My Dear F12 Friends,
You once knew me by a different name, which hath passed into obscurity with its swift and unjust prohibition from these forums. in which I spread my gospel from January 18, 2006 of the Julian Calendar until that day in which I was banned from the entirety of the alphanumeric F_ boards, save none, merely for the candid observation that my 45-kilogram weight advantage and sub-
rdly muscular explosiveness conveyed a marital capacity greatly exceeding that required to unseat the monarch of the homogametic sex from her throne.
And yes, I maintain that, with a few weeks of cardiovascular preparation, the aforementioned harlot's successor would be bludgeoned into titular oblivion when faced with an indomitable XY challenger, a vestal virgin in beating the weaker sex, but an enthusiastic aficionado of this practice so long as there remain females on our earth suffering from the misapprehension that their martial success against fellow harlots entitles them to some measure of gladiatorial triumph.
Furthermore, I disclosed in all candor, that irrespective of her combative ascendence, my phallus remained unengorged by the prospect of intimate contact with Ms. Rousey, certainly by the remote prospect of martial confrontation, and absolutely by the negligible prospect of consensual coitus, given my string of capably calculated consummation or romance-esque, palpably non-procreative relationship with Slavic stunners. So be it.
To paraphrase Iron Mike, "I did a lot of things I should have been [banned] for, but wasn't, and was [something] for something I did [that was complete bullshit, as Holly Holm later demonstrated]." In order to take responsibility for my actions, as well of those of my Master Jose Higino, I have demoted myself by one percentage, so that I no longer can claim to be "cem por cento" of any martial art.
I am instead an intellectual ronin, claiming no allegiance to any established order. I post here, not to glorify any of my corporeal teachers (though they are, in sequence: Romie Aram, Javier Vazquez, John Alessio, Wander Braga, Alan Zborovsky, Reubens Charles, and most of all John Jacques Machado), but rather to convey three inviolate principles:
1. Drew Foster is one of the best human beings to ever walk this earth. If you are ever suffering and in need of honesty and support, contact this man, for his clarity of wit and purity of soul are unmatched, not only on this forum, but the series of tubes that comprises the interwebs. In my lowest moment, I contacted him on a whim, and the result has been years of friendship from one of the finest human beings conceivable.
2. The martial skills imparted by jiu-jitsu work can, and in the right circumstances *will*, save your life.
I was traveling in a distant country, which shall remain unnamed until the next sentence. (It was Russia, Moscow to be specific, you curious bastards.) Upon suffering a most unamicable split with my girlfriend (i.e., the single hottest woman upon whom I had ever laid eyes), I set about ruining my life by walking into the single most expensive nightclub in the planet, SOHO Rooms, purchasing vast quantities of alcohol, and imbibing them at an unsustainable rate.
Unsurprisingly, my recall of the night is less than perfect. But I do remember the near-violent argument I had with my doorman over the cost of the cab ride back to the apartment I was renting. He demanded compensation for hailing a cab, and the only bills I had in my wallet were for 5,000 rubles, which was at the time equivaelnt to roughly I argued with him vociferously that it was his obligation to refund me the excess value of the note... and he amicably agreed... all the way until he shoved me into a cab that sped off.
Apparently, I blacked out inside the vehicle, because my next memory is standing inside a Russian liquor store and cheerfully purchasing everything desired by every customer, as if I were some high-roller at a bar. This was a grave error.
As I was walking back from the liquor store, gayly swinging my plastic bag of ice-cream sandwiches, as I walked down the alley towards my flat, I noticed the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. Then I felt an arm shoot around my neck and begin strangling me from behind.
*To be continued (Sorry guys, I gotta go sleep. Will type more tomorrow)*
You once knew me by a different name, which hath passed into obscurity with its swift and unjust prohibition from these forums. in which I spread my gospel from January 18, 2006 of the Julian Calendar until that day in which I was banned from the entirety of the alphanumeric F_ boards, save none, merely for the candid observation that my 45-kilogram weight advantage and sub-
rdly muscular explosiveness conveyed a marital capacity greatly exceeding that required to unseat the monarch of the homogametic sex from her throne.And yes, I maintain that, with a few weeks of cardiovascular preparation, the aforementioned harlot's successor would be bludgeoned into titular oblivion when faced with an indomitable XY challenger, a vestal virgin in beating the weaker sex, but an enthusiastic aficionado of this practice so long as there remain females on our earth suffering from the misapprehension that their martial success against fellow harlots entitles them to some measure of gladiatorial triumph.
Furthermore, I disclosed in all candor, that irrespective of her combative ascendence, my phallus remained unengorged by the prospect of intimate contact with Ms. Rousey, certainly by the remote prospect of martial confrontation, and absolutely by the negligible prospect of consensual coitus, given my string of capably calculated consummation or romance-esque, palpably non-procreative relationship with Slavic stunners. So be it.
To paraphrase Iron Mike, "I did a lot of things I should have been [banned] for, but wasn't, and was [something] for something I did [that was complete bullshit, as Holly Holm later demonstrated]." In order to take responsibility for my actions, as well of those of my Master Jose Higino, I have demoted myself by one percentage, so that I no longer can claim to be "cem por cento" of any martial art.
I am instead an intellectual ronin, claiming no allegiance to any established order. I post here, not to glorify any of my corporeal teachers (though they are, in sequence: Romie Aram, Javier Vazquez, John Alessio, Wander Braga, Alan Zborovsky, Reubens Charles, and most of all John Jacques Machado), but rather to convey three inviolate principles:
1. Drew Foster is one of the best human beings to ever walk this earth. If you are ever suffering and in need of honesty and support, contact this man, for his clarity of wit and purity of soul are unmatched, not only on this forum, but the series of tubes that comprises the interwebs. In my lowest moment, I contacted him on a whim, and the result has been years of friendship from one of the finest human beings conceivable.
2. The martial skills imparted by jiu-jitsu work can, and in the right circumstances *will*, save your life.
I was traveling in a distant country, which shall remain unnamed until the next sentence. (It was Russia, Moscow to be specific, you curious bastards.) Upon suffering a most unamicable split with my girlfriend (i.e., the single hottest woman upon whom I had ever laid eyes), I set about ruining my life by walking into the single most expensive nightclub in the planet, SOHO Rooms, purchasing vast quantities of alcohol, and imbibing them at an unsustainable rate.
Unsurprisingly, my recall of the night is less than perfect. But I do remember the near-violent argument I had with my doorman over the cost of the cab ride back to the apartment I was renting. He demanded compensation for hailing a cab, and the only bills I had in my wallet were for 5,000 rubles, which was at the time equivaelnt to roughly I argued with him vociferously that it was his obligation to refund me the excess value of the note... and he amicably agreed... all the way until he shoved me into a cab that sped off.
Apparently, I blacked out inside the vehicle, because my next memory is standing inside a Russian liquor store and cheerfully purchasing everything desired by every customer, as if I were some high-roller at a bar. This was a grave error.
As I was walking back from the liquor store, gayly swinging my plastic bag of ice-cream sandwiches, as I walked down the alley towards my flat, I noticed the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. Then I felt an arm shoot around my neck and begin strangling me from behind.
*To be continued (Sorry guys, I gotta go sleep. Will type more tomorrow)*
