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John Raide · (11-23-2013)

Sometimes I worry about boredom. Do you every worry about that? There's only so much one can do to occupy himself within the confines of a hotel room.

I can't even rent porn. One of the best parts of staying in a hotel by yourself is watching poorly scripted adult entertainment that you can rub one out to.

Nope! Turns out that that little privilege got revoked after one of the boys decided to run the tab up at one of the hotels.

I'm not saying it's all Tri bute's fault, but the dude is into some weird future shit.

I woke up this morning, on my back, in a strange bed I didn't remember falling asleep in. After several moments it occurred to me that I knew exactly where I was.

Boredom's epicenter.

San Diego.

Look, it's nothing personal. I'm sure this is a lovely place. I even hear there's a zoo here. Speaking of which, I think one of their escapees is working the desk downstairs. Good ol' Gorilla Monsoon down there had the audacity to yell at me for trying to order room service before the kitchen was open.

Real grade A help at this establishment.

Note to self: talk to Shane about the type of hotels he puts his talent up in.

That's neither here nor there.

Side note, if I may. When I ask you to spread the cream cheese on my bagel I damn well expect you follow through with my request. Is it that fucking complicated?

Secondary side note, if you'll indulge me. I don't want anyone to think that I hold my city of origin in any higher regard. It is gray, cloudy, and rains all the fucking time. The local weather man has to slit his wrists to see some color.

Anyway, I digress. My point is one time I was at a local coffee establishment that I can't say out loud at risk of being sued, but it rhymes with StarFucks if that'll point you in the right direction. I'd asked the counter help if he'd be so kind as to put the cream cheese on my bagel.

Now, imagine my pure fucking rage when I get my bagel and not only is there no cream cheese on my bagel, but there's also no plastic knife to spread the cream cheese that he was generous enough to supply for me to put on my breakfast.

By the way, in case you were curious, I usually go with an everything bagel. I'm not concerned in the least bit about the sesame seeds going everywhere. If you're not a fucking slob like Peter Gilmour you don't make a mess of yourself.

My apologies. Peter Gilmour is a "colleague" of mine and I use the term loosely. I've come to understand he was quite portly, but had liposuction and a nose job to match the person that he is on the inside on the outside.

Or some bullshit like that.

But back to my bagel story.

So, there I am pissed as all hell that this twenty-something year old hipster art school dropout couldn't even process the one task that I gave him. When I inquire about how I'm supposed to put cream cheese on my bagel with no knife, Cameron, as he name tag classifies him as, tells me that they're out of knives.

Oh, well excuse-fucking-me, Cameron.

I missed the part where that is my fucking problem!

This is your tax dollars at work folks!

Okay, that may not be true. It just sounded good to yell that.

I decide that a piping hot shower would do my joints good. I spent most of the night prior letting off some steam. No pun intended. Here's one great thing I discovered about San Diego: Aside from the gorgeous women (yes, most of them are about as intelligent as a roll of quarters, but damn, they sure are nice to look at), there's a nice underground fight community.

There's just something about punching another man's lights out that is good for the soul I think. That feeling of hearing his nose snap as you lay a right hook, or watching his teeth fly out of his mouth as you come in with the left jab or feeling his warm blood wash over your skin...

Sorry. I'm getting a little carried away with myself.

My point is, this is why I'm here in the XWF.

Yes, the pay and the accommodations aren't bad and if you're willing to exist on the island of misfit toys, it's not a bad way to make a living.

Anyway, I'd gone out to find somewhere to drink and hope that I could get drunk enough or get enough of a high that all the fucking palm trees would just start to become part of the blur.

It was on one of my last stops that I met a guy named Rich who said that he'd seen me on TV before. I thought he was referring my lackluster stint in the Battle Royal a few weeks ago, but instead it turned out he'd been stationed in Japan when I was fighting over there.

He asked if I wanted to make a little side cash. I wasn't about to say no. He led me to a dirty, dimly lit basement right below the bar. There were six men, and a small crowd of onlookers. I was immediately matched up with a guy who was looking to let out some rage over being fired from his job.

I was more than happy to honor his wish. My only regret was that he passed out as I was really getting into a groove hammering on his face. I think it was because I wasn't seeing it anymore.

I was picturing Cameron and his stupid fucking smile and his stupid gaged ears and how he had to call everyone 'bro.'

I must've entered a fugue state as I don't remember being pulled off the guy I had been laying the boots into.

I think we all need an outlet to express ourselves, wouldn't you agree?

Some take up photography.

Others make music or paint.

I never had the patience for the guitar and I can't fucking draw.

Oh well.

FULL DISCLOSURE: Things I did before I sent this out

1. Watched Payback tear up to Sister Christian by Night Ranger.

2. Finished my yearly tradition of re-reading Animal Farm

3. Wondered if Jason Statham would ever be in a good movie.

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