In his off time, Chael Sonnen lolls around on a throne of endangered Spotted Owl skulls; an idle trickster god whose colorless eyes -like flecks of diamond– pinwheel in their sunken sockets, waltzing madly in step with his prolonged mirthless laughter at the morbid joke that encompasses all human endeavor, albeit particularly the NSAC*.
Bruce Lee said, be like water and that’s what Sonnen does. Sometimes he surges like a rogue wave, leaving a wide wake of flotsam, jetsam and drowning sailors. Then, just when he’s about to crest majestically he instead spirals wildly down the drain, seemingly pulling the entire sport into his inexorable downward vortex. Still, like water, Sonnen is always self-leveling.
The man can sell a pay-per-view. He’s a rain-maker. Like Moses striking water from the rock he’ll open up that fat cock-a-doodle-do of a voice, split billfolds and quench the dry land. Chael Sonnen is competing at Metamoris, come hell or high water.
And if they’re lucky, he might let the NSAC take a sip.