I have had three guns pulled on me in my lifetime.
Once by a buddy in the Special Forces.
At 3AM, I accidentally slept-walked into his master bath, needing to see a man about a horse.
The second time, was by a friend in The Business who needed to “Help me understand” and make sure his message was thoroughly engrained.
(Enter a guess as to his identity in the comment section below.)
The third time, my very own attorney pulled a gun on me.
And as the Irish proverb goes….. the third times the charm.
February 13, 2016
AW’s 21st Birthday Party….
I announce, while pointing a laser thermometer at my attorney’s forehead.
Some laugh. Others don’t.
If the Dragons Den has taught me anything, it’s that my jokes are funnier when people are paid to laugh at them.
My attorney, a known Irishman, pulled a Sig Sauer from his coat pocket and pointed back at me with a laser of his own.
I froze, contemplated my existence and ducked behind a file cabinet.
Even though my attorney no longer practices the art of law, he remains, at all times, prepared to enact swift country justice.
This calms me.
Who ever gave my attorney a conceal to carry permit deserves an award.
The attorney (name redacted by editor) holstered his weapon and the party limped back to life awkwardly.
I rose from behind cover, looked down and realized,
“I am wearing a Hunter Thompson for Sheriff t-shirt.”
In my head, I file this under “Preposterous”….
February 22, 2016
My disdain for the Irish began at thirty.
By blood, I am half Irish.
In spite of my racial handicap, I identify as Mexican.
Is it that….
A. I speak fluent Spanish.
B. I work in Ag.
C. My great-great-great grandfather Joseph B. Chiles, was granted Mexican Citizenship in 1844
D. I love with my beautiful Mexican girlfriend.
E. All the above
If you answered E, you are correct…
You win a Dolores Huerta T-shirt.
¡Si se puede!
I hate to be a turncoat Irishman, but I don’t even drink. Subtracting liquor from the Irish diet dilutes your inherent Irishness.
Like starving a fire of air.
I didn’t even want to bring race into the equation in the first place.
What’s this Fenian’s agenda?
I’ve seen propaganda like this before.
Did McGoebbells want to solve the Blonde-Burnette problem?
Trump the new führer!
A disturbing pattern indeed.
The Fourth Reich was upon us.
If you subjugate a sub-sect of the world long enough, eventually, they will rise to challenge you.
Allow me to explain….
Rafael dos Anjos, UFC lightweight champion, broke his foot in preparation for his upcoming fight against Irish Megastar Connor “The Notorious” McGregor at UFC 196.
Leaving a vacancy, I knew only one man could fill.
We needed our own final solution.
We needed to fight propaganda with more propaganda.
We needed our own Winston Churchill.
And when Dana White announced McGoebbell’s next opponent on ESPN that night, I knew we had the man we needed.
And they call that man……
“Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive from Hollywood to Las Vegas … with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.”-Hunter S. Thompson
March 4. 2016
My trip to Las Vegas would not resemble outlaw journalist Hunter S. Thompson’s savage journey , in the least.
No attorney wildly waving a gun at me.
I did, however, have a fine drug collection.
I had one bottle of Alpha Brain, 90 pills of Shroom-tech sport, five pills of 3mg extra strength melatonin, fish oil, 5-htp, ZMA’s, Vitamin D, a gallon Ziploc bag full of sweet potatoes(Thanks Miller! #QuailHFarms), a bag of protein, a jug of Bulletproof Brain Octane MCT Oil and a can of Glutamine. .
Not that I needed that, but once you’ve fallen victim to Joe Rogan’s clever marketing, the tendency is to push it as far as you can go.
Imagine having to explain the practical uses of glutamine powder to U.S. Border Patrol.
Imagine a cinder block interrogation room …..
Flourecent lights ……
One ominous drain on the center of the floor…..
Imagine one cop putting on latex gloves …..
The other cop telling you to put your hands against the wall ….
Imagine having to mentally prepare yourself for a cavity search….
Imagine THAT feeling….
You’d think once you’ve experienced THAT FEELING….
I’d stop driving around with what amounts to a supplement lab in my backseat….
But common sense has never been my thing…..
Lack of common sense is WHY I needed to remind myself, why I hated Las Vegas….
I hate Vegas because I haven’t left a winner since playing hooky, super senior year with a known Cherry exporter.
This was, of course, before he blocked me on Facebook for reasons that will soon become obvious to the reader.
Telling someone “My dads cluster cutter can beat up your dad’s cluster cutter” is grounds for unfriending someone in the Cherry Business.
My second favorite brother, AW, was set to arrive in Vegas at High Noon.
He had “class” at Modesto JC (Dr. Gonzo’ s Alma Mater).
AW would never play hooky for a last second Vegas trip.
I don’t train drop….
Nate Diaz taught me that….
But AW and I have been “training” Jiu Jitsu with the Diaz Brothers under Black Belt Instructor Randy Spence since 2013.
I say “training”, but I mean learning to survive.
Learning Jiu Jitsu has been a deeply stoic/savage exercise in violence and humility.
Sadly, by training there, I have incurred a lot of negative feedback from the landed gentry of my hometown.
Nothing strikes fear in the heart of a Boomer Fox News enthusiast more than two cage fighters with more money than they can realistically spend and no real reason to fear any person or thing that walks around < 200 lbs…
Boiled down to their essence, the Diaz Brothers are two hard working athletes with the courage to tell the truth, who enjoy the occasional Marijuana cigarette.
Nothing to fear really…..
Unless you have to fight them.
March 4, 2016.
MGM Sports Book.
My attorney once told me,
“In blackjack or life: DON’T HIT ON 17.”
This advice would serve me well because AW looks like a cross between Justin Beiber and Human Growth Hormone.
Put simply, if I had his body, I wouldn’t own a shirt.
Once AW arrived, we made a beeline for the sports book.
For reasons still unknown, AW chose to do two separate ATM transactions.
When asked why, AW replied,
Nate Diaz was the +450 underdog, going into this welterweight bout.
Training partners of ours, were all betting the under.
One friend, in an attempt to channel the stoner gods, bet $420 on Nate Diaz.
AW put $200 on Nate Diaz.
When asked why,
“I have big Conejos.”
(English Translation: I have big rabbits.)
That’s the great thing about AW.
He combines, in beautiful measure, actual stupidity with feigned stupidity. You never know which is which.
I ended up parlaying a consequential amount of money on Thatch, Tate and Nate.
Which would have netted me THREE large, off an initial investment of $100, but the Nevada State Athletic Commission didn’t allow Thatch, the notorious party animal, into the octagon on ecstasy, thus losing me my initial investment….
I knew that McGoebells never faced anyone with Nate’s Boxing and Jiu jitsu pedigree. Plus the fight was at 170.
For me, it should’ve been easy money.
But I would never tell anyone what to do with his or her money.
No room for risk in the Cherry business.
Plus, I prefer to prophesize after the event has taken place.
Just like Churchill.
March 4, 2016.
UFC 196 Weigh-ins
Through dumb luck, we passed Nate Diaz on his way back from cutting weight..
He invited us up to his room, and gave us a couple of the most comfortable t-shirts I own.
AW tried to find a youth small, but had to settle for bulging out of an adult medium.
Not sure how I could re-pay such a generous gesture, especially to someone who just got done cutting weight ahead of the biggest fight of his career.
If I were in his shoes I wouldn’t be in any mood to be generous with my energy.
But that spirit of generosity is why Nate is, as Roosevelt said, “…in the arena marred by dust and sweat and blood,” and I am in the stands.
Ten minutes later, I found myself being escorted with AW and the posse, through the bowels of the MGM, up to the weigh-ins.
As we entered the arena, I noticed more Irish fans than feral pigs in Texas.
If you leave a domesticated pig in the wild, it takes six short weeks for them to grow tusks, long hair and become fully feral.
The same logic applies to Irish fans.
It takes just two beers and they grow tusks and start acting like wild pigs.
If my swine reference doesn’t translate, I’ll put it to you this way:
“The Irish were in no mood to see Diaz supporters.”
They expressed that sentiment by hurling unintelligible insults in a drunken mix of Gaelic and English that none of understood.
After AW and I watched the weigh-ins, we spent the rest of the night either running into comedian Tony Hinchcliffe or knee deep in various other forms of debauchery
March 5, 2016.
MGM Grand Garden Arena.
“History is written by the victors.”
Churchill said that.
He was half-American, half-English.
Churchill’s money would be on Diaz.
He loved a man who grinned while he fought, he loved the underdog and hated the Irish for crimes against the crown.
At the fight, our third Wilson brother, Manmountainthird joined us, fresh off a “Corporate Retreat” near San Quentin…
AW, Manmountainthird and I arrived to the fights early.
We felt like Hunter Thompson at the DA’s conference.
Totally out of place.
Three of us, in Nate Diaz Represent T-shirts, swimming in a sea of White and Orange and Green and Ginger.
Even the chairs at the MGM were lime green.
I saw about thirty Nate Diaz fans, in a stadium of 17,000….
Statistically, we were the Spartans at Thermopolaye.
Yet, instead of Persians, they were Irishmen.
I started googling derogatory terms for the Irish, just in case we needed fodder for smack talk, but the Irish fans were corgile compared to the savages at the weigh-ins.
Apparently paying > $300 a ticket has a marked effect on your behavior.
The fights began and I quickly lost money on my parlay because Thatch got strangled by Afgani Siyar Bahadurzada.
During the Holm-Tate fight, a buddy of ours, Layzie, walked out of the tunnel.
He snuck in with his camera equipment, but without a ticket.
There was an empty seat next to us the entire night, so we prompted him to come sit with us.
Because Layzie was wearing a matching Represent shirt, the usher didn’t even check for a ticket.
He sat next to us, in one of the best seats in the house at the biggest UFC of all time…..for FREE!
You truly are a Savage, Layzie.
After the Holm-Tate fight, Gunnar Nelson, McGoebbell’s jiu-jitsu training partner and ADCC standout, walked by us in a finely tailored suit.
“Gunni!” I announce.
Forgetting that this man was technically a Persian at the gates.
Gunnar looked at me confused.
“Why does this Diaz fan want to shake my hand?” probably ran through his head.
I am just a Jiu-Jitsu fanboy, but Gunnar didn’t know that.
He extended his hand. I shook it.
We share a moment.
It was then, when I looked deeply into his Nordic Blue Eyes , I realized…
NATE DIAZ was going to win!
There was hesitation in his soul.
Awkwardness in his posture.
As Gunnar walked away, thoroughly shaken from our interaction, the lights dimmed, piano keys banged and Tupac’s voice boomed over the loud speakers.
Nate Diaz came on the big screen and made his entrance.
In my mind, the fight was a forgone conclusion.
I leaned into AW and told him, “I feel like Nathan is going to win. I don’t know how. But I feel like he will.”
Nate Diaz was on what Robert Greene calls “Death Ground”.
Meaning Diaz had nothing to lose.
McGoebbell’s walkout music was a remix with Sinead O’connor’s Foggy Dew and The Game’s El Chapo.
A thought provoking choice of music.
Connor, if you’ve read this far….
A. Congratulations! I have trouble listening to myself ramble for this long.
B. If you are going to pretend to be “El Chapo”, don’t be surprised when you get caught.
When Diaz and McGoebbell touched gloves, I noticed Nick Diaz, Nate’s older brother, standing in the breezeway of the tunnel.
He approached us, shook all of our hands, and in typical Nick Diaz enigmatic fashion, returned to his place in the tunnel.
Even though I was confident Diaz would win and that he was the better fighter, seeing his brother right next to me made me think to myself:
“Man…I really hope Nate doesn’t get hurt.”
It was then I realized a clear and distinct difference between; watching a friend fight on TV versus watching a friend fight in person.
In person, they are no longer a caricature, but a human.
It humanized McGregor too.
The fight itself was a blur.
I clearly remember Diaz landing a one-two combination, stuffing a takedown, mounting and transitioning to McGregor’s back.
Lethargy put his arm around me and started jumping up and down yelling,
“Holysh*t! HolySh*t! HolySh*t!”
A surge of adrenaline washed over me.
I felt like I was chewing on Pineal Gland.
This was what Hunter Thompson called “The Heart of the American Dream.”
I turned to the crowd of mostly McGregor fans, and started yelling “Stockton! What! Stockton!” …
Time slowed down as Diaz sank in the rear naked and McGregor tapped.
I looked to my left, a mosh pit had formed around Nick Diaz.
Layzie turned to me…hugged me and shouted some thing unitelligble.
The next few memories are jumbled mix of flashes of high-fiving Alistair Overheem and Edmund Tarverydan, hugging Tyron Woodley and Julianna Pena and hurling insults at the Irish.
Sometimes I wonder about the tactical decision to flash gang signs at a crowd of drunk Irishman who just lost their William Wallace.
But in that moment, I didn’t care.
Nate Diaz, had just become the most famous man in the fastest growing sport in the world.
Thank you Nate, not only Representing the 209, but for single handedly preventing the Gingerpocalypse.