MMA in Toronto: a Lamentation

If I could care any less about mixed martial arts then I would have to write a book about it. Not a book about mixed martial arts but a book about not caring. I would have to write this book because when people figure out new and more effective ways of doing things, they usually honor the rest of us with the pleasure of being able to peer into their world by writing a large volume on the subject. The person is then considered an expert in the field. Awards follow them. Praise is showered down. Some very important people send expensive gifts to there house. Touring the globe giving readings. Moralists would debate the benefits of knowing about not caring to such an extreme degree. Yet publishers would flock for a chance to be a part of the sequel and all of the guaranteed success that will go a long with it.

That MMA is seriously considered to be along side such treasured sports as hockey, football, and baseball would be funny if it wasn't so sad. If I could be sadder about it then I would make a documentary about my sadness. I would call it "Peering into the eyes of sadness: Just how deep is the darkness?". If I could get a crew together and capture this on film in just the right light, perhaps delve into alcohol to truly capture my emotion, then it would be sure to sweep the awards. I would need to buy a tuxedo. There would be a car that would drive me to and from my hotel. I would give speeches.

The government might insist on taking me into their laboratories for study. I would get prodded. It would be uncomfortable if I wasn't so sad. There would be people standing outside of the window with protest signs. In between treatments I would roll my wheelchair to the window and glance out into the nothingness that is my reality. The people would see it and they would mourn. Oh, how they would mourn! But not as sad as I. No, not like this. That year, I might pass away and I might not. But make no mistake, there would be a photo of my face on the cover of Time magazine when all is said and done.

The sad truth is that after a few years, my memory would be all but forgotten. Sure, people would hold vigils for a while. I might undeservedly by knighted, but all of this would be after the fact that sadness had a new name. Scientists would do their best to put the puzzle pieces together. Along with the Saints they would do their best to lock up this discovery and make sure it never showed it's face again.

Hockey players fight. I'm not a big fan of it and in fact it is slowly being taken out of the game. Concussions have a lot to do with it. Fighting for the sake of fighting is something that should be left on the fringes. If you like that kind of thing go ahead and watch it. But don't put it on the front page and call it "Sport". Don't compare your minions with Wayne Gretzky. This is a slap in the face that hurts more than any man could bear. To bear it would be like lifting the earth with human hands and tossing it into a sea of stars and supernovas. To burden this load would be like lifting the sun in one's mortal breath and blowing on it until it turned to ice. Please, please. No more. Mercy. Go back to where you came from. Please MMA popularity, listen to Bieber or Gaga. Rethink this. Have a nap.