Quinton "Rampage" Jackson is one bad, bad, hombre. He's actually here in town this week for his upcoming fight against Keith "The Dean of Mean" Jardine, so if you have children or small pets, you should probably keep them inside until at least Monday morning. Now, Jardine is no slouch and is capable of beating the very best of opponents on any given day- as he has shown in the past. But Saturday night in Columbus, Ohio will he be able to deliver the goods against Jackson? If I were a gambler, I'd put my money on Jackson. But it would still be a gamble.
Rampage and Jardine are both just lucky they aren't slated to meet my wife in the cage anytime soon. While she's an amateur with no actual fights on her record, I have no doubt that she would cake walk through both fighters. Simultaneously probably.
Let me offer my analysis of said match-up. Rampage and the Dean each bring an obvious abundance of experience, skill and physical power to the conflict. But aside from decades of training in the arts of hand to hand combat, hundreds of hours of preparation with the sport's most accomplished camps, and the 70-80 pound weight advantage , what chance would they really stand? Slim to none.
We've got four kids. Out oldest is home schooled and has an attention span of about four seconds, the next has a chronic auto immune disease for which he takes multiple medications including steroids and thus experiences the related emotional swings, our two year old princess is a destroyer of worlds who just happens to have the flu this week and then there is our one month old daughter who is currently engaged in the following regiment- eat, poop, scream, eat, poop, scream, eat, poop, scream, brief nap, repeat until insane. And my wife endures this training pattern without a break, seven days a week. Now you tell me, what is Rampage going to do to equal that kind of abuse? What's he going to do? Seriously, what? Punch her in the face? Kick her in the stomach? Ooooh! That's so scary. Puh-leeze. She's been kicked before. For nine months straight. Four times. That's 36 months of being kicked. FROM THE INSIDE! Do you understand what I'm talking about here?
Whatever he does, he's not going to make her teach him the multiplication tables while bouncing a screaming infant on one hip and breaking up an altercation over a barbie doll between a four year old with roid rage and a two year old with pig-tails, a fever and a mean-streak like a chupacabra. Whatever submissions he attempts, it's never going to equal the will breaking, life sapping routine of trouncing up the stairs eighteen times a night to wipe snot from the nose of a crying toddler, delivering twelve glasses of water to three different children who were SUPPOSE to be asleep hours ago, enduring seven to eight unbroken years of changing diapers, wiping bottoms, and wrestling each child to the ground in order to get them to EAT SOMETHING- (which is something I once thought the natural inborn survival instinct compelled all living creatures to do- I was wrong). This one just eats macaroni. This one, yogurt. This one whatever you're NOT cooking for dinner and this one, quite literally only wants to suck the LIFE ENERGY straight out of your flesh like the most darling little pink vampire you've ever seen.
Seriously. What would Jardine or Rampage bring to the cage that my wife wouldn't laugh at? And she would laugh. But not at the fight. She'd be laughing into the telephone nestled between her neck and her shoulder, deep in conversation with some long-distance friend- all the while only barely aware of the large muscular man who's blacking-out in a head-lock death grip under her right arm. And bouncing a baby on her hip with the left.
