The life of an MMA fighter is less than glamorous. It's a shitty uphill battle, kicking, punching, and strangling my way to the top.
My trainer gives me a wake-up call at 4:30am by yelling at me through a bullhorn in the doorway of my bedroom. If that doesn't work, then he splashes a glass of pee in my face.
When I'm on my feet, I put on a G-string, and storm down the stairs, letting out a blood-curdling, Conan-style scream.
In the kitchen, my trainer punches me in the stomach repeatedly as I guzzle-down a giant bowl of raw eggs for breakfast. If I spill any, he tells me what a no-good piece of shit I am.
Later, I put on a spiked dog collar and leash, and I'm taken for a brisk walk. I'm encouraged to scowl, growl, flex, spit, threaten, and just generally scare people.
At noon, I'm fed a dish of raw hamburger and a bowl of water.
Around 1:00pm, another trainer arrives with a fellow fighter on a leash. We are taken into the backyard where we're let go for a full-on nasty, ass-kicking party.
At 4:00pm, hostilities cease, and we are unceremoniously hosed-down with the garden hose.
At 6:00pm, I'm ordered to get on my hands and knees, as my trainer uses me as an ottoman, while he watches T.V. until 10:00pm.
After that, I take off my G-string and go down to the local biker bar and further sharpen my fighting skills, beating the bowels out of the nastiest biker types that I can find.
Around 2:00am, I'm home again, ready to get a couple of hours sleep, before I do it all over again the next day.
It's a skull-busting, stupid-ass life, but the money is great, and I love being in a perpetual rage over everything under the sun.