Posted 09/15/2013 by Marlene Taborda in Untethered MMA

Untethered Mail Bag for September 2013

How many people, if any, would Ronda Rousey or Cyborg beat from the first 5 UFC events? – @Dan_Plunkett

None, unless we include Bill Wallace, Kathy Long, the 2,000 drunk rednecks in the stands, Bruce Buffer, fighters’ wives and children, the old ladies manning the concession stands, the 73-year-old janitors, etc.

Unless I’m forgetting someone, everyone who competed in the first five UFCs were either a) near or over 200 pounds or b) Royce Gracie. That’s a huge disadvantage for a couple of sub-150-pound women, no matter their skill level.

COULD Ronda or Cyborg beat, say, Andy Anderson? Yeah, I can imagine some scenarios where they toss his ass and run game on the floor. But if we transported them to 1,000 different dimensions and had them fight Andy Anderson 1,000 different times, would they win more than 500 of those fights? I don’t think so, and I’m not sure it would be close, either. It’s fun to think Girl Power! and martial arts as a tool for smaller people to beat up bigger people, but even a 238-pound schlub like Andy Anderson lands a couple haymakers and it’s good night, Irene.


Could you give us a description of the most likely night terror experienced by Tito Ortiz? – @DefGrappler

It’s cold. He leans on the Octagon fence. It is comforting. The lights go dark. They flash on.

“Hey Tito,” he hears, the voice is familiar. Gravelly and definitely from California. Off go the lights again.

What is this? He feels for the fence, to make sure that it’s still there. The lights flash on again.


He takes three shots to the eyes. The lights go dark once more. Then on again.


More to the eye. If the lights are on, he can’t tell anymore. He curls up in the fetal position.

“FIGHT BACK!” says another voice.

He takes punch after punch to the face. Why won’t this stop? Why?

He opens his eyes. He’s crawling now. In the desert. There’s a road ahead of him. It’s freshly paved, a deep black, with a virgin school-bus yellow dotted line.

A car is driving toward him, picking up dust. Thank God. Help. He hears the roar of the machine before he can make out the details. It’s read. A convertible. There’s two passengers. A man and a woman.

The car screeches to a halt. The driver side door opens. It’s Dana.

“Hey, douchebag,” Dana says. “Look who I’ve got with me.”

He glances into the passenger seat. It’s Jenna.

“Hurry back, Whitey,” Jenna says. She wipes her mouth. “I’m not through with you yet.”

Help. Help me!

“We traveled all the way out here for you – for you, you fucking scumbag – and you can’t even say hello? You want my help and you can’t even ask for it?” Dana says.

No, please! I’ll do anything, Dana. I swear. I swear on my children. I swear on my mother. I swear on Punishment Athletics.

“Fuck you, Tito.”

Dana kicks him in the ribs, and slams the door as he gets in the car.

“Get back to work,” Dana says. “As for you, scumbag…JAZZERCISE.”

The car tires burn and scream as Dana puts it into gear. It speeds off.

His head feels funny. He brings his hand to his forehead. There’s a dime-sized hole. No, not here. Not now. Pieces of his skull chip off and land in the white desert sand. NO. NO. NOT AGAIN.

He wakes, sweating and panting and confused. He realizes he’s awake now, back in the conscious world. And he would give anything to get back into the dream.


Who would win in a third fight between Frankie Edgar and BJ Penn? But there’s a twist: It’s at 145… Oh wait. – @SamerKadiMMA

Apparently, there are people who think B.J. Penn is going to be a monster at 145 pounds.

B.J.’s that guy you knew in high school who was really smart, and his dad was a lawyer, and he wanted his son to be a lawyer, and the son took prelaw and looked like a hot shot, but he hated it so he dropped out of school and started painting scenes of Spam tins. When he realized he couldn’t make a living off painting Spam, he went back to school, breezed through school, and picked up that law degree. But after a few years crushing it in the courtroom, he got bored, started doing tons of coke, and now he’s some washed-up nobody like the rest of us.

Had B.J. Penn stuck around at lightweight, we’d probably be talking about him in the same GOAT class as Fedor and Anderson Silva and GSP. But B.J. loved burritos and hating training and, fuck, can you blame him?

He’s MMA’s version of Mickey Mantle. The supremely talented dude who had a real chance of being the greatest of all time, but lacked the self-discipline to realize that talent.


The Untethered Mail Bag is a monthly repository of your questions about the world of MMA. Only the most silly, irreverent, and absurd inquiries are considered. Send your questions by email to or through Twitter @ItsMikeFagan.




Marlene Taborda