The dudes in the above picture are participating in something called "The Gentleman's Fighting Club."
Hey, here's a newsflash for you grown nerds: if you want to start a fight club-type organization because as an ineffectual modern male you feel like your pituitary gland is screaming for attention and that LL Bean catalogue just ain't cutting it anymore, do not DO NOT wear fruity-ass printed pattern shorts and A HELMET while beating the crap out of some other idiot.
The first rule of Silicon Valley Fight Club is don’t LET SOMEONE TAKE A PICTURE OF YOU and write an article about it on MSNBC (of all places).
You are such fu*#os, you can’t even promote the proper mystique for a club you copied from a feature length motion picture AND popular work of fiction.
Look at these guys. . .this is like one sad step above a slap fight, despite the presence of sticks, and frankly the whole thing disgusts me. I've noticed that men today are severely lacking what makes a man a man, namely testosterone and cahones. Most of them have taken--all too willingly--to the recent trend of ritualized electronic solipsism (see, no one cares about your FU&*ING MYSPACE PAGE except other people with a MYSPACE PAGE. Go out and cut down a tree or something instead of posting what your favorite color is. Your Mood? DOUCHE BAG.)
Still don’t see the problem? Please see the following paragraph from the article:
"Five-year fight club veteran Dinesh Prasad, 32, a heavily tattooed Santa Clara engineer, said he once broke a rib in a match but never complained to his fellow combatants. He also recently skipped his first wedding anniversary to attend a fight rather than drive to Los Angeles, where his wife is finishing law school."
WHAT? Your wife is actually out doing something with her life instead of gallivanting off to play “My life lacks meaning as a whole. . .SO IMMA HIT THINGS.” Is this organized asshattery really going to make you feel like more of a man? I hope she wises up and leaves you and you stupid broken rib. A broken rib?! Come talk to me when you have an inch and a half of bone sawed off both your feet and half of your toes broken. Then we can start talking about your tolerance for self-facilitated pain.
Frankly, I think the past few years have turned most of the guys I meet into self-indulged emo sh*theads who think that their ability to be at all sensitive gives them permission to cry in my living room for hours on end when I beat them at Jeopardy. Jesus.
Girls these days are fitter, happier and more productive and we want guys who can at least put up a fight, not throw a stupid ass party for one. LOOK. AT. HIS. SHORTS. QED.