Monday, May 14, 2007

It all seems like a blur..





It all seems like a dimly-recalled blur most of the time, but if I try hard I can shake the episode loose from my repressed memories and reflect upon it. Devon Michaels and I had been shooting at Mike Raffone's studio when we decided to take a break. We were both still sporting our Everton jerseys since we had been wearing them in the last video we were filming. Devon flung herself onto the couch half-naked and picked up the remote for the TV. I sat down next to her as an infomercial for the DVD of an old Ultimate Fighting Championship event began airing. We watched as a large, bearded white dude came striding out towards the fighting cage. The crowd was cheering wildly, just going nuts for him. The fighter trudged forward through the throngs of spectators as his giant stomach swayed and jiggled to the left and to the right.

"Remember him?" I asked Devon.

"Oh, yeah." she said.

The overweight man with the ZZ Top facial hair was called "Freight Train" and he had been one of the earliest champions in the sport of ultimate fighting. I saw Devon shaking her head as she gazed at him. Devon has had an illustrious career as a fitness model and she works out religiously. She does not understand the slack, undisciplined nature of lesser mortals.

"You know what I think his appeal was?" I asked her as I nodded toward the TV screen.

She shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes.

"People cheered for him because he was just some big old drunk fuck who crumpled up a beercan before each fight, got off his couch, strutted into the venue and then railed his opponent in front of thousands of people. Every man in America getting sauced in his Barcalounger dreamed of being Freight Train. He had that type of built-in appeal." I said. "He represented Joe Q.Citizen - you know, just the normal guy who enjoys his burgers and beer and will never relinquish the slothful ways that make life so fun. Or trouble himself to look into the mirror too hard or too long."

I glanced over at Devon to see if she understood my logic and appreciated the marketing bonanza that Freight Train had provided for his sport. Devon kept staring straight ahead at the TV.

"Freight Train gave every wannabe fighter and weekend warrior the hope that they too could kick some ass even if they drank every day, subsisted on fast food, and never trained at all." I continued with more urgency, wanting her to see my point.

Devon finally turned and favored me with a cold expression.

"You mean kind of like you when you step into the WTBA ring to defend your title?" she asked matter-of-factly. "The Chairman of the WTBA needs to start inviting drunk housewives and old-age pensioners from across the nation to attend your championship bouts. Maybe he can even get you an endorsement from Thunderbird or Boone's Farm. You can wear their logos on the back of your shorts across your fat ass."

Silence reigned in Mike Raffone's studio. That does not happen often. I was going to punish Devon or die trying. She knew it. I knew it. We stood to face each other in front of the teal couch on the industrial carpet. Devon was expecting me to box, but I was ready to kick some ass. Literally. I landed an unexpected kick to her right thigh and Devon collapsed to her knees. Then I kicked her again on her left 36DD and let her writhe on the carpet for a few moments, sucking in the crust of old seminal fluids and particles of dust. The fight got even uglier. Devon and I used to be friends. It's hard to remember that sometimes. This fight was the nastiest of the nasty..


Join www.TanyaDanielle.com to find out who triumphed at the end of this hideous spectacle!


Maybe someday I'll face her again inside the ring of the WTBA.


-XXOO Tanya










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