So, this is just something I’ve always wondered about: How the hell did Dana White get health insurance for over 300 professional fighters?

And, no, I don’t mean business-wise. I mean physically. I mean . . . just how?

He’s a pretty recognizable figure nowadays, so did he put on a little toupee before trying the larger companies? Did he peddle his insurance requirements for his weird little Zuffa company while using high-pitched, Truman Capote-style vocalizations? Did he wear an anti-fat suit? Or maybe a Groucho Marx novelty mustache-nose-glasses
disguise? Or perhaps some kind of other toupee-heavy disguise? (Whoa whoa whoa . . . calm down on all the toupee jokes, it’s a glandular thing. Or is that for the anti-fat suit joke?)

Was he moments away from getting all his “employees” insured at Farmer’s or AllState when the young, disheveled intern walked in, recognized him, and snatched the toupee off his head? Prompting the manager to say, “Awwwww . . . Dana! Again!? You really can’t keep trying this every week. It’s just not healthy . . . Ha ha. That’s an insurance man’s joke. Now get out, asshat.”

Dana might grumble, “It’s a toupee, but whatever,” as he sullenly walks out and realizes his head does slightly resemble an ass (or rather, just half-an-ass . . .or a single ass cheek).

And this disheartening situation might be the one that led him toward smaller health insurance companies. Insurance companies with names like “Zapp’s” or “BallyWho Organic” or “Hipster Coffee” (coffee so hip, it sells effin’ insurance).

But, really, Dana would pursue insurance companies where he might not be recognized, and ones where they might not have as rigorous an eye for detail (and fundamental questions) as some of the name-brands, and ones where they might be impressed by that suit costing 50,000 Farthings, half a Lamborghini, and eight straw pennies. That suit surely gets him in the door with a higher-up in the shoddy, second-tier insurance providers, but it all quickly unravels as soon as the higher-up jokingly asks, “So what are your employees’ day-to-day activities like? I mean, as long as they don’t get hit in the face or brain for a living, we should have a deal.”

My answer would be one of the long “nooooooooos” ending a little higher-pitched than usual—you know, the one you can clearly tell is a lie. Dana, on the other hand, surely stumbles, only capable of being the caricature of himself he knows he is, able only to speak his mind. . . with a lot of shits and fucks, and not a lot of shits and fucks
given.

“Well . . . It’s just that . . . uh, . . . well, fuck—yes, yes they do get hit in the fuckin’ face for a living! I’m fucking Dana fucking White, you moron!”

And then, one more “Fuck.”

After the ensuing silence, I’m sure an uncharacteristically meek Dana simply said, “Anyway . . . I’ll just see myself out. Bye-bye.”

And that is exactly what I’m going to do, as I’ve liberated all the jokes I can out of this little tirade. Liberated unequivocally, just like General David Petraeus does to both countries and vaginas. Do you think he calls himself The Labiator when he sneaks out of the hotel room, after recently liberating a labia of it’s orgasmlessness?

Anyway. I’ll just see myself out. Bye-bye.