Author: Seanbaby

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Dogfight Wild Tournament II 🌭

Last week, I talked about Dogfight Wild Tournament, the fight and fight-like thing promotion produced by a Spanish podcaster. If you missed it, don’t worry, I can sum it up in one gif.

That’s from after the main event where Zdravko “Bad News” Tarnadzhiev (0-0) was finished immediately by a twirling skull bonk by Aitor Gaspar (0-0). It was more of a ballroom dance class accident than a combat sports match, but it led to a friendship that will burn eternal. Their many, many hugs and several long chats were the perfect ending to a four hour event with less than 10 minutes of fighting. This is a real, non-sarcastic pie chart I made to show how the event played out:

In the USA, that pie chart would represent a great trip for a chicken sandwich, but a catastrophic MMA event. But I guess in Spain they consider it such a success they held another one. So let’s talk about Dogfight Wild Tournament 2: Second Impact.

Their first event had slapping, size mismatch freak shows, and 2-on-1 battles, so this time they knew they had to get extra crazy with it. The opening match needed to set the tone with something super weird and barbaric. They did the opposite.

Dogfight Wild Tournament opens with a rematch between best friends and brothers forever, Zdravko and Aitor. “I am as happy as I’ll ever be,” their faces seem to say as they approach their staredown. “My life was empty without you, we should have a group nickname, what do you think about The Get Busy Boyz, I’ve missed you so much” their mouths seem to say. Normally, this is where competitors make intimidating faces at each other. Trust me when I say it’s unusual for two fighters to sparkle with joy and shirtlessly reminisce as if no one else in the room, the two of them alone with their love.

The fight itself isn’t so friendly. It’s something called a “MUERTE SUBITA” match, which my Spanish profesora did not teach me and Google thinks means “Get the best shopping deals on subita, Mort,” but it can’t be good. It might mean “human bullfight” because Aitor throws a series of wild charges, all of them miss, and Zdravko takes his back and smashes his brain in. It was a bad game plan. Coming at a Spaniard with a bull charge is like trying to kill a Brazilian with a soccer ball or attacking an American with a pie eating contest. In less than three minutes, Zdravko avenges his only loss. You know what comes next.

The two warriors embrace. These men share the same 150 seconds of total fight experience, but they also share a love stronger than any hammer fist, more reckless than any bull charge. Their hug lasts forever, it lasts until the sun stops burning.

The two brothers finally break apart, thank each other’s teams, and head back to the center of the cage for the official announcement. They decide maybe there’s time for…

… one more quick hug. One more perfect moment of flesh-to-flesh friendship.

They announce Zdravko as winner by TKO, his record rising to 1-1, maybe. I’m not sure if these count as pro MMA matches or illegal pit fights they got away with. Most people would call it a decent start to a potential combat sports career. To Aitor and Zdravko, it is nothing less than the Most Honored and Treasured Best Friendship World Championships, they tied, and their celebration is only beginning.

Mighty veterans of nearly threes of combat minutes, they drop to their faces in honored reverence to one another. A soulless monster might call it indulgent, far too much reverence paid to a prelim match on an off-off-off brand MMA event, but anyone with a heart can see something beautiful is happening. After only seven or eight punches and two concussions, these men found each other. The purity of their passion makes every lover you’ve ever taken look like a cheap whore. They are already hugging again before they’re fully back on their feet.

Everything is all they can give each other, so they do, but it’s not enough. They hug so many more times, once for every wish on every star. Somewhere in the slapping, swarming center of their love they have to know they can’t do this forever. Other fighters need to use this cage, they must know. But let them wait. Let them watch eternity crumble in the hereafter of their brotherhood.

“Let time fall away around us,” their arms say as Zdravko’s chest tattoos transfer onto Aitor backwardsly. Dogfight Wild Tournament fans knew to expect hugs in the Aitor vs. Zdravko rematch, but this was beyond any Dogfight fan’s imagination…

… beyond any Dogfight fan’s dreams.

After a series of post-fight interviews, at least two too many, each one broken up by hugs, Aitor’s corner calls for a special announcement.

Here, after losing a fight by missing a takedown and getting violently out-grappled, his jiu-jitsu instructor promotes him to blue belt. It’s a weird time to do it. It’d be like interrupting a wedding to give a bridesmaid her merit badge for archery, right after she maimed the groom in an archery accident. Zdravko “Bad News” Tarnadzhiev, the winner of the fight, reacts to these drama nerds stealing his moment exactly as you’d expect:

He embraces his now blue-belted friend. This changing of the color of a losing rookie fighter’s belt here in Spain’s 28th greatest combat sports organization is so momentous, the Dogfight Wild Tournament host gives each of the men another post-fight interview about how it’s changed their lives. By my count, this is four interviews for the loser and three for the winner. There has never been anything like it. If this was a baseball game, it would be like stopping after one pitch so each infielder could write a book of poems about it, make firm, tender love to the center fielder, and present Kieran Culkin with a Golden Globe Award for playing the trombone.

In no rush to leave after only a few dozen interviews, ceremonies, and snuggles, the two men start doing silly poses. This is too much, far beyond my ability to describe. It’d be like stopping a hockey game after one minute to film a children’s show about two prison enforcers fucking, only it’s all bloopers. So I guess never mind, I had the perfect way to describe it.

You already knew this, but the silly posing eventually turns into sincere hugging. The announcer thanks everyone again for coming out for this great nigh– holy fuck, has there only been one fight so far? All these ceremonies and heartfelt speeches… I feel like I’ve watched 70 beloved Turkish bath owners retire.

They really need to get things moving. But first…

Yes. Tonight, there is no other place than Zdravko’s arms, no other blue than Aitor’s belt.

After only one hour and 32 minutes of broadcast, I’m not fucking kidding, Dogfight Wild Tournament 2: Second Impact moves on to its second event. And it’s nuts.

It is a two-on-two match with three referees, and not a single one of the seven men have any idea what the shit is happening or should be happening. These men are tumbling, twirling, and grabbing so randomly I think maybe they’re fighting by sense of smell? I looked up how to say “blind” in Spanish, but according to Google, “blind is a pizza that can be cured with sunlight or bleach, find horny blind widows in your area.” So, yes, everything in our modern world is broken, but nothing more so than Dogfight Wild Tournament.

It doesn’t really matter who won this fight because bashing someone in the back of the head while they’re busy isn’t sports. It’s rad as fuck, but let’s not belittle the chaos by awarding its lucky survivors with points. Next up is nothing less than the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.

These goddamn maniacs have fully recreated the set of Bloodsport. Suddenly, and for three fights only, the Dogfight fighters will battle like they did in the based-on-a-true-story movie, Bloodsport. It’s better than a brilliant idea. In an instant this makes it seem ridiculous for any fight promotion to have ever had a different idea.

It’s obviously not a perfect recreation of Bloodsport since it’s only a four-man tournament and, as we all know, the real Kumite had more competitors than that. Due to secrecy and protective magic, we’ll never know the actual size, but we know from Frank Dux that he holds the world record for most consecutive knockouts in a Kumite at 56. And that’s easy math. It means a Kumite has to have at least, let’s see, 2 to the 56 fighters… so about 72 quadrillion competitors to be a true Bloodsport. But four is close enough. Let’s see how a real fight plays out on this stupid ass ramp from the best film Bloodsport.

Jesus goddamn Christ. Five -five- seconds into the fight, “The Monkey King” throws a knee from halfway up the ramp and hits “El Ninja” so hard he immediately knows he fucked up. “I think we ran over a rotten pumpkin,” say the signals from his leg to his brain. These promoters were so worried about the set designer getting the nameplates and little katana sword right, they never checked to see if it was safe to do Muay Thai on an inclined plane. I’m not a physicist, but I’m good at reading faces, and this is the face of a man who was not expecting to turn a human skull inside out with his opening move:

The Monkey King looks like he walked in on his parents having sex with a cobra and they all leapt at him. He realizes what he has done so instantly, he is already dropping to his knees to pray to his Spanish gods before El Ninja’s lifeless body is done bouncing. This Bloodsport section went from fun to tragedy faster than sex with a cobra. It was like a birthday magician asking a boy if the eight of spades was his card while accidentally ripping his throat open with a jack of diamonds.

The next event is a women’s bare knuckle fight. It goes a full five rounds of brutal, cumulative hand and face trauma, and here is your winner:

You know a sport is great when someone is interviewing a colony of lumpy bruises growing on human remains and it was the WINNER.

Next up is a “NO RULES” match, which is strange because there aren’t a ton of rules in MMA already. In fact, there are so few that you could basically call this a “NORMAL PLUS DICK AND EYEBALL BITING” match. But since no one threw an eyeball bite, it ended up being a “JUST NORMAL” fight.

For about two minutes, “El Rey De La Calle” sat on top of “Hercules” and punched him in the side head, nagging the referee to stop it the whole time. “Sure, good idea,” the referee eventually agrees. Hercules is cranky about the loss, so he decides to start a new battle. This time Hercules will fight using the art of pantomime, and he will suffer a defeat far more painful than 80 punches to the ears.

Hercules begins his pantomime attack by standing in the center of the cage and staring at the man who just kicked his ass. Blankly. If he meant to do anything cool or interesting, he never got around to it before El Rey De La Calle started humping his dick at him. Round one of battle two goes to El Rey De La Calle.

Hercules answers back with a couple nods and a few aimless steps and El Rey De La Calle easily counters by making fun of the way Hercules gets punched. “Wah, wah, I’m a little girl who gets punched in the skull like this,” he expertly communicates. “Darn it, you’re right, I suck,” says the body language of Hercules. It’s a grotesque display of unsportsmanlike conduct, but remember: THIS MATCH HAS NO RULES.

Sensing victory, El Rey De La Calle unleashes a full dick pump assault, humping his groin at Hercules five different ways. On any other night, in any other place, this would be unthinkable, but NO RULES. Hercules desperately tries to communicate, “Let’s go back to fist fighting,” but there are enough rules that El Rey De La Calle knows that will never happen. He’s confident it is safe to ignore the threats and keep pumping, and all Hercules can do is nervously pace as he gets torn apart by pelvic thrusts. It’s the most unpleasant moment of the night, and we saw a woman’s head get slowly chiseled into a raspberry and watched a man fully die on the set of Bloodsport.

Next up is a five-on-one match, but not like you’re thinking. It’s one competent, experienced fighter taking on five much worse fighters, one at a time. There’s a way to spin this like it’s cool, but it’s basically a five round fight against a master of disguise with decent cardio and no chance in hell. It reminds me of ’80s pro wrestling when the Ultimate Warrior’s entrance music would kick in and he’d sprint to the ring and go apeshit, his muscle tassels flapping, his action makeup glistening. Then we’d meet his opponent, Tacoma’s Gus Hornsby, a man wearing gray panties who had already been in the ring the whole time and no one noticed. Gus would wave, get hit by all three of the Ultimate Warrior’s moves, and no one would ever see him again. Only the promoters of this fight league were brave enough to consider… what if you had to face five Gus Hornsbies in one night? “Don’t even joke about that; I can barely get the skidmarks out of his wrestling trunks with one of him,” ribs “Howling” Elenor Hornsby, his wife and local comedienne.

Oh no, what the shit is this:

Are these madmen going to seriously do a 3-on-1 fight!? This never goes well. It hasn’t been tested much, for a lot of good reasons, but the maximum amount of men you can fight seems to be a number less than three. For instance, here’s a 3-on-1 match they tried in Poland a few years ago:

That looks like a gun smuggler taking on a local high school’s yearbook staff, and the event’s director barely had time to switch cameras before the man was held down and mauled unconscious by six arms. This is just too many hands to be grabbing you when you’re trying to do something. And sure enough, here in the Dogfight Wild Tournament, the exact same thing happened as soon as they hit the gong. Oh, I should have mentioned they have a gong.

Eduardo Riego has already been tackled and pelted with elbows and fists before the clock has started to tick. It is obviously hopeless. But no one stops the fight. Maybe the referees believe in Eduardo, maybe they can’t see what’s going on in the Heathcliff cloud of violence, or maybe they lost perspective on how much injury is “dangerous” after a long night of head disasters. Whatever the reason, they let these three men pound on Eduardo for the entire first round. As he was pulled around and pinned down, Eduardo managed to land one (1) punch to the three little guys’ ninety-eight (98!). Not all of them were clean, and none of them were very powerful, but ninety-eight. It’s a troubling amount of damage to take, but to look at it another way, if you punch someone 98 times and they’re still coming, you and your shitty baby hands should have run away 97 punches ago.

Seven seconds into the next round, Eduardo says fuck it and starts pulling one of their heads off. He eats a lot of shots while he does it, but what’s twenty more punches at this point? If you look closely here, you can see why 3-on-1 matches might be a bad idea– none of those referees can tell if the man being choked is struggling to escape, trying to tap out, or already long dead. They look like first day zookeepers at a chimpanzee orgy. This is awesomely, stupidly unsafe. It was closest to the third one, by the way. He gets fully choked out and they have peel this poor comatose fucker out of Eduardo’s grip. And when the guy wakes up, he thinks he’s still in a fight. Everyone does their best to explain to him what happened, but he won’t accept it, and he remains confused the whole time they’re shoving him out of the cage.

This sad spectacle is not a morale boost for the doomed men remaining. They spend the rest of the round trying two different submissions on Eduardo at the same time and Eduardo uses their feeble attacks as an opportunity to rest.

Going into the third round, Eduardo has studied his opponents and formed a game plan– ignore their attacks and strangle one of them. Using this strategy, it only takes him ten seconds to pull one into a guillotine. The crowd is going crazy. They’ve been here over five and a half hours and it was all worth it for this absurd, impossible feat they’re witnessing. Eduardo eats a few more shots while he waits for his opponent’s head to run out of blood, but the tables turned one bloodless head ago. All Eduardo has left to do is beat one more (much smaller, less skilled, fully demoralized) man.

Eduardo eats one last punch as a haymaker bounces right off his chin and into certain doom. He really did it! He fought through two and a half rounds and 150 punches to beat three men at the same time! Dogfight Wild Tournament has 1700% too many post-fight interviews, exactly the right amount of hugs, and the world will definitely someday know it as “the fight league where that horrible thing happened?” but as of press time, it fucking rules.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Craig Lemoine, who only has a pathetic 54 consecutive Kumite knockouts. 

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Dogfight Wild Tournament 🌭

In 2023, a podcaster known as “The Spanish Joe Rogan,” Jordi Wild, put together a fight promotion and if you’re waiting for a twist in this half of the sentence, it’s not coming. It was called The Dogfight Wild Tournament, and nothing I’m about to say will make you think, “Oh, that’s not what I expected when I heard combat league started by the Spanish Joe Rogan.” It is an avalanche of insane, terrible, and begrudgingly rad choices.

Calling your event “Dogfight” is already a bad start. You generally don’t want to name yourself after something people specifically don’t want you to find. It’d be like naming your company Best Way To Kill Yourself Fashion Essentials or Homemade Dynamite Adult Diapers or Shelly Miscavige Fruit Snacks. Except those are bad examples because they’re million dollar ideas, every last one. Speaking of my judgment, the fact that I agree with so many of Dogfight Wild Tournament’s decisions only helps prove they were crazy.

The event starts with a full hour of pre-fight before Salah Hamli and Alex Quilez face off in an MMA match. They are new to the sport, and really demonstrate the furious accuracy and deadly precision you’d expect to see in the opening bout of a novelty fight card being broadcast on YouTube.

They fling fight-like gestures at each other for about a minute. Then, after sharing a D+ in their stage fighting group project, they go to the ground and Hamli gets a quick choke to end it 90 seconds into the first round. Which means after more than sixty minutes of talking and a full fight, we’ve seen one guy land one move. That’s a great thing to say if your wife asks you why you hated swing dancing class, but it’s a shitty thing to say about a fighting event. And the Spanish Joe Rogan is in no rush to get things going.

He gives a post-fight interview to the winner, Salah, who seems to have a lot to say about the one thing that happened, but he’s not asking for directions to the library, so my Spanish isn’t good enough to understand him. “That is a beard with a face, not the other way around” my notes say, as if that would magically turn into a joke here in the finished article. It didn’t! I only brought this part up because after the interview, they walked over and talked to the other fighter and I realized something was off.

I don’t think you have to have a degree in showmanship to know a crowd would prefer to watch another fight rather than hear from the loser of this low stakes, uneventful opening match and how his game plan didn’t involve getting choked. Each man has now spent twice as much time talking as they did fighting, and it’s not over.

Salah takes the microphone again and gives himself a second post-fight interview. If you’re not familiar with violence, it’s hard to explain how strange this pacing is. It’d be like the coach of the New York Giants calling a timeout after the kickoff to watch the bonus audition footage of Jean-Pierre LĂ©aud and Patrick Auffay on the Criterion Blu-Ray of 400 Blows. If you require a non-sports analogy, it’d be like taking a prostitute to a motel and then crawling into the ice machine to slowly grow old and die a virgin.

The next event is a slapping tournament, which is like rollerblading in that it’s a sport with only indignity and injury. Two men take turns swatting the other in the face, and the competitors of the Dogfight Wild Tournament slapping tournament made me realize something I never considered: you can be bad at slapping. As an athlete, and a sports league. I’ve watched professional slap fighting, and I thought the only qualification was needing $800 bad enough to take a decade off your life. The slappers in Dogfight Wild Tournament can’t aim, take a hit, or insert an earplug in less than 40 minutes. I know this because a weird jar of earplugs on the table is the only safety precaution taken. And I swear they lose track of how many they put in. A coroner is going to one day say, “This wasn’t even in the top ten cause-of-deaths for this poor fucker, but I found 127 earplugs in his skull cavity.”

This is going to sound crazy, but this combat league doesn’t have enough rules for their slapping. These guys are allowed to move their feet to get full power on their swings, they’re allowed to fake out their opponent, and no one cares where a slap lands. It truly is just two dorks going out there, cracking human heads, and hoping things work out. They don’t! One minute this guy is thinking, “Giggle! Isn’t it silly how I’m about to be slapped!” and the next he’s relearning shapes and colors with the applesauce that was once his mind.

Not all of the slaps are catastrophic. Some are just insulting hams to the side of the head. Because there’s no win condition in taking a slap. You either get your nervous system shut down or awkwardly absorb another earplug with your eustachian tube. I’d argue there aren’t a lot of positive outcomes from giving a slap either. You either embarrassed yourself by doing nothing or maimed a helpless member of your tiny, shrinking community. It’s a bad sport, and Dogfight Wild Tournament doesn’t make it better by adding 70 minutes of interviews and earplug fussing.

The next event is an undersize-glove boxing match between two women with a combined fight record of one. It goes the distance, and every bit of it is fully dissected in lengthy post-fight interviews. This means that after two hours, we’ve seen 12 minutes of combat, and 83% of that was two ladies gently and cautiously learning to box. As a spectacle of violence, Dogfight Wild Tournament is a below average Greyhound trip from Harrisburg to Philadelphia. So far. All that is about to change, because they’re about to get stupid with it.

Hell yeah. They’re going to have one man fight two men and see what happens. This is the kind of thing you’re supposed to book when you’re a group of maniacs with a podcast and no athletic commission. What’s extra crazy about this is the two teammates don’t combine to be the other guy’s size. All three men are basically the same weight class. Normally, when lunatics book a freak match like this, they give a size advantage to the handicapped fighter. For instance…

You might have seen this. It’s from a British event in 2024, and you can see what it looks like. It looks like career day in a third grade classroom where one dad is a minotaur and another dad hypnotizes children into attacking minotaurs. Fucking god damn it, look at it. It rules.

Dogfight Wild Tournament’s one-on-two match also rules, in a more competitive yet equally deranged way.

While the solo fighter, Cesar Alonso, is trying to figure out how to shake hands with two opponents at once, the one wearing a gladiator skirt charges at him with a desperate knee tornado. It’s closer to how you’d scooch past a Christmas tree than defeat a man, so Cesar ignores it and attacks his partner. Everything the two men try bounces off Cesar like a child support warning notice on a slap fighting world champion. Despite being mostly the same size, it is immediately clear how fucked these two men are. This is a “fair” matchup for Cesar not because his opponents are small, but because he is a pro fighter and these men have absolutely no goddamn idea what they’re doing.

After half a minute of human plinko chaos, Cesar creates some space and thinks about his next move. Half a millisecond later he’s done forming his strategy. It’s to just step over and obliterate the face of the guy in the skirt, and it couldn’t have gone better. The guy topples fifteen feet away, but lands his team’s best attack yet when Cesar sprints into his flailing foot. But it does nothing. It barely slows down the mauling. “Ha ha someone needs to stop this fight,” any sane referee would say. “Let’s see what happens next,” these referees say. But what happens next is so strange, I might need your help figuring it out.

So Gladiator Skirt Guy is clinging to a hopeless little brother headlock while his partner is trying to figure out a way to punch Cesar. He thinks about a body shot, then an overhand, decides on an uppercut, and I think he hits his teammate? All I know is he throws a punch into the tangle of flesh and then his teammate is left for dead on the mat. Did he knock out his own partner? Was it an accident, or a betrayal? Could it have been an unrelated panic attack? Maybe it was a side effect of not pulling off that skirt so violently? I have no idea because there were three people in the way and if a fight announcer is not asking if I like the beach, his Spanish words are meaningless to me.

Whatever happened, a man who can’t fight is now alone with Cesar. And unfortunately, dropping a fragile guy on his face was only the first hit in this combo. While Skirt Guy’s body is still bouncing, Cesar lands a left straight to the back of his partner’s brain. “Fucking GOODBYE,” say the man’s teeth and memories of his grandmother.

Cesar follows his last opponent’s mostly sleeping body to the mat, grabs his arm, and coils it around itself until he submits. I don’t mean he taps out. I mean he gives in. He lays down and waits for his arm to get pulled into parts and for God’s light to take him. He is literally in shock from arm trauma he could have stopped by asking his attacker to stop, and I feel like this might be why athletic commissions rarely sanction matches between a single trained mixed martial artist and a couple enthusiastic bros. There are no post-fight interviews after this match, despite it being the first time tonight viewers might have a lot of questions.

Next up is a bare knuckle boxing match between two inexperienced fighters that goes to a split decision, and if you’re a fight fan, that’s as dull as anything has ever sounded to you, and you’re right. It is three hours into the event, and including several slaps, the grand total of fight time is exactly 23 minutes and 8 seconds. If you subtract the time spent bare knuckle boxing, and you should, that’s a talking-to-punching ratio of 41-to-1. I don’t know how gentle things are in Spain, but in America, we call that a normal episode of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives.

I have some good news. Up next is a classic freak show:

Raymison Bruno weighs 130 pounds, and he’s taking on Roger “Goliat” Dalet, a guy who came in six pounds over the limit for heavyweight and gave himself a cool nickname for his first and only pro fight.

This means he’s over twice the size of Raymison, and doomed as fuck. Because statistically speaking, if you’re fighting a little athletic guy, the worst thing you can be is a gigantic chubby one.

Sure enough, it takes a little over three minutes for “Goliat” to get caught in an armbar, and he spent almost all of that time trying and failing to land a piledriver. He might not be very good at fighting, but at least “Goliat” went into this spectacle of nonsense understanding the assignment. He was going to win by spinal murder or not at all.

At least I think that’s what he said in one of his several post-fight interviews. It was either that or, “I was given to you as a miracle, the world’s largest baby, and you monsters made me fight!” Again, my Spanish is not very good. “Stop calling me Ivan Dorito,” he might have said, but that could just be another mean thing I put in my notes.

It’s time for the final round of slap fights where one of the world class slap athletes misses the other guy’s jaw so badly he smacks him upside the skull and breaks his own hand. He does knock out an earplug, which the judges would like if they existed. Shattering your opponent’s hand with your head counts as a win in this sport, so the slap tournament ends the same way every slap tournament ends– sadness by way of technical awkward.

Let’s move on to the main event.

At first I was disappointed to see it would be a normal MMA match between two similarly sized men, but then Zdravko “Bad News” Tarnadzhiev came out looking like fucking this. This is a main boss in a Scott Adkins movie. This is a man who makes a stranger emerge from the shadows and say, “It can’t be Tarnadzhiev. MI6 took him out in Obninsk.” Zdravko is the first time I’ve considered misspelling someone’s name in case they Google themselves.

Zdravko is up against normal-looking guy, Aitor Gaspar, and here’s another hot combat sports tip: If two guys with 0-0 records are about to fight, never bet on the gym-buff one. Zdravko lasted about 20 seconds.

As absurd as it sounds, Zdravko’s traps weren’t quite tall enough to prevent a cartoon windup head bash and Aitor used this to his advantage. The main event of the Dogfight Wild Tournament ends with the fastest knockout of the night, not counting the dumbshits who shattered to slaps, who you never should.

Aitor gives what viewers already worry is the first of many post-fight interviews. Unfortunately, during the brief mauling, something tore in Zdravko’s shoulder. I know this because when the camera cuts to him, he’s wrapped in several miles of bandage. I wasn’t being cute when I said how much they talk during this fighting event. They had time to treat a shoulder injury on the man with the largest shoulders I’ve ever seen in the time it took the guy responsible to finish a speech about it.

There are no hard feelings. In fact, quite the opposite. The two combatants share a tender embrace.

The tenderness escalates.

These warriors have only spent half a minute together, but those seconds were eventful. Intimate. This isn’t the ending of a battle. It’s the start of something else.

Zdravko gives his own lengthy analysis of the dozen or so moments he remembers from the fight, then he and Aitor shake hands again.

Shoulder injury be damned, it becomes another hug.

You saw this coming, but Aitor gives another post-fight speech where he congratulates his opponent…

… nay, his beloved opponent.

In a seventh emotional climax, at least six more than you’d expect from two dudes having their first MMA fight, Aitor raises the hand of his vanquished foe in sportsmanship. It’s a kind gesture, but arguably less kind than the kiss they already shared. It is also, by my watch, 14.8 minutes of celebration for every blow landed during their fight. If every fighter celebrated at this scale, George Foreman and Muhammad Ali would have started a standing 69 after the Rumble in the Jungle and ended it right about… November 19th, 2083.

You know what? I can’t think of a better way to end half a minute of fighting and 30 minutes of embracing than another hug. Let’s do it.

This is easily one of their best hugs, a bar of intimacy so ridiculously high I can’t even show you what I mean without fucking you. These two men are leaving nothing in the cage. They will never let it be said they didn’t give every last drop of their love on this night in Spain.

The camera finally pulls out to mark the end of this weird night of some combat, a little bit of slap, but mostly interviews and hugs. I believe broadcasters call it a pre-murder The Jenny Jones Show.

In the distance of the crane camera footage, you should be able to barely make out a familiar sight.

Speaking of making out, are these once-enemies locked inside the cage by the walls, or by their passion?

“Cut back to camera 2,” says the director, a tear streaking down his face, a glow in his heart. He watches Aitor and Zdravko’s 179th intimate embrace, his hand already dialing a familiar number. “I made a mistake,” he tells the voicemail of his ex-wife. “No one can live without love.”

Zdravko, overflowing with emotions, and probably concussions, raises the arm of his new brother one last time.

And while Zdravko is here next to the man who has hobbled him, maybe one last hug. Like every last thing in this unraveling disaster of an event, their affection is as unrestrained as a wild horse. It’s beautiful. Their, by my count, nine sincere hugs capped off a four hour fighting event where over 200 minutes were spent watching awkward rookie fighters discuss every second of awkward fighting except the 98 interesting ones. It may not have had much combat, but it had the most important thing. Love. May you each find your Aitor, my Zdravkos.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jaber Al-Eidan, the proud inventor of the gladiator skirt knee tornado™.

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NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Christian Magician Action Novels

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Grand Gospel Magic

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The Beginner’s Guide to Sex in the Afterlife

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REFLECTING DAY

Reflecting Day: Brockrollers the Home Brockway Game🌭

When I started 1900HOTDOG with Brockway in 2020, there was an implied deal– we would never be apart again. And for many years that was true– we shared ninja movies, fake Gerard Butlers, and the Bitch of Bingh Kan. Like brothers. I told him I could handle things when he said he had to take a few months off, but that wasn’t true. My life is a mess without him, just like yours. But what if I told you there was an exciting home game that could simulate a Brockway any time you needed one!? Introducing Brockrollers®! The Exciting Game of Roll When Brockway’s Not There!™!

Like all of my games, the rules are simple. First, roll two Blue Brockway Cubes™ to get ideas or things Brockway might enjoy. These cubes were made by combining things Brockway says all the time in our work Slack with the top pornographic keyword searches in Utah. It’s like how they give one guy on the firing squad a fake bullet, only with light butt stuff– the exact kind of wildcard move Brockway would have liked.

Once rolled, place your two cubes in DICE ZONE ONE and DICE ZONE TWO on your official Brockrollers® Gameplay Cube Board™. Next, roll one Red Brockway Wildcard Cube™ and put it on the MODIFIER ZONE because a second wildcard element is the kind of wildcard move Brockway would have liked.

Start the 30 minute timer on your Brockway Action Hourglass™ and stare at your three Brockway Cubes™. What do they mean together? How would a madman express them? After your 30 minutes are up, manifest your cubes with an animated gif in the Brockrollers® Winning Gif Gameplay Gif Board™. If you’re right, you win 10 points! First winner to win 150 points without using pornography wins! I’m playing right now if you want to join me!

OVEN ROASTED TURKEY? Something must have gone wrong during manufacturing because that’s zany, but not funny zany. Brockway is going to be so mad if I accidentally designed Cards Against Humanity with his face on it. I’ll roll my second him cube, and if this one sucks we’ll bail on the entire premise.

Oh hell yes. According to the rules, YUM YUM HUNKS! is a Brockway Jackpot™, so I roll 3 more cubes.

Oh no, I might have overtuned the eroticism of this board game. So far I have six guys fucking a turkey, and that’s just A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Maybe my Red Brockway Wildcard Cube™ can rescue it?

SECRET GUN!? Okay, so I blew it. I made an impossible game. Adding a secret gun to fully nude Latino hunks penetrating a turkey would be easy in Pictionary, but I’m not going to be able to find a gif of that. I give up. I’m going to quit and watch the 1985 film Light Blast by Enzo Castellari. You know him, he directed the Italian TV series, Detective Extralarge. Anyway, sorry! Enjoy this promotional photo from Detective Extralarge while I watch Light Blast.

Guys. You’re not going to fucking believe this…

I found an OVEN ROASTED TURKEY, YUM YUM HUNKS, LATINO HUNKS!, FULLY NUDE HUNKS, FULL PENETRATION, SECRET GUN gif! Certified hunk, Erik Estrada, is in this movie, wearing no clothes and hiding a secret gun in his turkey. Do you know what this means!? It means my game works! I won 10 Brockrollers® Points, and you win this gif! Let’s keep playing.

Okay, I rolled BOXCAR FUCKING and LASER MELT with the wildcard modifier of LASER MELT!. I’m sure it’s identical to the contents of Brockway’s mind most of the day, so in that way it works, but I might have to concede that a gif of this could never exist.

Wait, I just remembered earlier in the 1985 film, Light Blast, a young couple snuck away for some hobo sex in the wrong trainyard– a laser melt trainyard.

If Brockway was here, he’d probably say “this is just a normal way to fuck.” But he’s not, and he’s wrong, so I win ten more points! By the way, Light Blast is a pretty good movie. It’s about a madman holding San Francisco hostage with a death beam that turns LCD billboards into laser bombs. The guy who directed Detective Extralarge made it! It’s my turn again.

I rolled LATINO HUNKS!, SHOT GUN TO THE DICK, and KICK TO THE DICK, which is what’s known as a Brockway Handshake. This is exactly what I wanted from the game – it’s indistinguishable from a work message from Brockway. It really feels like he’s here with us. As for how I’m going to communicate this idea in gif form, I have good news for you, Brockway: the 1985 film Light Blast.

What a glorious way to die, dick-first at the shotgun and foot of an almost nude Erik Estrada. This is what all terminal patients used to wish for before meeting John Cena was an option. Speaking of tens and winners, I win 10 points. My turn again:

LATINO HUNKS!, no problem. SEX VAN, perfect. And my wildcard is… MEDIA CRITICISM? What? That sucks. How am I supposed to express that in a gif? What kind of an asshole would even try? I mean, maybe if I looked everywhere… scoured every corner of human history… let’s see, Latino hunks, sex van, media criticism… Latino hunks, sex van…

I’ve got it! The 1985 film, Light Blast!

That makes it my turn!

Oh, hell yeah. Sexy is back in this Exciting Game of Roll When Brockway’s Not There!™! This was an easy gif to find since all these words are already best friends, but none of them are legal to play in Brockrollers® or civilized society– two very different things, but sharing the same values when it comes to helping stepmothers trapped in washing machines. We’re here to honor you, stepmothers. And to curse you, because if I’m not allowed to use your free, uncensored, amateur action, where am I going to find a HUNK SURPRISE TITTY BLAST featuring MATURE MILFS?

The 1985 film, Light Blast.

It’s my turn again, and my cubes say I need to find a gif describing SUICIDE BY COP and EXPLOSION, but it needs to be NEEDLESS! POINTLESS!. I’m starting to realize this game would be unthinkably dark and lewd in anyone else’s hands– a perfect way to describe Brockway as a writer. Which makes me, once again, the world’s greatest game designer.

In the 1985 film, Light Blast, this cop gently drove away from a pursuit and into a wall of explosive barrels to kill himself on a pile of exploding cars. I have no fucking idea why, but that was the assignment. Ten points for me.

Finding SEXY NURSE DICK ATTACK should be no problem. In fact, Microsoft Bing somehow already knew that’s what I was searching for when I typed “S.” But if there’s one thing I know about dick attacks, and I speak Dick Attack in 14 languages, it’s that you can’t do them forever. ENDLESS is a tough wildcard cube. My winning streak may be over.

Wait! I found it! In an obscure 1985 film, Light Blast, a nurse gets into a kick fight with Erik Estrada’s dick and she wins, and wins, and wins. Just like me. Ten points. My turn again:

I rolled the NEEDLESS! POINTLESS! wildcard again, which is great. It’s the first editorial mandate Brockway and I wrote together. But it does not work well with DEFENESTRATION, one of the most purposeful kinds of attacks which pulls from an entirely different talent tree than EXPLOSION. This round is chaos. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.

In an incredible stroke of luck, I found a 1985 film called Light Blast where a man flies out a window just in time to explode on a car. I can’t tell you why. Two characters never seen before or again watch him do it, and neither of them could tell you what’s going on. One of them might not even know he’s in a movie. And speaking of a flawless combination of stupid and rad, I’m a winner again..

Okay, DICK ATTACK, LATINO HUNKS!… seems easy enough. That’s what Brockway gets me for my birthday and writes on my birthday cards, respectively. But CORPSE THROWING is a nightmare of a wildcard. I cause enough problems in night clubs to know that in Latin Hunk culture, it’s extremely rude to attack someone’s dick after they’ve died. I’m never going to be able to find this one…

… except in the 1985 film Light Blast where Erik Estrada dropkicks a guy in the nuts with a dead body’s legs. “Don’t worry, everybody gets cold feet… IN YOUR DICK!” he didn’t say. It never occurred to him to say, “Rest in balls, my friend,” either. He maybe should have said, “Order up! One cadaver to the penis!” but didn’t. If Brockway was here, he’d get things back on track by having Erik Estrada say, “Toe tag… to the ball bag,” and light a cigarette. And then I would go, “Hey everyone, get in here! This guy’s putting his dong on the dead bodies!” and the bit would die because there’s nowhere to go from there. The real point I’m getting to is my 10 points, which I won the moment this cadaver hit that hunk in the cock.

I’ll tell you the same thing I tell every casino pit boss: I can’t help it if I keep rolling LATINO HUNKS!. And when you add TITTY BLAST and ROWBOAT FIRE, I am one COREY FELDMAN away from my dream music festival. But I can’t make a gif from this ridiculous set of words. Not in a thousand years.

No, wait! In the 1985 film, Light Blast, this guy gets shot right in the titty while Erik Estrada hates a rowboat fire. This movie rules. Just like the zipline business Brockway and I started, at least 40% of it is hunks watching people die.

LATINO HUNKS! and SEXY NURSE with a PUNCH modifier. I don’t know about this one. I might pass. Because like I told Corey Feldman before I punched him, I don’t believe in punching hunks.

I don’t believe in punching nurses either, but in the 1985 film, Light Blast, Erik Estrada grabs one and puts his fist into her brain. He’s probably not thought of as a great actor, but look at this performance. In the time it takes to load up a hockey punch he shows us anger, reluctance, acceptance, regret… this hunk really didn’t want to have to do this! Same here, but ten points is ten points, Erik Estrada!

DUNE BUGGY DUNE BUGGY MANIAC is the character Brockway becomes when he mixes his medication. It’s also his catchphrase and police report. I was hoping to use a second gif from the 1985 film Light Blast, but Light Blast is a morguefighting police procedural about San Francisco lasers. There’s not going to be dune buggies in it.

In the 1985 film Light Blast, Erik Estrada steals a dune buggy and immediately goes dune buggy crazy, power drifting it down the wrong side of the freeway. And if you’re wondering how much it costs for a film crew to shut down a busy Bay Area highway so Erik Estrada can dune buggy into traffic, the answer may shock you– probably nothing! From the way Light Blast was shot, lit, and budgeted, I think a lot of it was made without shooting permits. There’s a good chance these other drivers aren’t “performing.” There’s also a good chance no one told Erik Estrada.

TITTY BLAST, SEXY NURSE, WEIRD FOOT STUFF… we don’t have an HR department here at 1900HOTDOG, so this looks like three ordinary fields Brockway would enter in our scheduling calendar. I miss saying things to him like, “We are WEIRD FOOT STUFF heavy this week, so let’s move Swaim’s column to the 11th. And I’ll save this VHS about pudding stomping for December.” I’m stalling because I don’t have any gifs for this I can show you. I may have finally lost a round of Brockrollers®.

Hold everything, I just found a 1985 film called Light Blast where Erik Estrada uses a foot as a bullet shield then shoots a nurse’s titty off. In any circumstances that’s a victory, and Brockrollers® is no exception.

“DUNE BUGGY DUNE BUGGY UNEXPLAINED,” is the name of the Unsolved Mystery episode they didn’t know was about Brockway. But this is a tough one. UNEXPLAINED does not belong with the word DUNE BUGGY or the word DUNE BUGGY. No one will ever ask for or require a dune buggy explanation. If you saw me jump a dune buggy into a volcano and asked, “Why’d he do that?” I would climb out of the lava and slap you. Because it was cooler than not doing it, dumbass! Do your dune buggy research.

Anyway, this is inconceivable. I’ll never find a gif for this. I guess I’ll add up my points and see h–

Wait, don’t stop the game! I found one. In the 1985 film Light Blast, two identical cars collide in a San Francisco intersection, but that’s not the unexplained part. Erik Estrada’s dune buggy is heading directly for the wreck, and with only plenty of time to drive around, his dune buggy instincts kick in. “Tell physics to fuck off; I’m going to jump these fucking cars,” he told the universe. “Fuck yeah, you are,” the universe said. “And if any beings are using this moment in a game of Brockrollers®, they just earned ten points.”

Guys, this win means I’ve won 140 points. I only need one more win to win!

It all comes down to this. All I have to do to roll a perfect game of Brockrollers® is find a gif combining LASER MELT! with LATINO HUNKS! and PERFECT ENDING. I believe in me! This is for you, Brockway!

In the 1985 film Light Blast, Erik Estrada jumps a dune buggy onto a barge to stop a lunatic from laser-exploding San Francisco with his death ray. It wasn’t what he was trying to do, at all, but he jumps onto the barge so hard the laser gets knocked loose and melts its inventor. Erik Estrada peeks through the hatch and does what he’s been doing the whole movie– he watches a man die. Then, with theatrical timing honed by a thousand CHiPs freeze frames, he just kind of leaves. Roll credits.

It’s the perfect ending to a perfect movie and the perfect gif for a perfect round of the perfect board game. You’re welcome, Brockway. I miss you.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Moexu, and that means 10 more points for Seanbaby.