There are two basic reasons that people are looking forward to next season of The Ultimate Fighter: 1) There’s a chance that we may get to see Bisping violently knocked out again, and 2) unlike many of the coaches before him, Jason Miller is an entertainer. If you’ve ever read a “Mayhem” interview or tuned in to MTV’s “Bully Beatdown”, then you’re already aware that the dude knows how to spin a yarn. He’s done all of the leg work for us here, so let’s go straight to the source for this classic father-son tale:
I’m a myspace whore, just like anyone else here, and sometimes I don’t write blogs when I should. I suppose it’s because I want to hold myself to a higher standard than the average myspace bimbo who blogs about retarded shit every day twice a day, but I need to be more disciplined with my writing, so here’s the infamous Eckard Drug Store parking lot fight story, between two titans of street fighting, a 16 year old Jason “Not yet Mayhem” Miller and the original “Iceman” Mike Miller- my father.
The hot August day was going as any other, a pissed off jerk of a 16 year old (me) bitching and moaning about the regular teenage jibberish that now if I were to hear a teen saying that I’d tell them “STFU” with those letters, not even the words.
I was riding in the middle row of the vans bench seats, hunched over whining in my parents’ ears about going to get my drivers license or something appropriately 16 years old, my dad driving and mom in the passenger seat. As we pulled into the parking space, the conversation took a negative turn and my mom got snappy, and jumped out of the van, as I said “You don’t gotta be a bitch about it!” Which wasn’t too strange around that time in my life. Unfortunately, and unexcpectedly, that hit a chord with my dad and before I could blink twice *SMACK* he straight jack-slapped me, backhand Sampress style. Which fired me up something fierce.
“One of these days someone’s gonna beat your ass for that shit!” I spouted off.
I didn’t mean that day.
My dad boxed a bit in the day, and thanks to the bodybuilding movement in the seventies he was (and still is) a certified meat-truck. He came shufflestepping around the backside of the van, one hand cocked in the “Miller Fighting position” which is like a boxing stance, with your right hand near your waist, which I guess gives you more time to load up on an over-hand right, and makes it easier to wrestle when the time comes.
When I saw him shufflestepping, immediately I was shocked- I thought the shit was over- “bitch”*SMACK* ok, we’re even, nope. Not a chance. Once I realized “it’s on” I got into the Miller Stance and started circling, ready to put it on my old man, regardless of whether or not the 82nd Airborne had hardened him into a killing machine.
In the two to three seconds that we sized each other up, I thought to my recent viewing of the UFC the one where Marco Ruas fought a much bigger opponent, Paul Varlens and beat him by leg-kicking him- essentially “chopping down the tree,” I figured since I’m giving up 30 pounds, I can employ that strategy, even though I had never even kicked a heavy bag at this point in my life.
So I threw my hardest- soccer inspired thai kick to his lead leg. My dad didn’t even blink at my flimsy kick, just unloaded his right hand into my snotbox, popping it like a ketchup packet. I had wrestled a bit, so I just shot in on a single leg, a bit dazed, now blind and bleeding, my dad sprawling and potshotting me like silly. I still remember how hot the brand new parking lot was- burning my legs as I tried to get him down. Had we not been father and son, it would’ve been smart of him to push my face down to give me the roadrash/burn combo of the year, but he wasn’t into fighting dirty. However, at this point in the losing battle, I was. From my terrible position, now underneath my pops, I reached up and did the number 1 rule in the UFC. “No fish hooking” I went for it. Luckily he didn’t bite off my finger, and once he got loose, up walks the nicest pair of polished shoes I had seen in a while.
A uniformed police officer. “Yeah, that’s right! You’re going to jail!” I shouted like a punk kid who just got his ass beat would. “Take his ass!” All I hear is “Sir, do you need help with your son?” Goddamnit, I can’t win. So I ran a bloody 2 miles home, getting stung the whole time by mosquitos.
I guess I learned a few things from that incident. 1 Don’t call Mom a bitch. 2. Hands up on a leg kick. 3. Love your family, it’s much easier on your nose that way.
Words to live by, kids.