of the probability of him sinking as low also so my titanium jock strap should come in handy here. Gotta protect the boys. A black eye is one thing and bruised ribs are no picnic either, but have you ever taken a hit to the love spuds fellas? Tell me there’s a more all-encompassing pain outside of child-birth and I will gladly argue the toss until red in the face.
The thing about testicles is that they refuse to accept responsibility and fob off any incoming twinges to your abdomen. Some may regard this as a public-spirited action but whatever happened to charity starting at home? I can’t be too hard on them as they do have their uses and there can be no denying their productivity levels when other spankings come into play. But they are very much my Achilles heel in a scrap and my adversary will unquestionably be fully primed to expose my weaknesses so I’m banking on my reinforced nut cup to shoulder the burden on my behalf. I have even engaged in a spot of research into both bees and butterflies to aid my chances and feel fairly confident that I have it licked as I can float like the former and sting like the latter. Indeed, you could consider me battle-hardened, and I’m nothing if not prepared so I guess there is no better time to get this show on the road. Wish me luck Grueheads but don’t be stymied into doing the same for my opponent as he bears more than a passing resemblance and will be only too happy to receive the pre-fight confidence boost.
I hear that it is imperative to find yourself some rousing entrance music and, after my dear friend Chris Chavira threw Limp Bizkit into the hat, decided that would provide the ideal audio as I make my approach. There was a time when Fred Durst and his entourage reigned supreme and I always had a soft spot for My Way so have elected this as my chosen anthem. I can’t wait to hear what he has planned as he makes his way to the threshold and shouldn’t have to wait much longer as he has been rostered first to enter the ring. Battles are often won first in the mind and I just know this will give me the critical edge before a solitary punch is thrown. Fuck you Keeper, I’ma do things my way. Feel free to have your moment in the limelight and make the most out of it as, once I emerge from the dense smoke and you check out my melody, it’s round one to little old me.
Dagnabbit, he only went and opted for My Way too didn’t he? Unless I’m woefully off in my estimations, that makes it his way. Moreover, should I come bounding out to the identical theme, then it will be little more than our way. I’m fully aware that there is more than one way to skin a cat but how could he be so underhand as to choose the same way? This is a most unsatisfactory turn of events as there is scant time available to find myself another way. There’s always Sinatra of course as his My Way served him pretty well as far as I can recall. But it’s hardly what you would call fight music is it? No way am I coming off a poor second at such a pivotal juncture. That said, it would appear that there’s no other way. It’s all become a blur and I feel punch drunk before I’ve so much as laced my gloves. I’m way past confused. Come on inspiration, throw a few names into the hat will you. It’s the only way as far as I can see.
Way to go. The crowd is in raptures and every last one of them is chanting my name. To be fair, they may be chanting his, but I’m taking all the plusses I can right now as it’s all about that mindset. He’s already in the ring performing any last-minute stretches and appears both relaxed and confident. Cannot let my game face slip for one picosecond or show even the vaguest sign of weakness as he will no doubt use that shit as fuel, given half the chance. It is customary in these situations for the brawler to clear their thoughts and focus on something that fills them with bitter rage and this is ordinarily where my old pal Justin Bieber makes an appearance. However, for as much as I’d enjoy cracking 205 of his bones, sparing the remaining one merely to prod a strategically placed nearby beehive so I can watch him attempt to flap his broken arms in sheer terror, I have a far greater irritant in mind and his crimes against humanity are far more heinous than that little knob squirt could ever hope to muster. Any guesses who that may be? I’ll even throw in a clue – his unruly hairpiece alone makes me bleed goat’s cheese from my eyes.
Fucking Donald Trump. Now I’m truly riled and I know 122.3 million Mexicans right now likely waving their quesadillas angrily so how can I possibly fail with a whole nation in my corner? Every last punch I land will have designs on his chin and that should see me through this bout if I just keep my head in the game. That’s easier said than done when the entire front row are flashing their cans for the cameras but it will take more than 64 admittedly perky nipples to sway me from my primary objective. Actually, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to lower my guard just for a moment and perhaps honk a few hooters on the way past. But I flat refuse to do any jiggling. Okay, perhaps just a dash of jiggling in the name of medical science. While I’m here, I am feeling rather parched and hear that the nutrients from breast milk can do small wonders for strengthening one’s cartilage. Naturally, I must remain aware that sucking too hard can twinge some, so I’ll even keep my gum shield in just to keep this throng of cheerleaders on side.
Boogers to hell, they’ve been bled dry already. Worse still, my opponent is sporting an alabaster mustache and currently being burped by his trainer. I just pray he hasn’t already partaken in his afternoon nap and shall sing him a lullaby if he begins to show signs of weariness, before tucking his ass in too tight like a step parent, pilfering his comfort blanket, and replacing it with a thoroughly doused piss-rag. For the record, I have refrained from bottled water leading up to this contest just to ensure it is extra acidic. If you think my actions are underhand, then you’re darn tooting they are, anything to snag myself the edge is equitable in my book and I would expect no less than skullduggery from him. Drain my titties will you? How very dare you. That excess calcium ain’t gonna save your hide from a thorough whooping and I hope it curdles or, better yet, turns into cream cheese in your colon. Now put ’em up punk and prepare yourself for the hiding that time almost forgot until I reminded it. After I climb through these ropes of course.
Okay, so my entrance could have been a dash more graceful. Stupid clown shoes. On the bright side, at least I got a chance to taste that canvas, and it was every bit as sour as I was expecting. With a bit of luck, my opposite number will mistake this foible as a sign of weakness, and begin to take my challenge for granted. Judging by the fact that he’s doubled over and hyperventilating as we speak, I believe I have him just where I want him. Laugh all you want Keeper as, in a few moments time, said smirk will be worn on the other side of your smug little face. I’m done with the mind games, the time has come to let my dukes do the talking and I even named them especially for the occasion. The left one is Clyde Battersby and its compatriot goes by the name of Sneaky Pete McTavish. Together they form a rather formidable pairing and you’re about to meet both personally dagnabbit. Anyhoots, enough of me flapping my gums like a senior citizen in a wind tunnel, it’s over to our commentator to provide us all with a blow-by-blow account. See you on the other side Grueheads.
Seconds out, round one. This looks like quite an even match-up on paper and, I for one, cannot call a victor. Early exchanges are cagey as expected and neither fighter appears willing to throw the first punch. This is the calm before the storm folks and don’t be surprised if this bout bursts into life at any given moment. My money’s on Keeper although, should he find his reach, then Keeper may well edge it. Either way, it proposes to be a titanic struggle and the purist’s wet dream. Right now, they seem satisfied just to psyche each other out with the customary flashing of junk and this is an approach that both have been known to adopt in the past. We’re almost halfway through the opening round now and, sooner or later, one of them has to commit as nobody has paid their money for a bore draw and precious little is going to be resolved by dancing round in circles like a couple of fannies. And here it comes, the two men are finally closing in for the all-important first strike. Let’s get ready to rumble.
Well that is something you don’t see every day. Whoever tossed that banana skin into the ring should be severely reprimanded as both Keepers just earned themselves one of their daily five and in the most humiliating manner conceivable. Currently it’s looking like stalemate as the referee commences his count and neither look like they’re stirring. It will take a Herculean effort from one of them to beat him to ten and I’m not altogether sure we’ll be seeing that this evening. Indeed, it’s a double KO, and that makes them both losers in my book. Of course, given their tendency to be sickeningly positive, they’ll likely see things differently. However, if the dozens of rotten vegetables being pelted into the ring are any indication, the crowd too are less than enthralled. There are a couple of ample bosomed paramedics making their way to the scene and I just hope they can locate some vital signs as it would be a most tragic end to fight night if the coroner had to be called.
Thank the heavens above and every last harp-plucking do-gooder up there, both men are responding to treatment, somewhat enthusiastically I hasten to add. Let’s hope they can patch up their petty quarrels in the emergency room and, who knows, perhaps even become the firmest of friends. There are so many other ways to settle an argument and we may just have found one here. Boy, do this pair latch on. It’s a good job they’re not lactose intolerant. Little tip for you fellas, you’ll find no udders down there. Now please put your junk away as I’d say you’ve surrendered enough self-respect for one night wouldn’t you? Isn’t it about time we cut to those commercials guys?
Not that one you morons, the other one.
Give me strength!