Razor Ruddock is back

You posted about me non-stop over the year+ I was away. You're obsessed with me. I own a piece of your mind.

 

You are a moron... The guy holds like a goddamned octopus constantly while fighting garbagemen... In your sick and deranged mind, there's some conspiracy against this chap but the reality is that he's AWFUL TO WATCH

 

This is an amazing meltdown you're having here

 

Who knew victims were so needy.

 

Good punch

 

Explain your hate!

(the guy is boring as fuck to watch)

YOU CAN'T EVEN EXPLAIN IT! YOU WON'T ENGAGE!!

 

Agreed. Back on topic, that was a vintage smash.

 

::

 

Just as well, or you would have no mind at all.

 

We got us some whiggers here.

 

Nope. Try again.

You will eventually say it.

Yep, some "meltdown" I am having, watching you engage in your cum-quote-swap with a guy bans people once he has failed to get them to give him a reason to do so.

Whigger.

 

Unless your answer matches his imaginary version of why you don't like his beloved wald pussy, that means you are lying and are a puerile, risible YANK

of course all is quiet when the same guys say good things about the Klitschko that wasn't a cheating vagina

 

Which of you will kill yourselves first if he breaks Joe Louis record.......will it be one of those Murder-Suicide things....will Clogg be going up to Beaver Pelt or will Steve be coming down to White Guilt CT.

Who will be balls deep in who when the deed is done :dunno:

 

This guy is still furious about getting banned for a couple hours several years ago. Jesus mate, get a life.

 

:atu:

 

You hate him for the most basic of human reasons....he refuses to go away and give you the dusky belter world you want.

 

Oh yeah, I forgot, he was only winding people up when he lost his temper and banned me. That was a joke.

It was such a joke that when Buddy chastised him, he turned on him and then self-banned.

OK.

 

Furious...I was delighted with it.

You blinked first.

Then you went after Buddy.....and he slapped you down too.

 

So he always holds. Never moves. No jab. No power. Never knocks anyone out. Its the holding dudes, the lies and the holding. ::

 

Joe Louis's record? Who pays attention to these belts anymore? I'm not even sure which ones wald pussy has, never mind how many times he's defended them

 

You are an insane person

 

Never unifies, never fights outside Germany, never makes the big fights. Thats why we hate him. Oh and he ALWAYS holds. Always. Did we say always.

:dunno:

Where are you sirs?????

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fly_(short_story)


"Woodifield, an old and rather infirm gentleman, is talking to his friend, "the boss", a well-to-do man five years older than he is and "still going strong". The boss enjoys showing off his redecorated office to Woodifield, with its new furniture and electric heating (with an old picture of a young man, whom we learn is his deceased son). Woodifield wants to tell the boss something, but is struggling to remember what it was, when the boss offers him some fine whisky. After drinking, his memory is refreshed and Woodifield talks about a recent visit that his two daughters made to his son's grave, saying that they had come across the boss's son's grave as well. We now come to know that the boss's son had died in the war six years ago, a loss that affected the boss heavily."


After Woodifield leaves, the boss sits down at his table to inform his clerk that he does not want to be disturbed. He is extremely perturbed at the sudden reference to his dead son, and expects to weep but is surprised to find that he can't. He looks at his son's photo, and thinks it bears little resemblance to his son, as he looks stern in the photo, whereas the boss remembers him to be bright and friendly. The boss then notices a fly struggling to get out of the inkpot on his desk. The boss helps it out of the inkpot and observes how it dries itself. When the fly is dry and safe, the boss has an idea and starts playing with the fly by dropping ink on it. He admires the fly's courage and continues dropping ink on it, watching it dry itself continuously.

By this time, the fly is weak and dies. The boss throws the dead fly, along with the blotting paper, into the wastepaper basket, and asks his clerk for fresh blotting paper. He suddenly feels a wretchedness that frightens him and finds himself bereft. He tries to remember what it was he had been thinking about before, but has no recollection of what he was thinking about before the fly


Klitschko is your fly. He keeps getting up and trying. Won't go away. Needs dealing with.

 

Find something new to talk about and I'll consider gracing you with my engagement.

 

Jesus, get a shrink. :mut:

 

But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of...But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop.

What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, "You artful little b..." And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.

It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen.
"Come on," said the boss. "Look sharp!" And he stirred it with his pen -- in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.
The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey.

"Bring me some fresh blotting-paper," he said sternly,"and look sharp about it." And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was...He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.

 

This was a Ruddock thread. Look at the Chronology. Your boy brought up WK, not me. Go on, have a look.

 

Read the extract. Just have a read of it.

 

Go on, find something new to argue about.

 

Ruddock's success wasn't based on things he could teach others to do. Unlikely he makes a good trainer.

The best Wlad is one of the best heavies ever. Only a few guys could be favored over him, none more than slight favorites.