My best friend and I are obsessed with Nicolas Cage.

Why, you ask? It’s a valid question. Allow me to explain this before you decide that my blog is no longer worth your time.

Nicolas Cage is a huge weirdo for a bunch of reasons (that link being just one example. Because who doesn’t think a pet octopus makes you a better actor? Although… it can’t really hurt, in his case. Touche, Mr. Cage, touche). What first inspired our love of Mr. Cage was a little movie called Vampire’s Kiss in which his, umm, dramatic method acting skills were displayed to their maximum potential. You think his Wicker Man performance was manic? Psssh, that’s child’s play next to Vampire’s Kiss.

That was how we discovered the genius that is Nicolas Cage (real name: Nicholas Kim Coppola. As in the Coppolas. (Just speculation, but I suspect his family is feeling grateful that his professional career isn’t linked to theirs)). Still skeptical? I would suggest you peruse some of his other brilliant works, including Bringing Out The Dead, Snake Eyes, and Con Air.

If you’re still wondering what’s so special about The Cage, allow me to offer up some evidential tidbits. How many men are brave enough to name their kid Kal-El when we know the psychological impact of bullying on children in this day and age? How many men will marry (and rapidly divorce) the same woman as Michael Jackson? How many men become the focus of stalking by a mime (yeah, seriously)? How many men would get a back tattoo of a lizard with a top hat to “claim [their] own body”? That’s the kind of genius you don’t see every day.

You keep doing you, Nic. You keep doing you.

I mean, right?

This example of awesome badassery, if you are unfamiliar with her and have also failed to read the giant green letters across the picture above, is Gina Carano. You are welcome.

She’s just one of the great things about mixed martial arts (actually, she doesn’t even fight professionally anymore). I love the whole sport: the fights, the fighters, the anticipation, the feeling of smug satisfaction upon seeing GSP pound the shit out of that asshole Koscheck for 5 rounds, the way Jon Jones defies gravity, seeing someone execute a perfect kimura or triangle choke… I even tolerate the frustrating moments, like every time UFC president Dana White opens his mouth… Seriously. Dude has nothin’ nice to say.

My dad introduced me to MMA when I was a kid, and watching fights was one of the many awesome activities we would do together. As I got older, I geeked out on stats, individual fighters, techniques specific to different styles of martial arts, and obviously getting my eyeballs on as many fights as I could. It got easier when the UFC started to really gain momentum and become a household name.

I remember the moment other people first learned about my love of MMA. I’d never really mentioned it because it wasn’t well known and no one else seemed all that into it. I had one buddy that shared my excitement; one night we got into a heated debate about our favorite fighters while having beers with a group of friends. We were both dorkily word-vomiting stats and techniques, and it took a few minutes before I realized everyone else at the table was staring at me.

“What, ahh, what are you talking about?” one of my girlfriends asked, looking amused. I explained that I had been an MMA fan for a long time, which was understandably news to them. The response to first discovering this was (in subtext; they didn’t exactly come right out and say it): But but but… you’re a girl.

But but but… wait, what? I am?! Shit. Why didn’t anyone tell me?! Well now I have to go rethink my entire gender identity, because everyone knows that there are no women anywhere in the whole wide world that could derive enjoyment from watching an MMA fight, let alone women who would actually become fighters. I mean, they’d have to have the same desire, drive, strength, and fortitude as men! Which we all know is just bananas.

Hold up…

What I think is bananas is that many people are still surprised– nay, shocked and befuddled– by the fact that I like to watch MMA, not because of the sport itself but because I have lady parts. Now, I don’t want to get up on my dainty pink lady soapbox and wax feminist all over everyone (because feminism is…bad? Yeah, bad! Equality for all is overrated!), but I’ve gotten this reaction so often over the years that I felt the need to make this bold and controversial statement: I love MMA, and I’m a girl!

Excuse me for going on about this, I must be menstruating. You know how we females get!

…where the hell did I put my purse with the Midol?!

Once upon a time, pilgrims planted rye wheat, harvested it to make bread, ate the bread, went batshit crazy, got pissed off, blamed it on the devil’s minions, and sanctioned the killing of a bunch of innocent people.

Let me back up for a moment.

When rye grain goes bad, it develops a fungus called ergot that causes super nifty LSD-like symptoms such as hallucinations… and a few other exciting symptoms like seizures, necrosis, and lots (lots) of death. Recently historians have been investigating the link between ergotism and severe illness/death starting all the way back in 800 A.D. It wasn’t actually recognized as ergot poisoning until the 1800’s, and when we (being intelligent beings and the only Earth-dwelling animals with the ability to use reason and logic) don’t understand things, we tend to make up a bunch of bullshit to explain the problem away.

Enter the pilgrims. A rather somber group with a penchant for monochrome dress, fire-and-brimstone religion, and treating their darker skinned brethren as subhuman, they were not exactly the most tolerant of people. When a few horrible teenage girls started having seizures and hallucinations and subsequently accused some fellow pilgrims of witchcraft, the village leaders were all, “Meh. Seems legit, let’s go do some murder.” I’m paraphrasing, if I’m being completely honest.

The “witches” of Salem weren’t actually burned at the stake (just hanged or crushed, so nbd) but they were definitely killed for no reason. Or, I guess, the reason being ergot poisoning and bad parenting (because what normal teenage girl’s first response to a seizure is to condemn her neighbor to death… well, given teenagers, maybe that’s not so far-fetched). The Salem Witch Trials also weren’t the direct cause of All Hallow’s Eve, which later became Halloween, the one day of the year where we get to dress up as sluts and/or monsters, purposefully take candy from strangers, and carve faces on vegetables. But they did contribute to the history of America’s relationship with stereotyping, extremist religion, jumping to conclusions, and Snicker’s Bars.

Great, now I have a craving for toast.

Ahhh this picture make complete sense to me now!