Maybe it’s not so bad. I mean, we’ve all understandably been a little blue since Kimbo Slice was outclassed, outmaneuvered, and badly outbellied by Roy Nelson two weeks ago. But things might actually be looking up. What last week’s episode lacked in Kimbo, it almost made up for with the best fight of the season, as Brendan Schaub and Demico Rogers rolled around at a perfectly reasonable pace for two big dudes. For most of a round! And neither gassed out! Given the wheezy slop-shows that passed for fights the first few weeks, Rogers/Schaub was nothing but win. And then there’s Wes Sims. There simply hasn’t been enough of the preternaturally goofy Wes Sims so far, and if we can be real for a moment here – and I mean really, really real here – I am willing to sacrifice a little Kimbo time if it means more Sims. If that makes me less street – if that makes us less street – I say so be it.
We begin with Rashad Evans feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good about his team’s four straight wins so far. And why wouldn’t he be? Floyd Mayweather has said that there’s nothing like being young, black, and rich, and he’s probably right that that’s really awesome, but imagine being young, black, and rich, with a 4-0 coaching record on The Ultimate Fighter! That’s a state of being so baller that not even Floyd Mayweather could conceive of it before it happened. Everybody on Team Rashad is trainin’ and feelin’ fine, except Matt Mitrione, who has an on-again-off-again shoulder injury that he thinks needs a cortisone shot. Rashad thinks that is a just a straight up horrible idea. His exact words: “That’s just stupid.”
After Team Rashad’s training session, Team Rampage’s “Big Baby” Marcus Jones thinks he’s tricked Evans into agreeing to select him to fight next. Except that he totally hasn’t, that was pretty sneaky!
Rampage Jackson complains that his fighters losing messes with his mood, his day, his life, his sex life, even. His plan to revive his sex life: the wall walk. If his charges can master this technique, will Rampage once again master… a lady? Zak Jensen, however, does his utmost to block that cock. “Zak was the last one picked, and he’s probably the guy on the team who has the least skills,” Rampage explains. “He’s a big guy, and he’s got good wrestling.” After a long pause, he adds, “Yeah, that’s all he got going for him.” He’s described by Scott Junk – who insists he likes Jensen – as “a turd at practice.” Jensen takes his failure in this drill to heart, and mopes around the cage with his head held low. He is, in short, the guy who sucks; plus he’s got depression.
And he as a tormentor. It is Sims, who claims to have found something most unpleasant when showering after Jensen. “I’m not happy right now,” he yells down to a poolside Jensen from the balcony. “Next time I get in the shower, if I ever step on a family of Jensens when I get in the shower, I don’t care what team we’re on, we’re gonna scrap.” Jensen denies this completely but, in this recapper’s view, unconvincingly. He claims to have blown his nose in the shower – what does that even mean, man? – but will not cop to having pulled the goalie, even though that is sometimes totally the call you have to make. Instead, he withdraws, and writes in his journal. Speculation about today’s entry abounds, with “Day Seven: got caught jacking off” probably coming closest. Rampage learns of all of this from Wes Shivers, who thinks Jensen is pretty embarrassed about it. “I wouldn’t be,” Jackson says. “I’d be like, yeah, just don’t slip on ’em. Raise ’em right. They’re yours now.” That is seriously the only way to play it. Poor, poor Jensen caps the worst day ever by getting choked into unconsciousness by Wes Sims, the very man who discovered his . . . little buddies. Which is to say his semen.
Aaaaand we’re back to Mitrione’s stupid shoulder. Anyone who has ever trained in anything knows the guy who plays up every little thing and every little ding. Maybe it’s for the attention. Maybe it’s to get out of the toughest drills. Maybe it’s to lower expectations. Whatever the explanation, it’s annoying as hell, and his teammates are, understandably, annoyed as hell. Rashad isn’t exactly loving it, either, and says as much to Mike Van Arsdale who OH MY GOD pulls off his shirt and shows us what a real shoulder injury looks like. It looks like grim death, basically. “Is it injured, or is it sore?” an exasperated Rashad asks Mitrione. “There’s a big difference. Is it sore? It’s just sore? Then stretch it out.” Rashad pleads with the man to end this nonsense, but he won’t. Mitrione tries to make the whole thing fun and light by talking to the camera about how you could totally swap the arms off and on He-Man figures – which is obviously true – but it’s not nearly enough to redeem the foolishness that came before. I won’ t be pandered to.
Team Evans, on the strength of their much-discussed 4-0 record, retain control of the matchmaking, and they choose Greco-Roman wrestler and Travis Lutter Jiu-Jitsu student Justin Wren to take on Wes Sims. It is a bold move no doubt designed to capitalize on how Sims totally just stepped in jizz and probably hasn’t fully recovered. Consult “Terrain,” the tenth book of Master Sun’s great treatise. Somewhere along the way, Marcus Jones has managed to convince himself that Rashad Evans actually did give his word that Jones would be fighting this week (note: this did not happen) and Big Baby pouts with extreme prejudice. It’s awesome.
But not as awesome as Wes Sims. Fighting out of the legendarily one-dimensional Hammer House, Sims has someone managed to avoid competence in that one dimension. He can’t wrestle. He can’t really do anything else, either, but you’d think training for years with Mark Coleman and Kevin Randleman you’d at least pick that much up. A little. But Sims defies all reasoning. “The jungle, the alley, the cage. They’re all home. Make your peace with God, Justin, and be ready to scrap – because I am!” Oh man this Wes Sims.
I would remiss if I did not at least note in passing Justin Wren’s tiny pink manties, which steal the show at the weigh-in. And that’s saying something, because Sims is rocking a mighty banana hammock that would, under any other circumstance, be really funny underwear. Here, in comparison to Wren’s little number, they are only kind of funny underwear. But he plays to the crowd, showman that he is, and the assembled multitude finds all of this hilarious. Rampage is distraught.
Ten seconds into the fight, Wren has Sims pressed against the cage, and both men launch into a frenzied exchange of axe kicks! To the feet! That is to say, they are stomping at each other, which while kind of effective is also kind of lame. Wren doesn’t take Sims down so much as the two slump to the ground with Wren on top. One they’re there, Wren switches from side control to north-south and back again, sets up an arm triangle choke, and finishes by working his way across Sims’ body. Referee Herb Dean lifts Sims’ arm for signs of life, pro-wrestling sleeper hold style, finds none, and calls the fight. Rampage was expecting him to Hulk Hogan his way out of that thing, but alas.
Just like last week, Team Rampage is on the outside looking in while Team Rashad takes to the cage to console the losing fighter. Bad form, Team Rampage. Bad Form. “We can’t make ’em fight,” Rampage says by way of excusing his pretty horrible coaching. “We can’t fight for ’em,” echoes Assistant Coach Tiki, a man with an 0-4 UFC record.
Rashad and Rampage get into it a little after the fight, and man, what a finish:
“Conversation over,” Rampage announces. “I’m gonna get to my troops.”
“What you gonna do, go in there and text? You ain’t gonna teach ’em nothing.”
Next week! Too much teasing leads to bad feelings! And maybe somebody gets injured and Kimbo comes back! Wouldn’t that be cool?
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