Supposing both men are in their prime and have been fed plenty of red meat, who would pull out of this Taipei Death Match alive and intact? Let’s check out the tale of the tape:
‘The Golden Greek’ John StamosFighting Out Of: Cypress, California
Height: 5’ 10 ½’’
Eye Color: Piercing blue, like the color of foam from a wave having crashed against a Greek isle
Greatest Victory Thus Far: Playing the drums for the Beach Boys, but only during their summer tours. Oh, being featured in some sitcom during the 90’s. Family Matters, I think.
Greatest Defeat: Have you seen his belly button? Almost makes the whole thing not worth it.
Jacques ‘Grab Yo Cock’ Derrida
Fighting Out Of: El Biar, Algeria
Height: Taller than 4’, but less than 8’
Eye Color: Doo doo brown
Greatest Victory Thus Far: Founded deconstructionism. Became a big shot in the realm of continental philosophy and literary theory. Was all about the penis as evident in phallogocentrism.
Greatest Defeat: He didn’t get along too well with his pancreas.
Predictions:
Look, let’s be frank. John Stamos means nothing in the long run of human history, but he’s a stud muffin. Jacques Derrida is the reverse of this. In other words, Stamos stays in shape. Derrida sat around all day thinking. Who has the physical advantage here? Hmmmm…
But Here’s the Kicker:
It’s a Taipei Death Match. According to Wikipedia, a Taipei Death Match
"…is a match where the [contestants‘] fists are taped and dipped into glue and in broken and crushed glass, allowing shards to stick to their fists."
This shit just got real.
Unfortunately for the John Stamos, between writing up a storm on logocentrism and when he pulled a John Lennon and got all political on our asses during the 90’s, Derrida fought a couple of death matches. He won them all.
The Match Itself:
Both men enter the cage. The match naturally begins with a couple of tough talkin’ taunts.
“Hey! Stuttering Stamos! Fuck you!”
“Y-Yeah? Fuck you, Jackass Derrida!”
“It’s JACQUES.”
“Like… Jacques strap? HA!”
John Stamos, being a godforsaken stuttering fool, half steps into a right hook, followed by a stiff left uppercut. Considering that Derrida’s fists are covered in tissue-tearing shards, Stamos is already a bloody mess. Stamos falls flat, then flicks away the stream of crimson. He forgets his hands are covered in glass.
Stamos screams.
Derrida mounts Stamos, but before an avalanche of fists crashes upon the ‘Golden Greek,’ Stamos easily shoves Derrida aside (Derrida would be considered petite by modern standards).
Stamos screams like a banshee, “You pretentious prick, now my chiseled face is as messy as any of your best arguments!”
Derrida don’t play that way, son.
Jacques Derrida, with all of his might, charges at Stamos with his fists like two deadly lances…
Stamos cunningly aims his right-hand fist for the prestigious philosopher’s balls…
Blood flies in opposing directions forming, for a split second, a gruesome red X, anime style, as both men intersect with lightening-fast fury.
Both men collapse.
After what feels like… Two minutes… Stamos raises a quivering hand.
“W-W-When… In doubt… Hit the testicles…”
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The Verdict:
Look, Derrida is smarter than Stamos. This comes as no surprise. Unfortunately, book smarts and a little bit of experience is nothing in the streets, or in this case, the cage. Stamos is street smart. He doesn’t just look like a greaser, he fights like one.
For his Herculean efforts (see what I did there?) Stamos gets an amazing lookin’ mural in his honor:
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