December 4, 2011
inesrosa: First day of summer calls for a picnic. Homemade fish and chips. I would have dived straight down to the bottom of the ocean and speared that fish through the eyeball and brought it to your kitchen, for you.

inesrosa:

First day of summer calls for a picnic. Homemade fish and chips.

I would have dived straight down to the bottom of the ocean and speared that fish through the eyeball and brought it to your kitchen, for you.

11:49pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFyCqbxbr
(Notes: 4)
  
October 6, 2011
The Return of Pseudonaja textilis

Above: what I think is either a very large Brown snake or a Taipan. I thought he was dead when I picked it by the neck but then he started moving. Whups.

Spring. It’s getting hot again. Days peak at 33 degrees and the ground turns to dust. Bushfires in the distance block out the sun. It forms a wall of grey smoke that quickly engulfs everything in its path. I’m walking across a paddock with my hand running through the long grass a la Russel Crow in Gladiator or Brad Pitt in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. I would like to stand right next to the wall of smoke to see what it looks like up close but the fire is too far away so I turn back and make a cup of tea. The following day is very windy which causes a minor sandstorm and my eyes get full of dust and grit. I’ve had about ten very close encounters with Brown snakes in the last month. I walked directly next to this guy for about 20 meters which didn’t seem to bother him.

Above: an Eastern Brown snake. The second most venomous snake in the world after the Inland Taipan.

The days are getting longer and boredom is setting in. I park my truck next to the giant grain shed and sleep. Using a piece of fencing wire I construct a nice long hook which I use to pull cane toads out of their holes so I can stomp them to death. Three weeks ago I decided to scout an area I had never been to before. Most of the new area I had to map was covered in dense scrub and regrowth. A large swamp ran through the middle of it. I walked 25 kilometres without stopping and managed to spook a very large wild dog about the size of a German Shepard. I haven’t walked 25 kilometres without stopping in a very long time so when I returned to the office I collapsed and almost vomited. Luckily, there’s nothing a Lady Grey and a smoke can’t fix.

Above: what I believe to be a Carpet snake, a large, harmless python.

One of my ex girlfriends is sending me messages. She’s at a house party in Melbourne, on coke for the first time and she’s trying to get in contact with one of her boyfriends back in Wellington. She must be on a pad or computer or something, which is a strange thing to do at a house party, although not as strange about telling me about it since I don’t care at all. I tolerate talking to her although she’s about as interesting as a polystyrene cup and I really want to see her life fall apart. I suspect this feeling stems from her being: a) a total bitch and b) a barista.

My apartment overlooks a park in the centre of Brisbane. I meet up with Pete who I haven’t seen in a while and we spend most of the week walking around Brisbane, talking about guns and books. On a Sunday night we meet up with some Canadian friends at one of the many faux Irish pubs. I drink too much beer and start harrassing a table full of Germans and Irishmen. They’re not impressed so we flee and head up Queen St. A young homeless girl approches us and Pete starts talking to her. I’m not really sure what’s going on but she’s kind of cute and my mind runs amok. She’s about 5’5”, wearing little denim shorts with fishnet stockings and an old, worn Greenday hoody. I’m wearing tan chinos, a red plaid shirt, reddish-brown boots and my Oliver Peoples glasses with my hair slicked back. At this stage of drunkness my mind is toxic and Patrick Dunbar comes out but I can’t control it. One of her friends turns up to chat as well but is nowhere near as good looking. She has a pet rat in her hoody and gives it to Pete to play with in the hope she’ll get some money out of him. Pete is fascinated by the rat and I’m thinking about what would happen if I bit its head off completely right infront of her then spat the head on pavement. Now I’m staring at the prettier homeless girl while Pete keeps asking the one with the rat about heroin. I’m curious to find out if she is actually homeless. She claims her parents kicked her out and how she hasn’t been home in months but it’s all a blur and I’m not really listening rather wondering how much I would have to pay to have sex with her since she’s really quite cute and desperate. I put my hand on my chin and consider the logistics of such an activity. Taking her back to my apartment is obviously a no go so I would probably have to hire some sort of hotel room in the city centre under a phoney name. We give them some change and they walk off down an alleyway.We promised to meet them the following day and take them to lunch but both parties know this will never happen. Pete and I joke about how much we would have to pay to beat the shit out of them. There is a sharp pain in my head and Patrick Dunbar vacates as quickly as he arrivied and now I feel sick so I go back to my apartment and try to watch Generation Kill but end up passing out.

My boss for 8 months had his farewell party at the pub across the road from my motel. Everyone turned up including my old friend Laurie who I used to work with. Laurie, like myself, is 23 years old and quite possible the most shameless/disgusting person I know. His hobbies include hogging, giving himself a cul-de-sac haircut then driving around town in his ute blasting techno music, filling out crosswords in porn mags and wanking in the grader. When we worked together he would keep a high stack of porn mags in the middle seat of his work truck. I would sit there for hours filling out the crosswords because they were easy and therefore weren’t a challenge in any way.

I am now back in Brisbane. It is an overcast day so I walk to the city centre and get a salmon bagel for breakfast with a chocolate shake. I’ve grown sick of my long hair so I get it all shaved off. Sam wanted to go to Melbourne but changed his mind because of the weather. I am relieved we’re not going anymore because I hate everyone I know that lives there.

5:11am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFyALNAPo
(Notes: 1)
  
July 11, 2011
Pursuit and Success

Dead kangaroo on the road. Blood everywhere. I didn’t hit it, but someone had recently. I noticed something moving around. I pulled a joey out of its pouch, it had no hair. Uh oh spaghetti-o. It looked like a hairless rat-alien and kept barking at me, staring at me with its black eyes. I put it in a small box with some clean rags and sent it to the vet in town. Two hours later a giant eagle is eating its mother’s guts on the side of the road. Two days pior to this I was bushwalking with one of Australian’s leading archaeologists. We were looking for Aboriginal artifacts. We came across what may have been a ceremonial ground ontop of a rock shelf. Below the rockshelf we came across a natural quarry where I found various cutting tools which would have been used for skinning animals and cutting skin for scaring. One particular artifact took my interest. It was a small cutting stone with about four notches cut into it. It was still sharp. Later that day we met up with the Romanian Geo-Engineer and ate sandwiches next to a mustering hut opposite a creek. The Romanian Geo-Engineer used to live in Auckland and insisted on singing Nesian Mystik. I learned how to identify potential camping areas the Aboriginals would have used. High ground near water with edible plants and trees which would have been used to make spears and carrying vessels.

Back at the motel where we all stay Jack, Steve and myself are drinking Superdry and watching Eastbound and Down. I came up with the theory that I am infact already dead, and that central Queensland is hell or some form of purgtory. We’re all here for a good reason, and that reason is that we were all lousy sonofabitches in our life, and this is payback. I asked Steve and Jack if they actually remembered the last time they were in Brisbane. They both looked puzzled and we came to the conclusion that Brisbane was infact a mere illusion, a place we went to in our dreams. Our 7 day break was actually spent in our motel rooms, sleeping… dreaming of a civilised paradise. Steve started moping and almost broke out in tears. We were all in a terrible state. Too much beer. Too much steak, egg and chips. I’m getting old and bitchy and worry too much. No more fun.

It is the 11th of July, 2011 and I am almost 23 years old. I’m tired and tomorrow is the last day of this two week shift. I will be travelling back to Auckland for a week to see my baby niece for the first time. Or maybe I will just dream I’m leaving.

6:36am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy6_PWOj
(Notes: 1)
  
July 3, 2011
Blood Visions, part 2

When the change was made uptown
And the big man joined the band
From the coastline to the city
All the little pretties raise their hands
Im gonna sit back right easy and laugh
When scooter and the big man bust this city in half

- Bruce Springsteen, 10th Avenue Freezeout

This one’s for you, Big Man. Boredom and mild insanity has lead me to do some pretty stupid things out here. Boredom and insanity, in combination with a childhood fascination of reptiles, has lead me to hunt and photograph snakes. One day while driving down a bush track I discovered a fallen tree (probably knocked over by a bulldozer 15 years ago) on top of a small mound of dirt. At the base of this mound is a series of holes about the width of a beer can’s base. The fallen tree roots made an entangled shelter of roots, perfect for snakes nesting during the winter months. I returned the following day, about mid morning when the area caught the most sunlight. Sure enough I discovered a family of Black-Headed rock pythons (Aspidites melanocephalu). The Black-Headed python is a fairly placid animal. It feeds largely on other reptiles and is known for its resistance to snake venom. It is also one of the very few animals in Australia that can eat Cane toads. I felt pretty comfortable when I picked up the largest snake of the group (or slither, if you fancy), an old female with faded skin. It didn’t struggle and seemed perfectly content with me studying it. You see, your average Australian is scared shitless of these wonderful creatures. They will scattered like rotten little cockroaches at the first sight of one. Every reptile to them must be highly venomous and out for the kill. If they’re not running over them with cars or smashing them to pieces with a shovel they’re running away from them. Better safe than sorry, I suppose. They say that a Taipan (Oxyuranus microlepidotus) can kill you in twenty minutes if you’ve been bitten in face or neck. To hell with that attitude I say, chase them all down and study their habbits. Never listen to the buck-toothed, sister fucking, whiskey tango hill billies that preach their hatred for them. So what if your kid sister was bitten in the face by a King Brown when she was 6 years old? Don’t pat a burning dog. One day all the snakes, dingos and spiders in Australia will be dead and then maybe they will finally feel safe. They will grow fat on steak, eggs, chips and XXXX gold and the only animal that will roam this great continent will be brainless, mutant cattle.

Two nights ago I woke up around midnight. A cockroach, probably half the length of my index finger, was crawling through my hair. I turned the light on and it bolted for the nearest nook. I think I will start rounding up lizards and start strategically placing them around my room for protection. Last night I went to my first rodeo. It’s weird seeing a two thousand people pretending to be American. The wigger/white trash fashion was also pretty prominent. Flat peaked caps, long, shiny “Rock Star” shirts and other tacky, energy drink sponsored, motorcross apparel. I got drunk on XXXX bitter and ate candy floss. The following morning my boss ran over an echidna and punctured his tyre. There is no shortage of dead animals on the side of the road in Queensland. Where ever you go there will always be an abundance of rotting cadavers decorating the landscape.

Last week I went to the infamous Kings Cross in Sydney. I left after an hour, on the verge of a panick attack. Never in my life have I experienced such fear and loathing. I stayed with two very close friends near the university of New South Wales. We drank beer at the White House, the union bar (which actually doesn’t resemble a union bar at all, but rather a swank cafe with a patio area surrounded by a white picket fence). This was my ideal environment. A non-threatening atmosphere packed with intellectual babes and witty banter. Pretty girls who are slightly younger than me therefore I can impress them with tales of my outback exploits. At the flat where I stayed we drank Superdry and cranberry juice and vodka. Drinking raw Swedish vodka through my eyeballs turned out to be an awful idea. However, nothing could prepare me for the monstrosity that is Kings Cross. Never in my life have I felt more like Travis Bickle. Streets, alleyways, bars, nightclubs, brothels - all chock-full with pimps, whores, dealers, con-artists, scumbag bouncers, thugs, steroid fuelled gym monkeys. Disaster. Just like Travis Bickle I wanted a great rain to wash it all away.

6:54am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy6iSozU
June 6, 2011
Pursuit and Despair

It is the 6th of June, 2011, and I am twenty-two years old. I have become jaded with my job and current lack of lifestye. I have given up all of my hobbies and passions for a monthly paycheck. There is only so much you can take, living in a town full of whiskey tango trailer park bow legged women, whose only qualification for motherhood is a womb that happens to catch the sperm of any passing truck driver. If I don’t get this raise I’m probably going to lose my shit and flip out. I’ll either quit and come back to Dunedin to study geology, or drive a loader/dump truck in a coal mine.

Two Lesbians in a bar clutch each others faces while the bar stereo is playing the Dandy Warhols and the Violent Femmes. I stare at them blankly. My nose is blocked and I can’t taste anything. There is a man in a top hat and a beige peacoat smoking a cigarette outisde. I’m in Brisbane’s West End. I have just finished my two week hitch and I’m drinking Hendricks gin and tonic on ice with cucumber with Sam and Steve’s girlfriend from Liverpool. I feel rotten. The codeine is wearing off so I catch a taxi back to my flat. I fly to New Zealand the next morning.

Driving from town to work in the afternoon I narrowly miss a fox crossing the road. I had a 500 tonne load on the tray so I could not risk swerving my ute. I was hoping to tap it with the bullbars so I could skin it with the stanley knife I keep in my tool box. On one morning I’m filling up my ute with the high flow diesel pump. Some fat, whiskey tango truck driver tells me I shouldn’t be filling up my ute in the truck area. I tell him to go fuck himself and visualise myself beating him to death with a hammer. This country is playing tricks with my mind. Days become irrelevant, only dates matter. Every day is getting more stranger and surreal. I dream of a giant owl eating snakes in a paddock. Two days later we find an injured owl on the side of the road. I take it to the vet. Laurie and I pull a family of mice out of the cab of his truck. We throw them in the driller’s water pits then pump them full with 12000 litres of water. It’s the survival of the fittest. If the water doesn’t get them, the snake or owl will. Two new English geologists arrive. I have met them before in Brisbane. Steve from Teesside and Jack from Brighton. Together we collectively winge and complain. We form of a trifecta of cynicism, which in turn makes the time pass faster. Fastforward and I’m at a bar in the middle of Ponsonby. There is a fairly decent blues band playing and I’m drinking a locally brewed lager which is surprisingly very nice. Some old, fat faggot in a Swanndri and scarf is hanging around. It really makes me sick to see the Swanndri reduced to this. It was once worn by the cullers who founded New Zealand’s hunting culture. Now, it’s worn by overweight, scarved Ponsonby gentlemen prentending they’re still twenty.

I’m dreaming of the southern alps, giant meadows in the alpine valleys. Rolling tussock hills and scree banks. A house in North Otago. Hare casserole in the oven and a cup of lady grey. This will soon be a reality.

4:26am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy5qB4sQ
April 17, 2011
Tropic Highway

We left camp in a placid mood. There was a truck accident on the main road out of camp so we had to take a detour through a backcountry dirt road that lead us through the highlands of Central Queensland.The remnants of the long wet season left evident in the long, green grass of the vast cattle stations. We drove north through the Tropic of Capricorn on this bumpy, dirt track that was intersecting by many creek crossings. At this time of day there was not a kangaroo in sight, but many carcasses left blackened and bloating in the tropical sun.

At camp I spent my evenings sipping Hahn’s Superdry beer and reading books. On one particularly slow day Mike, the geologist who’s also from Whangarei, and myself drove eighty kilometres into town and back to buy coca-cola and some skin mags for a driller as a reward for handing in the most safety observations. On our daily fourty minute drive from camp to site the geologist and I listen to the Rolling Stones and talk about history. The conquistadors, SS uniforms, Jim Corbett, the White Death and Captain Jack Churchill were some of the many topics discussed. We also came to the conclusion that Mick Jagger is a better person than John Lennon. At the end of the day I attend a presentation on geophysics and my brain, like a piece of wet cake, melts away.

Things are going slow on the drill rig. There is a fourty minute wait between runs of core so I sit in my truck and read the Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemingway. It was much nicer reading in my fold out chair under the shade of an old gum tree but I realised that ticks were slowly making their way up my trousers. It’s about thirty degrees and I’m feeling sleepy after a heavy lunch consisting of heinz beans, a peanut butter sandwich, some fruit and some old milk arrowroot biscuits. The dickhead miners ate all the yoghurt and tuna. I have a nap and wake up half an hour later to discover my boss from Brisbane looking at my core samples. I don’t think she noticed and I play it smooth. I am flying to Auckland next week for my seven day break and I’m pretty excited about this thought. The thought of turning Australian after too much time here fills me with a nameless dread. Tax-free J&B and marlboro blacks for my friends.

The camp I stay at when I’m working is a eighty-man camp situated in the middle of nowhere. Half the camp are miners and the other half are exploration. There is a mutual hatred between both camps and this is perfectly understandable because miners are cunts and drillers are dickheads. The place is filled with interesting characters. As it should be, since this place is the end of the world. A place where people come when they finally realise their dreams are but an illusion, a distant light at the end of an inifinite hallway. One of my good friends at work is John. John O’Malley is a master of looking busy without actually being busy, at all. He comes from a long line of lazy convict micks who have been hugely successful at fooling everyone for the last two centuries. John O’Malley has been so busy looking busy, that he is actually busy and dedicates most of his working day at mastering this noble Irish craft. He is a man of no nonense, a man of XXXX bitter and Winfield blues. He has short grey hair and a fine grey moustache that curls up at the sides. He resembles Frank James, and like Frank James has the personality of a smooth sea otter. He fears no living man and claims the Bible is the greatest book ever written although I suspect he has never read it. As an ex fireman and underground driller there was probably a time in John O’Malley’s life when he did indeed have to work hard, but now considers this idea ridiculous. Whenever his elaborate guise as an ultra useful jack of all trades handy man comes close to being shattered he relies on his friends to cover for him. Like the time he passed out drunk in the carpark and the kitchen girls placed road cones around his long lanky frame so one of the drunk miners wouldn’t reverse over him.

Last night I dreamed that I was stuck in a house with giant trap door spiders in all the nooks and crannies. If you have never seen a trap door spider they resemble a black armoured land crab complete with oversized fangs and a sinister attitude that conjurs up all sorts of horrid thoughts.

4:03am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy4NAxOt
April 2, 2011

There were seven of us in Brisbane. Three Englishmen, three New Zealanders and a Greek. We sat around a table at a some generic riverside bar near Eagle Street, sipping beer and eating overpriced pasta and pizza. Steve the Teessider and myself didn’t order. A mixed variety of ex pats choosing to live in this strange, foreign land to take advantage of its vast mineral wealth and big money life style.

Then there were three of us. Steve, Sam and I decided to head to the Valley for one last drink. Being from the north of England I often have trouble understanding what they’re saying. It comes out rapidly. A disasterous mixture of Manc and Teesside gibberish. We sat at a table outside Ric’s Bar, a place I was somewhat familiar with, sipping Super Dry beer and listening to Pavement and New Order. We were joined by another Brit, who stopped and asked us for a cigarette. She was from somewhere outside New Castle I believe, but I’m unsure because I wasn’t listening. Why is every second person I meet in Brisbane a vegetarian? She was complaining about some Christians that were preaching to her on the street, claiming she had argued with them for at least an hour. Now, the best way to deal with a loud atheist is to simply ask them why the Big Bag theory is more relevant than Genesis, or pretend you’re a hardcore Christian and start preaching right back to them. This will throw them off and confuse them. All her hopes and dreams of an intelligent sanctuary in the heart of Queensland were shattered in an instant, and she left feeling defeated.

Being the gentleman that I am I decided to walk her home. She was hungry so she order something from Hungry Jacks. This chick was so fucking British that she ordered a burger bun with cheese, fries and tomato sauce. That’s it. If I were to slash open her wrists or maybe her neck I wouldn’t be at all surprised if HP sauce or Earl Grey tea gushed out instead of blood. While she was eating her chip sandwich a rotten bat thought it would be hilarious to shit on my new Ben Sherman shirt. Today I discovered one of my favourite television shows, Mad Men, is getting another three seasons. Three extra seasons of Draper’s hair and Joan has made me very happy.

12:37am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy3_u0z_
(Notes: 1)
  
March 30, 2011
Your Party

There were beverages laid out for the party
There were candy and spices and tricolored pastas
The meat carved was drawn from succulent juices
Served on platters of the purest gold
I was calm when we arrived at the party
I spoke with fervor, embracing the evening
My wife leaned over and she whispered ‘I love you’
I held her close - we danced

- Ween, Your Party

The rain has returned. I have been without work for two weeks. All play and no work has left me bored to tears. There is only so much you can do in Brisbane. I have enough money to hang around the city, but not quite enough to explore far north Queensland, which I was supposed to do months ago.

My flatmate threw a party last Saturday night to celebrate her 22nd birthday. What a party it was. There must have been more than a hundred people. My flatmates spent all day preparing the house for the event. I watched them work like highly efficient bees, while I sat on the front steps smoking drum and sipped a giant frozen coke. The birthday girl made an impressive dip out of feta and pumpkin. This was quickly devoured by starved, dreaded Germans in giant brown trousers. I clearly remember a man at the party who looked exactly like the character Bob from Twin Peaks, and another dude who was a spitting image of Stephen Malkmus. The acid tabs in Australia are just big square bits of brown cardboard, about the size of a large post stamp. The wine, punch and Sangria flowed. One of the big downside of living in West End is that the place is packed to the brim with annoying hippies. I had nothing against hippies until I moved here. I’ve managed to meet a few babes in West End, only to immediately lose interest when I discover they don’t shave their legs or armpits. This is unacceptable. Call me a pig all you want, but I expect a basic grooming standard. I went for a walk through the house and discovered birthday girl with a head full of acid, coke and Sangria. She looked like a Greek goddess with her white cotton dress and weird headband thing and danced like one too. My mood plummeted when I discovered that some povo, desperate hippy annihilated my unopened pack of Kingston biscuits that were sitting on my shelf. If they were caught in the act I would have throw the fucker straight out the window. I have been listening to lots of Biggie Smalls, The Specials and Toots and the Maytals. You should have seen the look on the hippies’ faces when they asked me what I listen to. I replied, “skinhead music”.

The Malaysian/Indian restaurant just down the road does my favourite breakfast, Roti canai, every Saturday and Sunday morning. Roti canai is a sweet flatbread usually served with a chicken curry soup. I used to get it every week at Satay Kingdom in Wellington in my first year of university. I would sit down at their cheap, plastic tables with a Bundaburg ginger beer and my Roti, freezing to death in that little alleyway. I’d like to think that I miss Wellington, but I don’t. The weather is lousy and my friends there were all batshit insane. I miss the food more than anything else. Curly fries and peanut butter milkshakes at Sweet Mothers Kitchen, sloppy wedges and cheap beer at some generic Irish pub on Cuba Street. The cafe next to Satay Kingdom made the best tropical chicken burgers known to man and some fairly excellent thickshakes too. Free pool and loose babes that studied design at Massey University. In those days I used to shave my head and wear a black peacoat with these awesome lace up boots. Being 18 in New Zealand’s capital of culture and cool was pretty fun. Then I moved to Dunedin and forgot all about Wellington.

6:04am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy3wj2sR
(Notes: 1)
  
March 22, 2011
West End

I awake in the heat of the night. The clucking of the geckos echo through the corridor. A truck drives past and the house shakes. My room is everything I expected. Old, slightly smelly and a little bit mouldy. An invasive vine has grown through my window onto the ceiling, partially turning my room into a jungle. Skinks, with nothing but fear on their mind, scatter across the wooden floor between rooms. It’s a wild place, but it’s my place. I have finally settled in Australia. Brisbane’s West End is like a combination of K-Road and Sandringham for those who have never been here. Indian, vegan and Greek restaurants line the roads, along with dozens of ultrahip coffee shops. This is the kind of place I can relax while on R&R. Work has been pushed back another week due to the rain. Watching a 30 tonne truck sink on a deceptively dry track is a worrying sight. We’ll need at least a full week of sunshine before I can return to that rotten place that is central Queensland. For the last week I have been settling into my new flat. I spend most of my days reading and walking around Brisbane. I made a trip to Queensland’s wonderful Sunshine coast only to discover there was no sunshine. All I found was a sad, depressing mall and a tropical rainstorm. I decided to head further south to Australia zoo, home of Steve Irwin, the crocodile hunter. I thought if I threw a tennis ball hard enough at Bindi Irwin’s head, mid croc show, she would stumble right into a set of giant reptile jaws. There is no sin in exterminating the living incarnation of Satan. However, the further south I headed the storm intensified. There was no use paying $58, so I headed back to Brisbane. It was a hugely successful round trip of doing nothing but waiting for trains and buses.

I arrive back in Brisbane only to discover Mauricio “Shogun” Rua was defeated by Jon “Bones” Jones via a barrage of strikes (a nasty uppercut to the body followed by a knee to the head) in the third round. Shogun didn’t have a chance. With Shogun’s defeat Jones become the youngest champion ever in the UFC. In 2005 Shogun took the MMA world by storm when he blasted through Pride’s middleweight Gran Prix, at the tender age of 23. Now Jones, 23, took the title from Shogun with little trouble, using his massive 85 inch reach to keep Shogun’s wild strikes at bay, eventually taking him down and wearing him out with vicious elbows and punches. The last of Pride’s heroes has fallen, the sport is forever changed. Memories of Pride are now a blur. New fans will dismiss it as an old gimmick, a Japanese promotion that put on pointless freak shows that spent its way into bankruptcy and into the welcoming arms of Zuffa.

5:28am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy3lhnA-
March 9, 2011
hungover amphibians

Bleeeergh

But I am le tired…

4:08am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZSiRFy3UwLve
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