Well, well, it seems my galvanizing performance at UFC 112 caused quite a stir. Following my one-sided victory over fellow Brazilian brute Demian Maia, thousands of benchwarmers who punch the clock for a living decided to call me unprofessional, arrogant, and even demeaning.
And until now, I’ve been forced to listen to all this crap while shutting my mouth.
Well, that’s partially true. I did give a speech following the “fight” (if you want to call it a fight; I prefer the term “lopsided massacre”), but my manager Ed “Cold Sore” Soares tried to play politician and twisted my words in translation. That turncoat made it seem like I was apologizing and that I was sorry for what I had done.
The only two things I’m sorry about are:
1) I hired that bald hack in the first place (I’m firing him after I finish writing this article)
2) I got to pull my shenanigans with Demian Maia for just 5 rounds, when I wish it could’ve been 50 rounds
Lest there be any confusion, here’s what I REALLY said at UFC 112 in Abu Dhabi before Ed Soares “translated” it to English:
“F*ck all you Arabs. Your Muslim asses don’t deserve to watch me fight, and I took great pleasure in boring you out of your empty little skulls. I could’ve whipped Maia’s ass anytime I wanted to, and I could whip all of your asses too… at the same time. I fight for me and no one else, because I am God. Not Allah, but Anderson Silva. Got it? Good. In conclusion, let me re-state this in case you missed it: f*ck you, f*ck Dana White, f*ck UFC, and f*ck the fans. You can all kiss my ass and go to Hell, and if you don’t, perhaps I should just come over there and kick your f*cking ass too?”
Was that clear? Because if it wasn’t, I’ve got no problem repeating it in any language you wish.
As to why I behaved that way in the fight, I guess the answer isn’t exactly as complicated as some of you critics are trying to make it. It’s really very simple: I can do whatever the f*ck I want, because no one can hurt me. If you don’t like what I did, then what are you gonna do about it? Fight me? Oh please, just try to do that. I’ll shove my knee so far up your nose that you’ll be smelling the pew I kneel on when I go to church and pray to myself. I’m Anderson “The Spider” Silva: God of all Gods.
Frankly, I’m bored with all of you. What has the UFC given me that I can’t handle? First there was that punk-ass Chris Leben. We saw how long he lasted with me, didn’t we. I gave him some nice streaks of blood on his face to match that ridiculous rooster-looking hairstyle of his, and it only took me a few seconds. Ho hum, you call that a challenge? I’ve had sneezes that lasted longer.
Next up was the man you all called “champion,” Rich Franklin. They say he looks like Jim Carrey, but he might as well fight like him too, because the result would’ve been the same if it was me against Rich, Carrey, or Kermit the Frog. They all fight like little girls, not grown men. You saw what I did to Rich: punch, kick, knee, and it’s over. His nose was so far deep into his nose that he could smell his own eye sockets. His face looked like Rachael Ray came and flattened it with one of her custom frying pans. Hey Rachael, make my eggs scrambled please, much like I scrambled that chump’s face.
Beating Rich Franklin senseless was so much fun that I decided to do it twice. Was the rematch any different than the first fight? Yes, it was: the date was different. Everything else was a carbon copy of the original: bell rings, knee strikes face, Richy boy bleeds like a faucet, ref stops fight, and paramedics hit the ring. It was at this point that it started to get boring. You can only crush so many noses before it becomes tiresome.
What else did UFC throw at me? Nate Marquardt? Easy. Travis Lutter? Cinch. Patrick Cote? Are you f*cking serious? James Irving? That took me one punch. You call these men fighters? You could tie my hands behind my back and amputate my leg, and I’d still decimate these embarrassments just the same.
Oh wait, let’s not forget Dan Henderson. You know, the first man to hold titles in two weight classes at the same time? It wasn’t long before my arm was around his scrawny neck, choking it silly until he and his cauliflower ears tapped out to the master. Mr. Two-Weight-Classes just got Out-Classed by the Spider. Good luck in Strikeforce, Danny boy. By the time you’ll be ready to fight me next, you’ll be a member of the AARP.
It got so boring beating all those middleweight bums that I figured, what the Hell, if no one in my weight class is going to challenge me, I’ll try the light heavyweight division.
Did you expect a different result? If you did, you’re stupid. Because they gave me a Forrest, and I chopped down his trees. Actually, chopping trees would’ve given me a harder workout. Knocking out Forrest took a light, simple jab to the jaw, and he was out cold. Not only that, but he also left the Octagon crying like the little b*tch that he is. Smart guy, that Forrest Griffin. Why stick around after the fight? Every time they showed the replay, it got funnier and funnier. My grandma takes harder shots than that. My 4-year-old nephew hits a piñata harder than I hit Forrest. What a wuss. I’d have left too, quite frankly.
You see, what it is comes down to this: I’m bored. None of UFC’s fighters can even approach my ability or skill, and beating them into oblivion isn’t even fun anymore. To keep me sane, I have to make my OWN fun and basically entertain myself. That’s why my recent fights have seen me dance, jump around, bob my head back and forth, and antagonize my opponent.
What else am I going to do? Make contact with the guy and end the fight in 3 seconds like usual? I’m sick of that. It’s far more fun teasing the guy, pissing off the fans, and watching Dana White get disgusted and leave. Go ahead Dana, leave. What are you gonna do about it? Fight me? Send one of your pathetic middleweights to fight me? Oh wait, no, let’s see, how about this… send me your precious French Canadian hero, Georges St. Pierre. Yeah, that’ll scare me. Here comes 170 pounds of an underwear model who looks like he’s from San Francisco, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t, just couldn’t, beat that guy up. It’s not in me; he’s just too pretty. Little girls in training bras, along with their adopted gay fathers, would hate me if I re-arranged GSP’s flawless face. After all, there are male Madonna fans who need to beat off to this guy’s pictures. I wouldn’t want all of them coming after me. Or maybe I do. 10,000 gay guys jumping me is probably more of a challenge than I’ll get fighting whatever middleweight UFC throws at me next (Chael Sonnen? HA!).
To summarize, here’s my side of the story: I’m great, you all suck, and I’m so bored beating up all these pretenders that I need to do something… anything…. to entertain myself in these “fights.” Last time it was dancing around the ring in Abu Dhabi, next time it might be grabbing Bruce Buffer’s microphone and belting out Brazilian love songs while Chael Sonnen lies motionless on his back. That’s half the fun, at least for me. If it’s boring for you, then tough sh*t. Like I said, what are you gonna do about it?
F*ck you. I’m out, and ain’t nothin’ Ed Soares can say will get THAT message lost in translation.
And by the way, Ed, you’re fired.
Disclaimer: Anderson Silva didn’t really write this. The Armpit did. But we know it’s what Anderson would say.