While we wait for Jiles to spit out a few more metaphors and similes that are as irritating as they are obtuse, I thought it would be nice to remind people of the purpose of Saturday Night’s Fight.
People often wonder where I am between HOFC fights and it seems like the answer to the question would be so face smackingly obvious that I shouldn’t waste my precious and valuable oxygen to answer it and yet here we are once more.
The HOFC division isn’t the wrestling division. A couple of dunderheads think they can switch back and forth week to week. They are, what we call in the biz, fucking idiots.
Not naming any terminal illnesses or avian creatures.
Let me spell it out for those of you in the back – I’m in a fight camp you fucking morons.
I take this seriously. This isn’t some amusing side gig for me, this is my fucking career. HOFC isn’t the home I took because I failed elsewhere.
I am sick of the attitude that permeates the disgusting, pathetic poors of the Grapple Division who view cage fighting as something they can dip their toes into when they have a week off.
Maybe I was too merciful in my first fights, I respected the taps, I let go, I allowed them to wrestle the next week without wearing a fucking cast. I must have set the impression that you could amble into the cage, slap the mat a few times and live to fight another day.
That’s my bad.
A bit of an ole whoopsiedoodle on the part of your pal Cecilworth.
So many big, bulky, asskickers who overpromise and underdeliver inside of what I understand to be called the gilded cage. Yet time and time again, it seems like in these defeats, whether to Mike or myself, the wrong lessons are learned.
When did the HOFC division become a dumping ground for the toxic gimmick factory?
At the start of this year, talent piled in from around the world, they wanted to call their shot, they wanted to prove themselves as the top tier fighter in the industry. They wanted to be the first real HOFC champion of the Refueled era. The DeNucci Cup meant something… it was supposed to mean something and now we’ve got fucking rabbits.
Great. Aces. Cool.
Do you know why people talk about Mike Best vs. Cecilworth Farthington as the ONLY HOFC money match?
There’s not a single other believable contender on the roster. HOFC or HOW.
Some are great wrestlers, don’t get me wrong, some mighty strong grapplemen and ladies.
They’re not fighters though.
Mike Best is a fighter, he knees you in the face so hard you forget what your wife’s face looks like or, in the case of Cancer Jiles, causes you to be so deluded you think you were a worthy World Champion.
I am a technician, I will kick you, I will take you down, I will tie you in knots and I will wrench your arm right out of your socket should you choose to make the wrong career choice.
The undefeated master of the knee vs. the perfect technician that GOD has ever bestowed this company with.
That’s my money.
That’s my retirement fund.
Meanwhile the ole hometown hero, The Big C himself, has the confidence to try and threaten me… ME… a literal week after he slept his way through a loss to the fucking milk guy. That’s brazen my dear old friend, fucking brazen. Maybe you want to think carefully before those puckered lips speak again, considering you are threatening my retirement plan right now.
Think about this for a second, just logically. On one hand, me, Cecilworth, a man who has spent the best part of two months getting ready for his next fight, a man with a clear purpose, a clear goal, a clear direction… to defeat the undefeatable and hold that HOFC title high in the sky at Rumble at the Rock.
On the other hand, we have my roadblock. A man who has done ZERO preparation. Who spent last week in the ring getting dropped on his neck and losing to a LITERAL ONE LEGGED MAN.
Not of you, oh golden haired one.
You can’t sneak in a pin this time.
I’m afraid this division is dying. My entire purpose for returning is dying.
One match can save it.
No, not this one.
You know the one.