Minute-by-Minute: ‘Street Certified'

He also romanticized it, particularly the exploits of Muhammad Ali, elevating what was superficially a cruel and unforgiving bit of sadism into a kind of art.

He's gone now but I imagine he would regard human flask David "Tank" Abbott taking on hobo-mauling Kevin "Kimbo Slice" Ferguson like he had just been served a dead rat on toast. This is pugilism at its most primitive, absent of any historical value or artistic texture.

But as regular readers can attest, Mailer I'm not: I loved every cheese-whizzed minute of it. Time-stamped exposition follows.

EliteXC's live telecast begins on pay channel Showtime, a home of genitalia-free pornography, which is a concept roughly as oxymoronic as any potential mention of "Abbott's strategy."

There's our first reference to Slice being a "YouTube sensation." Not exactly a ringing endorsement, considering that most videos there involve someone vomiting, pooping or vomiting poop.

Verbally incontinent Mauro Ranallo introduces himself, sheet after sheet of pre-prepared and overcooked similes already memorized. Color commentator Bill Goldberg's frame makes Ranallo look like a frosty-tipped Hobbit.

Slice arrives at the arena with a "police escort." This cannot be an unusual occurrence.

Time for James Thompson (Pictures) to take on Brett "The Grim" Rogers. I thought I missed the "Reaper," but after rewinding, it is indeed simply "Grim."

I ponder the lack of creativity in MMA nicknames, then remember such boxing luminaries as Friday "the 13th" Ahunanya and Owen "What the Heck" Beck. Peace is quickly made with Rogers.

Thompson enters looking leaner than he did during his Pride days but no less a trembling psychopath.

"GAHHH!" A spastic Thompson fake-butts the cameraman, who retreats in fear, Blair Witch-style.

Thompson forgoes his usual windmill imitation and gets an immediate clinch-to-takedown. Rogers pops right back up.

Rogers connects, paralyzing Thompson's nervous system and sending him down for an impromptu canvas inspection.

Fans can now be assured that EliteXC beats Pride, thus ending heated Internet debate on the subject and allowing them to resume dialogue on Die Hard vs. Terminator.

We're treated to clips of Kimbo Slice charming a scared audience on "Jimmy Kimmel Live!" (Exclamation point his.) During the original telecast, Kimmel asked Slice if he "had ever been in love with another man," easily the strangest attempt on one's own life ever seen on television.

Yves Edwards (Pictures) and Edson Berto are up next. Whatever Edwards does, I'll always remember him as the guy that broke Aaron Riley (Pictures)'s upper palate. It was the only time I've ever thought that maybe MMA wasn't such a hot idea after all.

American Top Team-groomed Edwards enters with Marcus "Conan" Silveira trailing behind him. Not Robert E. Howard's Conan. The scary one.

The two lightweights exchange body kicks, replete with comic-book "thwack" sound effect.

Edwards escapes a tight guillotine and transitions into a loose kimura.

Defending a single-leg takedown attempt, Edwards launches a knee to Berto's cranium for the finish. Berto is out, complete with pillow and night-light. Multi-tasking at its finest.

Edwards' KO was "faster than the stock market crash of 1929," spews Ranallo, who is beginning to remind me of Dennis Miller. Considering Miller has yet to appear on a show that didn't can his pretentious ass, that's not a compliment.

Backstage, Goldberg chats with Kimbo. Slice's beard is luminescent in HD, reflecting light like it houses tiny bits of glass. It's magnificent.

UFC refugee Scott Smith and Kyle Noke (Pictures) are up next. Smith's stunning desperation KO over Pete Sell (Pictures) is likely to keep him employed for the duration of his career.

Smith and Noke feel each other out. The crowd grows restless. The Dolphins didn't arrive at a 1-15 record by being technical, you know.

A "Meh" round one ends. Smith takes it by virtue of turning it up a little bit at the end.

The listless audience barely gets the "Buh" out in "Booo" before Smith lands a devastating right hand that turns Noke's lights out faster than a stiffed utility company. (That's for you, Mauro.) Outside the cage, EliteXC dancers gyrate tastefully around his motionless frame.

Smith bemoans the absence of pal James Irvin (Pictures), whom he alleges has an infected belly button ring. On the scale of manly injuries, that's just a notch above getting rabies from a toy poodle.

A video unspools of Goldberg training with Slice. The former pro wrestler had once flirted with the idea of entering MMA but opted against it. Smart move. Under "Style," he'd probably have to put down "Tanning."

Time for Antonio Silva and Ricco Rodriguez (Pictures) to test the weight-bearing capabilities of the EliteXC cage.

"As a human being, the jury is still out on Ricco Rodriguez (Pictures)," offers a surprisingly judgmental Goldberg.

Silva is a reasonable 260 pounds, down from 300 after having a pituitary tumor removed from his brain. Just in time, as he was slowly morphing into Rondo Hatton.

Rodriguez looks soft but pounds removed from his Stay-Puft appearance in fights past.

The two giants are cautious. Ricco gets a takedown and begins working. It's enough to earn him the nod for round one.

Ricco opens round two with a Superman punch; considering his flub, it's more George Reeves than Chris Reeve.

Rodriguez is on the bottom, choking on more leather than an S&M fetishist. Two can play this game, Ranallo.

The fight is halted to clean Rodriguez's blood-caked eye. Resuming action, he launches a spinning back kick, his agitated cellulite sloshing like warm pancake batter.

Silva nabs another takedown, swatting at Ricco with ineffectual punches. Rodriguez appears sluggish. Bored, the referee stands them up.

Rodriguez gets a takedown and holds position for the remaining 90 seconds, but it's too late. Two of the judges see it for Silva. Rodriguez is durable, but he appears disinterested in competing against anyone other than Takeru Kobayashi.

Miami recording artist Pitbull warms up the crowd for the main event by barking unintelligibly into the microphone. I bemoan the absence of DJ Hapa, who could at least enunciate his "izzles."

Abbott comes out to a sea of jeers. Never agile, the aging slugger ambles down the ramp as if in slow motion. Credit to him for unflinchingly facing foes on their home turf: Gary Turner (Pictures) in London, Hidehiko Yoshida (Pictures) in Japan, "Cabbage" in Hawaii and now Slice in Florida.

Kimbo enters. The arena practically lactates with excitement. I can't look directly at his beard. I haven't earned it.

Abbott paces the cage, gut hanging menacingly over his shorts.

These two "have more game than a wildlife preserve," utters Ranallo, checking another one off his list.

Abbott looks creaky against Slice, telegraphing his sole weapon -- that big right hand -- to the surprise of no one. Kimbo is able to connect and puts Tank down. The referee intervenes when Slice hits the back of the head. If you've seen Abbott's neck, that's probably the last place you could hurt him.

The two are set to engage again when a fan throws something into the ring. A slice of bread? A visibly annoyed Slice picks it up, autographs it and throws it back into the crowd.

Slice is able to knock Abbott down multiple times, leaving Tank to fish for a takedown that never appears. Finally, his limbs betray him and he stays down; Slice celebrates in the cage as the Miami fans erupt. Tony Montana wouldn't get this kind of reaction.

Was the outcome ever in doubt? At 42, Abbott is 10 years beyond a prime that never really existed. Worse, he refuses to have any kind of contemporary training camp. It's hard to imagine he'd make it through even one Greg Jackson or Shawn Tompkins (Pictures) session. Beyond the inevitable match with Ken Shamrock (Pictures), it might be time to concentrate on his autobiography.

And Slice? He obviously doesn't lack in power. He's a lean 235 pounds, with athleticism that's rare among carb-loaded heavyweights of the era. He has a premium camp and coach. At 34, he may be blooming late, but his weight division is easily the most forgiving when it comes to age.

Most importantly, Slice has something you can't teach: charisma, drawing audiences in and injecting his punches with real emotional weight.

Purists might blanch, but there's clearly potential for big box office in Slice's brawl-‘n-maul offensive. A few more performances like the one Saturday night and he stands to gain more admirers of his street sensibilities -- ultimately becoming the kind of draw that even Mailer himself couldn't ignore.

For comments, e-mail jrossen@sherdog.com