There are only two things in this world that we here in the CP offices know to be true: Code Red is the without a doubt the best Mountain Dew spin-off of all time, and Bob Sapp will never win another fight. The bearer of perhaps the most ironic nickname in the sport already has two MMA fights lined up in May alone, but decided to kill some time last weekend by participating in a kickboxing match in Slovenia against Rok Strucl.
Though Sapp started off strong, meaning that he didn’t find a way to fake injury before the opening bell had finished resonating, what went down thereafter accomplished something we never thought possible: a new low for “The Beast.”
(Props to 12ozcurls for the find. One can only imagine the kind of S&M websites he was surfing until he arrived at this.)
It shocks me, or perhaps more confuses me, to repeatedly watch someone who has been involved in combat sports for ten years show absolutely zero understanding of even the most fundamental aspects of their discipline. Such is Bob Sapp. The man throws punches like a drunken sorority girl caught in a wind storm, and doesn’t appear to be anything but horrified from a fight’s start to its finish, despite the fact that he usually holds upwards of one hundred pounds on all of his opponents. This is a “man” who defeated Ernesto Hoost twice for fuck’s sake, and look at him now. He’s like a turd that just keeps circling the drain, picking up pieces of other, more dignified turds that pass him by.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why any fighter who takes their job even remotely serious would agree to fight this pair of clown shoes. If you win, it’s because duh. If you lose…well, you can’t lose, but you get the point. And as if Sapp’s striking display wasn’t pathetic enough, skip ahead to the 1:20 mark for the beginning of the end. How does that end come about, you ask? During a typical Sapp exchange, which resembles something out of a Tasmanian Devil cartoon, “The Beast” simply falls to the ground when given the opening. Wikipedia currently has the loss listed as an “invisible punch,” which is the most correct description one could offer when trying to determine what exactly caused Sapp to come tumbling to the ground. Was it the delayed aftereffects of a liver strike? A twisted ankle? Or perhaps even a case of chronic vertigo?
Nope. It was just Bob Sapp being Bob Sapp. It’s incredible to realize that there are people in this world who can fail at failing, but Bob Sapp has brought that notion to light and nearly burned out my retina with it. And as the crowd released an oral mixture of pity and shame, often known as laughter, I yet again found myself stupefied by Sapp’s incompetence. Not only can the man not fight his way out of a wet napkin, he can’t even lose in convincing fashion.
But I’ve had enough.
I am calling you out, Sapp. You have disgraced more than one sport that I hold close to my heart for far too long, and it’s time to stop. That’s why I issue you the following challenge, you product of unchecked prison rape. You eater of bovine excrement. You human compost. You pud. Me versus you in a MMA match in the town of your choosing. The loser must sever all ties with the sport, be it as a fighter, a writer, or whatever it is you dare to call yourself these days. I may only weigh 160 pounds soaking wet, but after witnessing the walking travesty that you’ve called a career over the past decade, I can say with confidence that I would whoop your ass from here to the ebola-infested cave from whence you came. So bring it.
I await your response.