Wobble-shop Benjo: ****-wool raked up out the half-rats Skilamalink fly-rink O' Baldric Eggling.

This thread will function as a kind of omnium gatherum for the melange of dissenting observations and opinions I have about MMA, MMA bouts and fighters, things I find humorous, and essentially any other thing. Why? Because sewage warrants proper curation as much as anything else. Arguably more.

Toshers and specklebellies welcome. No mutton-shunters, namby-pambys or needy-mizzlers. Pull up a stool and smother the parrot.

* Edited at 11.01.2021, 6:47 PM ET *

@Flying we should just feed them expired Pastrami off the meat truck, like in Tiger King.

Somewhere in Boston right now @Greg's eye is twitching and is grabbing his right hand from trying to suspend you  😆

I don't think he cares about memes like these, otherwise I'd hold off posting them.

and it literally checks out.

We searched bibliographic databases up to April 25, 2021. Two review authors sifted for studies, extracted data, and assessed risk of bias. Meta-analyses were conducted and certainty of the evidence was assessed using the GRADE approach and additionally in trial sequential analyses for mortality. Twenty-four randomized controlled trials involving 3406 participants met review inclusion.



Moderate-certainty evidence finds that large reductions in COVID-19 deaths are possible using ivermectin. Using ivermectin early in the clinical course may reduce numbers progressing to severe disease. The apparent safety and low cost suggest that ivermectin is likely to have a significant impact on the SARS-CoV-2 pandemic globally.


https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8248252/

Mikey at the same time after smoking meth through a scavenged chicken drumstick bone and attempting to chew the Aberdeen trash unicorn off the brickwork at 4:45 AM

And I am glad I will never have to experience them. Imagine this:
The year is 1989.

You're seated at a table cobbled together from wooden shipping pallets, forcing your way through the day's third helping of state-issued Kasha with your humourless wife In Voronezh, Soviet Union. Her nose is 4 1/2 inches long and crooked as a witch's finger--a bristly mole on its left anterior like a fat, greasy sultana.

You're vaguely pondering how she reminds you very much of an illustration in the copy of Pushkin's collected fairy tales you burned the night before, for heat, to prevent your 9th child from dying of consumption, when you begin to hear a distant rumbling the sound of an encroaching storm front. You quickly gulp down a brass artillery shell of Vodka that you have been covertly distilling, by nights in the forest, using a scavenged T-22 manlet and wild potatoes, and pull on your boots--freshly re-soled in hammered Tashonka tins. 

After racing down the labyrinthine network of 218 stairwells contained in your apartment block in your flour-sack onesie for no less than twenty minutes, you reach the fiftieth floor and peer out a rebar-jutted hole blasted in the side of the building, gaze down the street: It is as you feared.

It's the snow plough. A sleet ****r Mark V if you're not mistaken, judging by the twin Mig-15 engines fixed crudely to the front of the ramshackle tractor body, blowing  Bunsen burner blue carnage a full thirty-eight feet and warping the air ahead a full fifty more.

Hurtling down the last of the stairs and bursting through the cardboard entrance doors, you bolt through the courtyard, thinking of nothing other than the safety of the Moskvitch 412 you idiotically left parked on the curb. In your haste and panic you bowl over a one-eyed Gypsy child, his hand is an x-ray as he sombrely roasts a twig-skewered vole over a thrumming  phosphorescent chunk of U-235. His nearby mother spits an insult at you, urinates on the prongs of a rusted pitchfork, lights it afire and begins chase, but the minute she gets up to momentum her right leg tears away at the knee as though it were merely a thing of wet cake, rolls about the frozen earth like a skittled pin, bathing it in throbbing unholy green light.


You reach the street, turn. The sleet ****r MV has reached the junction. It  pauses, as if considering its next direction. Mercifully, it does not choose yours. Instead, it veers right, obliterating hillocks of snowfall into steaming greywash, deviating only once to casually atomise an elderly Babushka and her skinny Samoyed as they cower in the lurching shadow of an empty grain silo.

You rummage in desperation through your one pocket for the keys and become seized by horror as you realise you don't have them. They're where you left them-- crowning the Christmas tree, the single ornament adorning the entire display. Terrified, you grope about in the gutter for something with which to break the window, find only a commonly abandoned baby, and hurl it with every ounce of strength you can muster into the glass.

But it isn't glass at all. It's some form of plastic. The crying bundle ricochets, slams hard into your face, breaking your nose and forcing you to a knee. You look up. The sleet ****r MV has turned into your street now, and is bearing down on you, heralded by dirty boiling rivulets bejewelled in a flotsam of buoyant expired ration tokens and garbage.

There's nothing for it. You shuffle on all fours to the middle of the street and begin to bow and sc**** for mercy, offering up fervent prayer to the hulking saurian monstrosity whose twin flames of death have begun to singe and blow away your beard. Perhaps it is better to die, you think, considering the woman who awaits you at  behind the door of number 234567B. Let it come. Let it burn me alive. I don't care.

But suddenly and the against expectation, the beast grinds to halt. Your heart swells momentarily at the possibility of parlaying for your life, but all hope evaporates in an instant when the driver lifts his head from the broken cabin hatch. Well, not him, no. Nor her. Nor anyone of woman born. It. For what gazes upon you from atop its terrible throne of destruction is no man. It's the most hideously irradiated brown bear you have ever seen.

Your comrades at the stapler factory had rumoured that the year's harvests had been poor, and that the state had been subsequently forced to make severe staff furloughs. But this? This is beyond the beyond.


In the hellish orange glow of the nixiel-tube laburnum the creature is described in terrible detail: It's patchwork fur, like that of a threadbare Teddy, is  scrawled through with gigantic braille of string warts and buboes. Presumably during the fissile corruption of its DNA, perhaps In Utero, it has sprouted a sickening tulip patch of ears and a third watery eye from its left haunch. All appear to be functional.

It wears a faded Ushanka bearing the sigil of the hammer and sickle.Two half-burned unfiltered Laika cigarettes protrude from each of it's nostrils as it struggles to break free of the welded chains binding it to its sprung chair, before it slumps backwards, defeated, and reaches into the glove compartment to remove a green gallon bottle of moonshine. It downs it in a single breath, regurgitates violently over the  melting street, flings the empty vessel at you and lets out a throaty groan that sounds like Chewbacca in the throes of a powerful orgasm.

The snow****r MV rumbles back into life. You rise up and sprint for cover, diving over the brick fence of your apartment complex and behind a statue of Lenin as your Moskvitch 412 bursts into flames and is liquified into the several hundred litres of borch from which it was originally formed.

* Edited at 11.17.2021, 6:39 PM ET *

Hahahaha I loved the part about slamming the baby against the glass window but finding out it was plastic and bouncing and breaking his nose. Hahahaha

Did you write that book Trailer Park Shakespeare? I read some of it and it is very similar to your sense of humor

baldric, you seriously have too much spare time on your hands. some of what you write is entertaining, some informative and some just completely bat **** crazy. 

I wouldn't ever want him to get banned again

But he reminds me of a 71 year old on facebook posting about politics lmfao 

ive never known exactly why he was banned the 2 or 3 times its happened. i think greg keeps giving him extra chances because he is entertaining and im pretty sure he increases traffic on some of the forums. but he is hard to deal with concerning certain topics. 

@Phil thanks sugar. I can be happy as long as I can to be all the woman you'll ever need.

He doesn't say anything worse than I have, and this is not a knock at Gregory, I believe it's the warnings that received the ban. 

you are most welcome dear.