Okay, we all know Matt’s on thin ice, right? Well, it doesn’t take long before the perplexed Dana takes Kimbo – recently declared arthritic – aside to grill him over the possibility of his return. Given recent events (and his own feelings) the big man turns it down, finally ending speculation and bringing his season to a close.

Matt has a heart-to-heart with his doctor, which doesn’t change Rashad’s mind about the former’s cowardice.

Hectic training precedes an earth-shaking revelation: a detached retina suffered in his fight with Matt earlier on in the season may be a career-ender for Scott Junk. Seriously now, where’s the justice in the world? The guy who actually wants to win; isn’t willing to play on his bad luck as an excuse for sympathy; refuses to quit, and shows some maturity has to bow out – while the guy that doesn’t deserve to be in it put him there?! The guy who expects not only us, but himself, to believe a good sleep will cure a concussion?

What are we, stupid? That’s got to hurt.

Marcus – one of Scott’s closest friends – has a homicidal bitch fit on Matt in response. ‘Course, Big Baby may just have jumped the gun: Roy, Kimbo and a sunglass-sporting Scott exchange jubilant fist-bumps post commercial break. Whither the source of their happiness?

Apparently the injury isn’t a career ender at all, but it’ll put Junk out of commission for two months.

Better than the alternative.

The usual locking of eyes pre-fight ends as McSweeney pushes Matt backward in a localized explosion of anger and forbearance of things to come. On fight day, possibly as a result, Team Rashad’s pariah gets a drive to the gym by himself. We can never be too careful.

Matt and James square off in the third quarterfinal fight, first round of which sees the tattooed Briton going crazy with his feet, but not connecting that much. Our rat didn’t seem like he was really doing anything either, although he DID capitalize on a couple of missed kicks. None of that would prove to save him, though, since Matt tapped out on his back with a minute and a half to spare in R1 due to choke hold.

And with that, thankfully, the two-faced little bitch is out of the running; James gets to prove the destructive force behind the verbal knives hurled at Matt last episode.

Justice, thy name is guillotine.

New commercial, new fight day, and better fight: Marcus Jones gets to lock horns with Darrill. They prepare, step into the Octagon, and get to roll around with each other on the mat for a full two minutes, by the end of which Darrill seems to be positively afraid of Jones, backing away like in front of a wild animal. And we all see Big Baby can fight – he wins the round shortly after that, earning the adulation of both Rashad and Dana.

Decisions come in near the end of the first hour on semifinal matches: Roy Nelson fights Matt’s worst nightmare; Brendan gets to take out (or be taken out by) Marcus.

Head honchos argue once more, and we take five until the end of the hour when gigantic stuffed animals play a role in yet another Team Rampage prank. This one, creatively enough, involves paint rollers and disco balls. Wes, following up on the nth in a series of playful joshes and soul crushing blows at the house, clues us in on what we knew all along: some people are just too trusting. Others – especially due to the rise of moral relativism and New Age spirituality – take the “unconstrained vision” postulated by Tom Sowell to an even higher extreme: failing to recognize anything but the greatest good, to their own peril.

Team Rashad discovers one of the deeds in question – which makes the Barbie dollhouse look like a G.I. Joe play set – and actually takes it in stride. The fighters sweat in practice until our next break, after which Zak J. attracts the ire of McSweeney. We then are treated to the sight of Jensen’s claustrophobia being exploited in the easiest way possible – with wooden objects.

This, although not the best tack, provides the oomph needed for the house’s resident diary keeper to get off his ass and start sticking up for himself.

Before long, Roy and James are front-row participants in their own match up. Neither of them have the popcorn, but that’s OK – it’s replaced by McSweeney’s chin, being soaked by the butter and lard that is Big Country’s fist. This, of course, results in an easy win for Roy just after the one minute mark.

Where’s the microwave?

Next square-dance, that of the coaches staring each other down. Then, a whole bunch of other stuff flies past our radar and we’re taken to the second semi-final fight between Jones and 4-0 CU alumni Schaub. First round is taken to the mat in blazing-fast speed by Marcus, who keeps Brendan under his thumb until the close of the third minute, after which the man rebounds quickly and pounds the living dirt out of Big Baby for twenty more seconds.

Jones’ luck expires and the fight is stopped: The B-man pulls the “W” out of thin air.

And this, needless to say, results in Rampage swallowing his heart. I probably don’t want to know what it was doing in his mouth in the first place.

Guess this means Brendan and Roy will headline the Evans-Jackson feud at the Palms this weekend. And if the guy with the worst physique in sports loses the brawl, I’m sure there are always other venues willing to pick him up.

Such as the Biggest Loser campus.

The Statue of Liberty replica of “New York, New York” is among the landmarks greeting us in the opening – a fitting televised intro for a day on which we remember the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines who sweat blood for the ideals represented by its big sister.

Before our first ten minutes are up, Rashad comes to grips with his new role coaching seven fighters to beat the snot out of each other; then, he tries to tread the razor-thin line between that and favoritism. It’s a wonder he’s still managing to keep his wits about him after nine episodes of this stuff.

In addition to the Rat’s having fulfilled his drama queen quota for the month on the drive back to the house, other symptoms such as dry heaving, headache and dizziness lead Brendan to speculate on the possibility of Matt’s having a concussion. It was to that end Matt ripped forth the understatement of the century, that his concussion made him “stupid for a little while.”

Only a little?

Come on, if brain health were the sole causal factor for stupidity, I wager he’s incurred more cranial cracking in the past than Commie destroyer and one-man missile shield Rocky Balboa.

Team Rashad enters the gym minus the inpatient Matt. To that end, the coaches schedule Kimbo’s return amid the invasion of Sugar’s car by Team Rampage’s . . . well . . . cocks. Five smelly, nasty #2 machines that are – in short order – chased around the Ultimate Fighter parking lot for their beaks, which are a delicacy on whatever alien planet Roy comes from.

They were going to give them to Animal Control, but upon suggestion, said walking BBQ will now be sent to an unnamed slaughterhouse somewhere in the Arizona desert — where shady fast food companies will chop their heads and feet off, pump a bunch of drugs down their throats and give them gamma-ray treatments so they can grow bigger than a Popeye’s spicy chicken meal.

Stuff that up your exhaust pipe, PETA.

Back to the house again. Matt comes back, the Project plays the old 20 Questions game upon his re-entry, and before long Dana springs in on the fighters to outline Matt’s fate – he will fight if given approval from the guys in white lab coats.

Scott volunteers to fight in lieu of Matt, even while sporting a huge injury to his eye area. Now that’s perseverance!

The day’s two fighters – life long friends Justin Wren and Roy Nelson – train again, weigh in soon follows. Dana confirms what we’ve known all along: that in spite of the above relationship, no one loves Roy Nelson more than Roy does.

Shortly after Big Country kills the scale, the time for our scrapfest to commence rolls around:

Nelson swings his big gut around for a while, holds his mouth open like a retard, then gets forced back against the side by a flurry of punches @ 4:12. The ring lacks any sort of action from that point until the three minute mark, on which we get to view more of the Mississippian’s fast moving arms. It seems like he’s mostly been controlling the Octagon this round, but remember: Roy is the unabashed master of all that lives. If he wanted, he could simply stretch out his arm, do that thing Darth Vader did in the Star Wars movies and choke Justin’s life out of him. Okay, snark off. Back to the fight.

Is it just me, or do I hear Justin hyperventilating?

First round in the can, second coming up. Or is this part two of Round One? Nothing’s really changed. Roy seems to like those leg kicks but that’s about it.

Fight over, and Justin’s corner seems to be pretty confident that he won.

20-18, 19-19 and 20-18 for . . . Roy and his Texas-size ego? Give me a break!

Well, it could be worse. I’m glad we at least didn’t see Big Country massage his gut and flash a broken Buckwheat smile like he did after his IFL victory over Brad Imes. That would have been enough to make me reach for the brown bag Wren may as well have been puffing into.

That was the final verdict of last week’s Ultimate Fighter episode, which left a bad taste in the mouths of a lot of people – as the episode opens, we get to see construction material be murdered all over again and split into three huge pieces surrounded by just enough microscopic detritus to make a jigsaw puzzle out of.

Rampage, that kind of destruction is not “disgusted,” that’s “booking a reservation at the crowbar hotel,” for which more than a few NFL stars must possess VIP status.

But that doesn’t matter. We could fill a whole webserver with the rap sheets of Pacman Jones et als., but if we were to do that we wouldn’t be able to bring you the good stuff.

Tonight, the Ultimate Fighter house brought us a rattling of Matt’s brain which was commemorated by the Project in a fashion similar to the late night Burger King commercials. The Ultimate Fighter gym, not far behind, brought us Rampage’s single-minded obsession and his team’s first exercise of the episode.

We rejoin the house mates with another moment in the rumpus room of blood: Wren swats the hell out of a scorpion, or spider, or . . . whatever it was, as Marcus does his best impression of the cockroach-phobic Channel 6 weatherman, to what we can decidedly infer as his embarrassment. This, he tries to compensate for further on into the episode.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not personally in the habit of playing Freud, and try to steer away from the role of armchair psychiatrist as often as I can. I don’t like telling people what they’re thinking, because like the Austrian, I too can be wrong. But that was too good to pass up.

Mike writes an emotional letter to the cancer-stricken wife he left in Slick Willy’s home state, after which a Team Rashad training session gets underway. Ever the student, Mike practices fiercely and avails himself of advice given by his coaches for a while.

This man has the eye of the tiger and the hunger of Rosie O’Donnell: a figurative lust for victory, one that spares the buffet table its wrath.

Brendan and James, post-Jackson PT, engage in some good-natured nightly ribbing of Marcus. The big baby (who looked as though he was going to cry seeing the pictures drawn of him) responded by bringing to the UFC’s protracted interview process a zero tolerance policy that would make Cub Scouts toting all-purpose sporks wince. I can understand wanting to spare your family and children from viewing your unnecessary murder in the ring, but I give Marcus’ rationale – on the whole – as much credit as I could throw him with.

If your kids were watching the show, M.J., it’s very likely they’d forget the offense tomorrow and love you in spite of who thinks you suck balls.

Marcus and Kimbo are beginning to have more in common than initially thought: the sponge-like and insatiable need for wisdom imparted unto themselves, a camaraderie between two fathers, and so on.

In other news, Darrill and Rampage share an uneasy hug, and try to bury the hatchet. Rampage confesses what I knew all along, that certain things just aren’t worth getting mad over. His roving hands confuse Darrill for a stripper. As a result, Darrill doesn’t think Rampage is being serious.

What a surprise.

The duo weigh in. On fight day both Marcus and Mike get wrapped up . . . warm up . . . and man up.

Our ten minutes begin with the usual pleasantries, after which they’re off. Both fighters came out swinging early, but Marcus – later referred to by Rampage as the “Black Mummy” for his clunky advancement and reaching style – was the first to bring his opponent to the ground and the one to experience victory, after what Rashad observed was the quickest arm bar he’d ever seen. Not even we at Parcbench could spot Jones’ insanely fast moves, and we have everything at our disposal ranging from high-definition TV’s to fast computers working on the matter. But one thing we will readily admit isn’t in our bag of tricks, is a slow-mo instant replay analyzer.

We tried paying a Major League Baseball umpire to walk us through the process and the blazing fast tap, but alas, without a positive cash flow money is hard to come by.

It doesn’t take wads of cash to put two and two together and come up with the result:

For all his prior difficulties training and coping with stress, Marcus has risen from the smoke and carnage of the battlefield to hold Team Quinton’s standard aloft and secure for his coach that win he so desperately desired; a bulwark against Rampage’s mental cascade failure.

So now it comes to this stage of the season: Rashad’s team members have been driven to pugilistic cannibalism for want of food. Quarter-final fights are planned by Dana before the conclusion of the episode: Big Ego Nelson vs. Justin, Brendan vs. John, James vs. Matt and Big Baby vs. Titties. Even after a 7-1 defeat and Rashad’s offer to train all the fighters in the house, Kimbo is choosing to stick with Rampage.

You have to admire the man’s loyalty; it’s a kind that is regrettably seen very little in the political arena, where wavering between two polar opposites and sitting on the fence is celebrated.

As we drop in on Team Rashad at the start of the hour, Rashad tries to be humble and thank Quinton’s fighters for having a horrible coach. Matt, proving you don’t need a bad coach to just . . . well . . . suck, messes his shoulder up and then whines for a cortisol shot.

It’ll be a long shot . . . and de-nied by Sugar.

Jones wants to fight despite a messed-up knee, we get to hear Quinton bitch about losing and how it affects his sex life. Seriously, I don’t need to know any of that, man! Go back to drilling your team in the “War Walk” or whatever it is.

Post-commercial, the TUF house @ dawn. Fighters complete their daily routines and hope to get started on an early practice. But Wes gets . . . I don’t want to say it . . . oh, what the hell. Spunked. From this point on I could make like Jon Stewart and reference Iraqi reactor sites, or go for a cheesy freestyle rap involving the words “shampoo” and “goo.”

I choose door number 3: Close my eyes and pretend none of this is happening.

Zak, what’s your problem? At least I clean up in the shower when I’m done . . . if that’s how you live with roommates I don’t want to see your house!

Some people think an overabundance of testosterone, coupled with a nerve-deadening boredom observed by contestants such as Travis Lutter, causes all sorts of wacky behavior in the TUF residence. Some don’t, and chalk it up to Dana influencing house behavior for ratings’ sake. Regardless of what its reasons may be, if Jensen can’t roll with it he’s going to be driven crazy.

Training time for Team Rashad. Matt gets to wrap himself up in tape and look like what he’s been playing the part of. Let’s just say, payback’s a bitch. Speaking of payback . . . Zak went into training with the mental baggage of his earlier embarrassment, only for The Project to choke him out.

Can we go for more of the latter with Matt during bear conditioning programs, since he’s obviously failed to demonstrate the difference between “soreness” and “injury?” Can we have some more jokes at Jensen’s expense on the way back from practice?

Fight announced, Jones all too ready to whale on the opposition. Team Evans still retains control, which must brass Quinton off BAD. Justin Wren and Wes Project Sims chosen to fight next, which signifies that they’re mixing things up a little to mitigate Matt’s verbal diarrhea.

Cue “sad trombone” sound – Marcus is living up to his nickname. He’s like a crazy Baby Huey.

Project gets slapped around by Rampage, Justin thinks he’ll be able to beat Wes – somehow I have a bad feeling about that one – and Wes, who would later fancy himself Zak’s drill sergeant, name drops all the world class wrestlers he’s trained with in addition to posing his muscles close up for the camera and letting everyone at home know Kimbo is teaching Zak how to shank someone.

Okay, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . all together now . . . RAAAAAACIIIIIIIIIISSSTTT!!!!
/sharpton

Official weigh-in. How else can I describe this singular episode’s dual jump on the scale but, the gayest part of the whole episode (and the Ultimate Fighter 10 season) so far. I think Quinton wants to follow me out door number 3 by now. Don’t you? Yeah. That was one contest Wes and Justin didn’t need to get into.

Okay, fight day and time. Round one, between the decided underdog – Fort Worth native Wren – and Ohioan Sims.

Justin takes Sims against the cage by eight seconds in, to which the Project responds by doing his best dance routine. After eleven more, jabs and an off-balance kick from the self-styled UFC bad boy enable Wren to put him back to the cage @ 4:17. From that point it all goes downhill for Wes, whereupon he is mounted and choked to the point of passing out via arm triangle . . . no, wait, is he still kicking or was that just an involuntary spasm?

Never mind. He’s out now. Pass the smelling salts.

And the dark horse wins. Wait, I guess that was racist again.

So far Abe, Shivers, Kimbo, Rogers – and now Sims – have all been eliminated: who is the next on the list? I’ve observed this is not the only season to take the form outlined herein – Team A beats the snot out of Team B until Team B pulls its head out, then vice versa.

Close on Rampage pissing and moaning about his latest loss; arguing with Rashad outside dressing rooms; and Rashad proclaiming his commitment to supporting the fighters of Team Evans.

Now I know I REALLY like Sugar.

And that was just in the first seven minutes: I was then treated to a spectacle as Jones, fresh from the bathroom, would have me imagining it was time for him to indulge in a serving of crow pie. I’m not so sure what he did, but from my seat in front of the TV I could sum it up thusly: imitating the Old West practice of turning from his target, moving ten paces, and loosing a projectile.

No, really. I’m not sure. Did he just barf on the floor?

Time to go to commercial, folks – now would be an opportune time to clean.

Or not. Kimbo puts a towel on the back of Jones’ neck, and Brendan . . . buddy, let’s just say you took the words right out of my mouth. Rude awakening indeed. I mean, I’m not an icon of fitness myself, but I do work out; I’ve had some (albeit short) personal experience with martial arts training in my life, and I once overworked myself to the point of a nightly hospital stay. Common sense (and Will Shakespeare) dictates: Too much of a good thing, is not. Go easy or go home.

But whatever. Team Rashad training com’th, Matt and Justin treat it like Wii Fit soccer, and Sugar gives his appraisal of various team members along with a form of Burkean conservatism suited to the eight-sided ring. Justin switches to punching bags, Wessel boxes again.

Time for matchups to be doled out. Schaub learns he’ll be fighting Demico, jokes that the beating will be akin to a highlight reel; Justin expresses understandable misgivings about being set up to fight his friend Scott; and Matt learns he’ll be set up to fight Marcus.

Guess who else ends up knowing, in short order, what is to do as a pair of panties during Happy Hour and go down . . .

Team Rampage.

Well, it’s not as though contestants haven’t been able to shut up before. Flash back time during commercial.

Post-profit timeout. Crunchy peanut butter sandwich being fixed by Justin, who – along with Madsen – has his own opinions about the strategic value of Mitrione’s running his mouth. It turns out to be Judgment Day as Matt later explains himself to Rashad, who calls into question his intelligence and correctly states this blunder was “like going to war and then telling the opposition where you’re going to attack him.” Really?

Hey! That sounds a lot like the behavior anti-war groups wanted former President Bush to enable, whether it came down to interrogation techniques or domestic maneuvering!

Does it really come as any surprise, that it wasn’t a smart move?

(I like Rashad. He’s one of the only fighters, or coaches, I can remember to take bad news like that and just laugh it off.)

Matt apologizes for brain fart, Sugar wonders at damage control, and then lets us (or at least me) have a good laugh: Brain fart guy is afraid to fight a big baby – one who can’t even work out without crapping his heart out his chest.

Again, far be it from me to act like I’m personally experienced with MMA. Common sense is enough for a realization that your body is going to light up like a five-alarm fire if you’re pushing yourself too hard. Why be afraid – if that’s even so – of fighting a man not in top condition? Such a tussle can be classified as NFL, the call sign of Jones’ former profession and later an acronym for “Not For Long,” which in my opinion also happens to accurately reflect Michael Vick’s chances of going anywhere with a reality show.

Fast forward a bit. Those sunglasses make you look like a bug, Sugar.

Pep talk given Schaub, Lawlor moment forecast as Team Rashad eats shrimp for dinner and leaves Matt out of it. I’d watch the honey mustard sauce from that point forward if I were you, Jon, otherwise you’ll be crying for real.

Okay, so . . . Washingtonian and Colorado native on fight day, Josh Rosenthal officiating.

First (and only) round: Rogers tries to take Schaub down early in the fight, but fails and looks like a moron in the process. Trying again, he succeeds to whale on Brendan from above, and has him grabbing on the cage in short order. Strategic blunder on the part of Rashad’s “Mini-Me” from 2:11 forward enabled the former CU fullback to grab control of the fight and secure victory via titular anaconda choke, shortly thereafter.

Nice and quick . . . just the way we like them.

Let’s see what happens next week.

A true TiVO-holic like myself never misses an episode of his favorite @$s kicking.  I know some of you are now hooked on the UFC like Michael Moore on Twinkies; thusly I come, bearing a write up of the third foray into the seclusion that is the Ultimate Fighter household.

As the episode opens, at the crack of the orange Nevada dawn, we see Kimbo and Abe conversing about the former’s prayer time at the Ultimate Fighter house; as he puts it, a time of “putting everything in perspective between him and G-d.”  Kimbo slaps down any suggestion of a newer and gentler Slice, ascribing to it the permanent status of oxymoron.

The conversation takes on a darker flair, though, as Kimbo echoes sentiments that would be better left to movies from Charlie Sheen’s pre-Truther days: the enemy within (and the Enemy down below, by logical extension) are presenting the K-man with his worst problems.

Schoonover chats it up over morning drinks, and an independent Roy confides to us watching back home that he believes Kimbo was “thrown in the limelight too fast.”  That’s very possible: after all, how much experience can a streetfighter known almost solely from the series of YouTubes be expected to have in MMA?

Wittman and Roy begin the day together on the black mat, ’shad confesses one of their goals with Nelson to be enticing him in a backwards fall on a car insurance gecko, and Keith “the Dean of Mean” Jardine arrives to fill in the role of another assistant coach for Team Sugar.

After shaking hands; joking around about the destruction laid on Rampage’s jaw, and the coaches arguing together (during which Rampage asserts Evans’ breath is stanky enough to knock down dancing Iceman Chuck Liddell,) they get down to work.  Or not.  R.J., turning the sour notes up an octave, would then embark on marble-mouthed caricatures of accented Briton James McSweeney.

That ain’t all.  Making the imminence of what I shall call his “Kanye West moment” on national TV clear, he then confesses his secret wish that McSweeney would – and I quote – “take his nuts out of Rashad’s mouth.”

Score another one for class, ladies und gentlemens — it’s clear these ain’t boxing’s long gone role models of Joe Louis and Joe Frazier.

Past profit timeout.  Slice talks of needing an eating regimen, continues his physical regimen, and jokes about his lack of a grooming regimen.  Chicken bones in the big man’s beard, or maybe a few human bones here and there, would no doubt provide a defense all his own for passengers on the belly express.  Nelson oughta watch it or like the kid in “A Christmas Story,” he’ll poke his eye out with an inadvertent shot.

Assistant coach Tiki Ghosn gives Kimbo a pep talk on his way out of the Octagon; five members of Team Sugar talk of bobbleheads next to the Ultimate Fighter house pool; the second commercial gives way to Rampage arriving late for his own team’s training.

It looks like something may be wrong with Marcus, the man who initially had very strong words for those seeking to distance football players from the NFL.  As Rampage wants Jones to be in top condition, which makes sense, said coach objects to Jones’ burning desire to lay waste to the Octagon with a bum knee.  Jones has his doubts, insinuating that Quinton is holding him back.

The show switches to lighter tones: Nelson and Jones pal around in the TUF house kitchen, and “Bubba the Love Sponge’s” guest confuses the house for an eHarmony personality test.

After a few manly hugs, as well as some words, between the defensive end and offensive brawler . . . we’re shown weigh in, warm ups and then fight day, which sees Kimbo playing matador and Nelson sparring in the Team Rashad lounge.  After ‘bo imitates Diamond Dallas Page for the viewers at home, the fight commences:

Round one, Kimbo successfully stays out of range of Roy’s jabs for a few seconds, then delivers a low kick. Nothing else really happens for a minute and a half . . . jab ,defend, jab, defend.  Until 3:09, at which Kimbo finally forces Big Country to the cage and they interlock arms for a while – nine seconds to be exact.  Roy then gets the upper hand, more or less holding him to 1:33.  From that point on, their game goes down to the mat.  Nelson’s gut rubs in the Bearded One’s face, and none too soon the round is over.

Second go: Roy goes on the offense within 30 seconds, scoops Kimbo up and slams him on the mat, then isolates his elbow with a knee @ 3:47 to likely prevent shots to his big gut.  Then, Roy flails at the prostrate Kimbo like either a girl or a fish out of water.

TKO in Roy’s favor, Slice now gone. Everyone bear witness to the fitness of . . . uhm, well, okay, not necessarily a truly fit . . . Nelson, who coronates his win by invoking Burger King metaphors and ordering the judges to get him a Double Whopper with cheese.  I’m hoping I saw that wrong, really, I am; don’t let me down now and tell me the Las Vegan is feeding his ego along with his stomach.

Despite Kimbo’s closing remarks, it’s possible he may be back next episode — Marcus bit off a lot more than he can chew.  Stay tuned.

]]> http://www.parcbench.com/2009/10/02/ultimate-fighter-season-10-episode-3-the-enemy/feed/ 1 http://www.parcbench.com/2009/09/24/ultimate-fighter-10-episode-2-all-about-survival/ http://www.parcbench.com/2009/09/24/ultimate-fighter-10-episode-2-all-about-survival/#comments Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:13:03 +0000 Ryan Anthony http://www.parcbench.com/?p=7915

Wes Shivers

Fresh off the one-man demolition team sent to blow Abe Wagner’s orbital area into bits, we’re now being treated to the second episode of the Evans-Jackson blowout. As it opens, Kimbo, doing his best Lauren Caitlin Upton impersonation, reminds us all of his lust for victory. Roy Nelson, the fighter who first made his mark on the MMA world in Rage on the River, dreams of his name in lights vs. Kimbo over breakfast.

We’re let in on the first training session of the episode for Team Rampage, in which the gym is bustling with not only spider crawls, but a game of jump rope absent The Hulk.  Kimbo, however, is being treated by Quinton to a regimen that works out (pun intended) for his own physique.

Nice art-deco shirt Kimbo. You’ll fit right in on the set of Judge Dredd.

Then, we go to Team Rashad’s training session: where Schaub spends some time in a more conventional boxing ring, and Wessel deflects gloved punches in the Octagon. Rashad, again driving home his aim to recruit not only mental powerhouses  but those most able to take direction, becomes perplexed with Roy’s seeming inability to take criticism and be respectful.

Rashad and two others conduct intervention for Big Country (who may as well be named “Big Ego”) behind closed team doors, and Roy isn’t having any of it. After a lot of gesturing and browbeating — during which assistant coach Trevor Wittman confesses he’s tempted to give Quinton the headache — Roy shoots his mouth off to the camera. It looks more and more like there are two sensei on Team Sugar.

Oh snap.

Rampage orders the second fight to be London-born James McSweeney vs. the 6′7″ Wes Shivers, former football player for the Tennessee Titans. All, of course, just to be a thorn in Sugar’s side.

I’ll apply a paraphrased sentiment that has been echoed by one Godfather of mafia movies and another of the high-powered boardroom:

It’s nothing business. It’s just personal.

Or is it?

Post-first commercial break, we come back to team Rashad lounging on the gym training mat like Boy Scouts around a fire. Rampage, ever the one to pick a fight, instantly thought of pulling his pants down and farting on their heads.  Is taking a swipe at Rashad’s ego more or less gentlemanly than invoking the spectre of bodily functions? You make the call!

After QRJ verified the saying “Thou dost protest too much,” Rashad confessed an intermittent desire to faceplant his fist in the other guy. Team Sugar arrives at the studio to promptly start their workout of cross-legged crunches.

Th’n fight day cometh, punctuated by tiredness, stretching, and shots of the amazing artwork on the Ultimate Fighter house walls. Wes makes his entrance and James pumps up for the fight by getting the blood flow in his arms working.

With kickboxer James on White’s left, Muay Thai fighter Wes on his right, and Abe’s same-day bloodbath behind, the round was inaugurated by Steve Mazzagatti — who would have his hands full during this fight.

Round one: Early in the match, Wes obtained control and tried to choke James with his left elbow. Albuquerque’s adopted son shakes it off, gets back up, and delivers a series of kicks. Left to Shivers’ head; right to his upper leg area; another  . . . by Wes, in the balls?

Ouch! I bet James wished he’d had a cup.

So anyway, the fight restarts; James again finds himself on the defensive before long. He delivers a right jumping kick against the fence @ 2:36 in, then – strangely enough – grabs the cage trying to get away from his opponent. After a spinning right hook that would make a ballerina blush, McSweeney works on the knees.

Round over: second begun, James told to lay off the kicks and jab at Wes.  Didn’t take long to demonstrate his ignorance of instructions – approximately nine seconds in. He was playing with fire for a while there – a missed roundhouse kick at 4:21 left gave Wes a much-needed opening to rush and tackle James. Evans’ exhortations were reaching fever pitch by that point – he sounded like he was in a horror movie!

By two minutes left and ten, it seemed like neither of them had much of a game plan, or energy, left.

No 3rd round, it would seem. 19-19, 20-18, 20-18 winner by majority decision was James. I’m loath to sound trite or politically correct, but on the whole it actually was a great job by both fighters, who pushed themselves to the brink of exhaustion.

With the second victory for Rashad, James takes five on the couch. According to Brendan Schaub on his blog, Wes wasn’t able to walk for four days after the fight. Color me unsurprised what with all the kicks he was taking – those weapons definitely stopped the Mississippi native.

At episode end, Rashad announces next fight as Roy Nelson vs. Kimbo, thereby giving Big Country his wish.

Let’s see if the individualized training paid off, or if Roy will be the one to trudge back to his hole in the wall.