Testimonials

Our first look at the 32 morons contestants shows them milling aimlessly around a large room with huge murals of Frankie and Mini adorning the walls. The glazed eyes and thin trickles of drool running from the corners of their slack mouths are eerily reminiscent of a scene in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. In the role of Nurse Ratched, Big Daddy comes in and spends a few minutes herding them into a group along one wall. He talks about getting them to line up, but with this bunch just getting them to stand quietly in the same area is quite an achievement. Before Big Daddy can introduce their coaches, there's drama in the ranks. At first I thought it was a scuffle breaking out, since a moron in the front row seemed to think he was being mugged. In fairness, I probably would have leapt to the same conclusion if the guy behind me suddenly fell on me, who'd of thunk that he just fainted. But faint away he did, just like a Victorian lady with a tight corset in a hot room. Not really the image you want in this crowd. And, of course, the sharper tools in the shed have their own opinions of what really happened:

"I didn't know if it was carbon monoxide, anthrax or Al-Quaida"

Once the fainter is revived and pronounced fit, Big Daddy explains that the fighters will be broken up into 2 fight classes: light heavyweights (205 lbs) and lightweights (155lbs). At the end of the season, a guy from each class will have a six-figure contract with the UFC. In 24 hours the fighters will weigh in and pose for their hokey fight photos. In 48 hours, assuming they make weight, they'll fight.

Okay, so I'm sorry, but $100,000 and no health insurance just would not be enough incentive to get me into a ring and have my hair messed up, not to mention probably breaking some nails. But, don't think that any of these bitches intimidate me. I mean they're fighting in an enclosed area with rules and no weapons. I've survived my share of Manolo shoe sales and Filene's Basement 'running of the brides'. I even got the wedding gown I was after. Let me tell you, if Big Daddy wants to be impressed, he should see my Jewish Bubbe throwing down.

Seriously, who's going to mess with her?>

Now, here's the thing about making weight. Ideally, you want to weigh in at the top of your weight class so you have a weight advantage. The idea is that size does matter and bigger is better, so accepted strategy is to try and drop your normal weight into a lower class for weigh in by losing a lot of water, then rehydrating for the match. It's really not much different from the world of runway modeling except that in the fashion world you don't have weight classes you have clothes sizes. And, oh yeah, the fashion world is a lot more politically correct about eating disorders. The UFC doesn't worry so much about perpetuating negative body images and dangerous eating practices, or encouraging violence and anti-social thinking. It's really a charming place, not much different than a girl's boarding school.

Like debutantes preparing to squeeze into their first Versace gowns, the fighters hit the gym, the air and occasionally each other. Those with more weight to lose dawn plastic suits and sit on stationary bikes in hopes of inducing gallons of sweat to pour out of their bodies. That gym must smell unbelievably bad. Of course, in any high pressure social situation there's always the one girl fighter that results to barfing in the bathroom:

Or just carrying a bucket around with him:

Isn't it refreshing how this show has proudly and unapologetically leapt over years of work aimed at educating the athletic world and eradicating dangerous reducing behaviors? This unapologetic pride, otherwise known as ignorance, kind of makes me feel all patriotic and misty-eyed, but then I'm a soft touch.

Not surprisingly, Jason, AKA the guy with his own barf bucket, is having a few problems. You know, little things like muscle cramps:

and over-heating:

Barf Bucket explains that he's determined to cut the weight because he's 30 and if he doesn't get in the house he might as well give up fighting and go get a real job. You know, like working as a bouncer or collecting on debts; the normal career paths that adults follow.

« Top Design: How Much Is That Fugly In The Window? | Main | I Love Money: Pole Slaw »

Posted in Ultimate Fighter by YentaPatrol at 6:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)
Last Comment: yentapatrol on Sep 22, 2008 01:58 PM.