A Night at Applebee's; Part 2: UPC

When my fellow intellectuals and I reached Applebee’s we found a table with a clear view of the television so that we could watch the Ultimate Fighting Championship. I took the one chair at the table with its back to the fights. I have a hard time watching UFC fights. I don’t mind the blood and the punching. What I’m afraid of is the (very real) possibility that I might witness a limb being broken or dislocated. The thought of it makes me queasy.

So I sat looking at the various bits of Americana on the walls: a very beat up saxophone, a bicycle with square wheels, a picture of Flip Wilson, etcetera, and I started to think of ways that I would improve UFC. I decided that I would add poetry.

Now, I don’t want to suggest some sort of beatnik poetry slam where the audience snaps their fingers after the poem is read. This would still have two fighters facing off- mano a mano- in the ring. They could still be shirtless and sweaty. I might even keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. Actually, I would definitely keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. The only difference is that the fighters would have to subdue their opponents using only poetry.

There would be no rules. Fighters could use limericks, haiku, epigrams- whatever they choose. The poems wouldn’t even have to rhyme (honestly, I don’t think you’re bringin’ anybody down without a rhyming poem… but, I digress). The poetry would only have to be profound… violently profound.

In honor of my new idea, I thought I would kick things off with this English (Shakspearean) Sonnet:

I’m going to slam your face into the floor.
Then thrust elbow and hit you with the point.
I’ll punch you ‘til even your friends are sore.
And prob’bly pull your arm right out of joint.
I’ll kick your leg; maybe invert your knee
I’ll “accidently” sock you in the groin.
With left eye swollen ‘til you cannot see
You’ll be tenderized like a fine sirloin
And when you’re down, I’ll still each flailing limb
I’ll wrench them backward while you cringe and wince
Just when you think things could not be more grim
I’ll tighten up; I’m bad, I do not mince.
You get in the ring with this rhyming chap
You’ll only get out of it with a tap.


That’s right… I just iambic pentametered your heinie.