Don't Ban the Bomb

Oh, say, can you see?

A pay-per-view sporting event will never be my idea of a great way to spend a Saturday night, but when you have an out-of-town guest, sometimes a person has to make this sort of sacrifice. This was how I found myself at Beer Goggles for Ultimate Fighting Championship 69.

"It's the next-best thing to being there," Brant exclaimed when I agreed to watch the fights with him at the newly opened sports bar, formerly a JJ Muggs.

Arriving half an hour before the tournament in which the World Welterweight Championship would be decided, Brant used his many years of martial arts training to explain the rules of engagement — basically, a mixed martial arts free-for-all. As far as the bar's events go, I would have preferred the beach barbeque and pig roast a week earlier or even the acoustic entertainment on Thursday nights, but this was my introduction to the west Lake Worth joint.

Tony Gleeson

Our late arrival meant that all the tables in front of the 128-inch flat-screen TV were taken, and so were the high-tops directly behind them and all the seats at the bar. We spotted a friend, Chris, at a table way in the back. Actually, that was a good thing. From that vantage, I could size up the crowd and reflect on the ball cap as fashion accessory. And Chris and Brant could see the fight on more TV screens (the place has 20).

But first, there was important business to attend to: attitude and ambience adjustment. We ordered beers, and I unscrewed the glaring light bulb in the hanging lamp over our table. At least the surgical-quality lighting let me know the place was clean. That accomplished, I turned my attention to the menu. Spotting a PBSO burger, I assumed it was a reference to the sheriff's office. I took a guess: a bacon burger served on donut halves? Nope. The letters were just an acronym for peanut butter and sautéed onions. An Elvis delicacy? Yuck.

As the main event approached, the pre-fight hype became increasingly loud, so I ordered a Jäger bomb to help take the edge off my assailed senses.

"The louder you get, the louder the TV gets," the DJ reprimanded us as he patrolled the room with a cordless mic.

What? And stop Brant from weighing the merits of the contenders? Prevent Chris from loudly debating the supremacy of yellow versus white cheese (Goggles uses the former) on a Philly cheese steak? I hadn't even come up with an exit strategy or a backup plan. I was so cranky, I said no to the kid with the galvanized bucket full of raffle tickets.

When the first round began, so did the savagery. Blood spattered the canvas like it was a Jackson Pollock painting. A "piece of meat," as man's man announcer Joe Rogan (also the Fear Factor host) called it, was hanging from one guy's head. My stomach twinged and I turned away, covering my face with my hands. Time for another beer-and-Jäger combo.

"What are we? Fucking Romans?" I objected as the crowd enthusiastically cheered the bludgeoning.

Brant offered reassurances: "The referee will stop it when the guy can't intelligently defend himself."

Like when he's choked unconscious. Just a minute later, the guy lost "by submission," meaning he'd passed out when the blood stopped flowing to his brain. As I gazed into my beer as if its malted wisdom could tell me the difference between being civilized and being weak, I wondered: Why did the warrior instincts thrive in some and wither in others?

Chris and Brant delved deeper, questioning the alleged "high-def" of various monitors in the place.

"Maybe some of the TVs are fuzzy because you need beer goggles to see them correctly," Brant speculated.

Nothing like a seductive server with an enticing tray of glowing blue beakers to distract us. The tousled blond tart dropped shots of Jäger, shot glass and all, into beakers of blue energy drink. The combination began to smoke; this more dramatic and colorful version of a Jäger bomb lifted my spirits immediately.

I hardly minded the second match. In fact, Brant's use of such sexy terminology as "lay and pray" and "ground and pound" made me giggle like a middle schooler.

"Thank God you haven't seen the 'north and south' position," Brant joked.

That was my cue to take my beer outside. Among the smokers, I met a cute blond kid with plenty of jock charisma. His backward ball cap put a star logo in the middle of his forehead, like a modern twist on Dr. Seuss' star-bellied sneech. Six years as a martial arts instructor, Stephen was saying, hadn't prepared him for the consequences of hustling pool in another state. You can't hustle a hustler.

"Feel this," he said, pressing my fingers into his shoulder, which he rotated so it went pop, pop, grind.

"My buddy was down on money, so I was like 'I'll get it for you,'" Stephen recalled of his experience in North Carolina. His would-be victims showed him some country justice. "They taught me a lesson. You can't shoot if your shoulder is shot."

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