Here's the scenario-
You are set to fight the "Polar Bear" Paul Varelans from 1995. He knows only what he knew then about MMA, but remember, he also happens to be 6'8 and 300+ lbs.
You on the other hand, are in your current shape, have a closet full of TapOut gear with more skulls and dragons than you could shake a stick at, and have current, modern-day knowledge about the sport of MMA.
Give me a good laugh and outline how you would destroy him in a fight.
With a SuperSoaker and full armament of tazers, cattle prods, and stun grenades. 
Bright shiny lights and a picnic basket. Once he starts gazing and grazing, I'd slap on a RNC and Ol' Yogi Varlens is done.
Clint, I'm gonna guess that you probably had a mullet at the time?
lots of closing the distance. I do not want to get hit by a full power punch from him.
I think I could get a takedown on him if I drilled low singles for the fight.
Maybe I would go with a clinch and duckunder route. That minimizes the chance I would get hit
If he hit me, I would go out
I will give Varelans this...he doesnt have alotta tap in him...dumb i suppose....you see the beating Kerr and Ruas put on him...Varelans may suck by todays standards..but he showed some serious balz and absorbed alotta punishment in his fights.....
...funny Varelens has only been outa rd 1...1x.... but he was in some long round 1's....
At 6'8" and around 320-325, I think we'd have a Helluva roll.
But, I would not be looking forward to it.
Someone post a gif of Tank Abbott smiling to the crowd as he grabbed the fence whilst kneeling on 'the Polar bears' face. Epic.
He'd have to catch me first.
WaltJ - Here's the scenario-
You are set to fight the "Polar Bear" Paul Varelans from 1995. He knows only what he knew then about MMA, but remember, he also happens to be 6'8 and 300+ lbs.
You on the other hand, are in your current shape, have a closet full of TapOut gear with more skulls and dragons than you could shake a stick at, and have current, modern-day knowledge about the sport of MMA.
Give me a good laugh and outline how you would destroy him in a fight.
Pre-fight - Bruce Beck and Jeff Blatnick commentate. As per usual for that time, while professional sounding, their knowledge of jiu jitsu positions and striking techniques is extremely limited. They speak vaguely about the made up Art Davie martial arts, like "trap-fighting" and "SAFTA." Bruce Buffer gives fighter introductions. The usual Bruce delivery and the Buffer 180 and the 360 are noticeably absent. This is an alternate slot in the UFC 7 tournament (the one where, in the real world, Marco Ruas leg kicked Paul's leg into oblivion to win the final.) There are no rounds, just 20 minutes of continuous fighting. The only fouls are no eye gouging, no groin strikes, and no biting.
I am introduced as a practitioner of an exotic style called, "Fuk Yu Tu." I am 5'11", 185 lbs of indistinct muscle with a slight paunch. I think back about how was Varelans beaten and of the people who have beaten him, which used tactics I could replicate? I am terrified as I realize, I am not Marco Ruas and I know I am definitely not Igor Vovchanchin. Ruas' is probably the better gameplan, but I suck, so it will be a problem.
I'm wearing some modified Harbingers (remember those?) to protect my hands and some simple adidas basketball shorts, as I hate Tapout, Venum, Affliction, Silver Star, Warrior International, Deathclutch, Dethrone, and all that other skull, cross, and chain shit.
Paul is 6'8", 300 lbs of muscle and large amounts of thick, burly fat. He's massive and is wearing a cross between a singlet and a unitard. Normally, people would assume gayness, but he's fucking huge and think better of it. Jef Blatnick wonders if I'll survive. Bruce Beck notes Paul has opted not to wear gloves.
After some quick prelimnaries, Big John starts us off.
Paul charges across the cage and then stops right in front of me. Intelligent people would normally have continued to run at me/through me/over me, but since Paul is stupid, I get to push kick his chest. I stagger backward because he weighs so much. Beck is impressed, but Blatnick tries to corral him back to reality. Paul lunges forward with a badly timed haymaker that misses. Remembering Ruas' tactics, I aim for his left thigh and leg kick as hard as I can. I continue this tactic as much as possible. Every time Paul rushes forward he eats a leg kick to his left leg.
I'm constantly moving and circling around the lumbering and gigantic mass of fat and muscle in front of me. Paul tries for a takedown. Because he has no real skill, he doesn't shoot in or try for a clinch, he just bends his body inward, and charges forward with his hands out. I land a stiff jab that gives him a bloody nose and slows him down, but he keeps plodding forward.
I know that me getting in a brawl with him is tantamount to death. As he could probably get hit by a man carrying a baseball bat and he would still drag himself forward. He always won by attrition and size. He had no skills, no power, no speed, no intelligence, no grace, no cardio, and no charisma, but he could get hit. A lot. I have to be careful if I throw many punches at him, it brings me into mauling range. So I continue to move and leg kick. Every few kicks he lunges for a takedown and eats a stiff jab or a cross from me. Blatnick is pleased as he is now less worried he might be in the PPV broadcast booth during a death in the cage. Maybe this "Fuk Yu Tu" guy can win?
The crowd is booing, this fight sucks. A fat fuck, baby huey looking, motherfucker is getting kicked in the leg repeatedly by some small asshole that's constantly running away. Since crowds in those days were one step away from being retarded, they are booing like crazy. And even if they knew what they were watching, to an educated fan, this is still like watching paint dry.
It's getting bad. It's 5 minutes in and I'm getting tired. I'm out of shape and it's showing now. Paul has the same problem, but is dealing better. He's breathing heavy, but still has enough air to get the job done. He has a nice red welt on his left thigh. Every once and awhile I throw in a teep or a sidekick to his knee every time he put his weight on that leg. I've probably kicked him a little over two dozen times, but he doesn't seem to understand or comprehend defense. It's the same moves over and over. The only thing that's saving him is how bad I suck.
6 minutes in, Paul gets a takedown. It's disgusting. He smells like milk. And onions. It's like having a rancid cow on top of you. I immediately get guard and he tries ground and pound. I get tagged twice and it hurts but I can keep going. I tie him up from bottom and get worried because he's too strong for me to keep it up. He puts all his weigh on me and I start punching him in the side of the head. I can't sweep or reverse, he's too heavy and I suck. I try a Mirko Cro-cop push off and it sort of works, only it's a scramble and I end up turtled on bottom. Luckily, he's so stupid he doesn't know what to do. I hit a bottom switch and get out.
It's perfect. He's on all fours. I soccer kick him as hard as I can with my right leg. I think I broke my foot and it didn't KO him. He gets on his knees, I lean over, put my weight on him, get the thai clinch and start kneeing away.
At 8 minutes, after landing about a dozen knees to his head, I get off him and walk away. I'm exhausted. I'm breathing heavy now. He gets up. Beck mentions something retarded about "a show of class" for letting Varelans up. Varelans' face is cut but not disfigured. He's bleeding form his nose and mouth and he has a multiple cuts on his forehead. But he keeps coming forward. He's much slower now, just plodding along, which I welcome.
After a minute or so of nothing but circling (and regaining my breathe) I continue the old strategy, leg kicks. Circle, move, leg kick. Paul doesn't try anymore takedowns he doesn't have enough speed to move forward to get one.
Time slows down. The fight is boring as fuck now. The crowd wants to kill me. They're throwing shit in the cage. Beer bottles, popcorn bags, papers, bottle caps, anything and everything.
When we reach the 17 minute mark, I am moving slowly. The only reason I'm alive is Paul is moving slower. He's totally spent. I can tell I broke my hand from jabbing his head in during one of the few exchanges in the past few minutes. Holy crap, his head is hard. Another minute, and I try to muster up harder kicks. I feint a cross and throw a rear leg leg kick as hard as I can. He stumbles forward and then goes down. Timber.
Before he hits the ground, I'm running forward. I'm exhausted but still have enough left for ten seconds of a sprint attack. I get knee on stomach and wail away. It's not working. This asshole is impossible to stop and back then, you had to be near death for them to stop it. He goes for my legs. I'm almost out of gas, but so is he.
After a moments rest, I explode. I flatten him back out and get the crucifix position. I land elbow after elbow. He can't get up. He's too tired and he has so little intelligence and skill he doesn't know that with his size and strength he can easily buck me off. After 30 consecutive elbows. Big John stops it.
I roll off him and flat on my back, stare up. John tries to get me to stand up and raise my hand, but I tell him I want to lay down a awhile. Blatnick interviews me from the floor. I tell him fuck SEG, fuck Art Davie, fuck John Peretti over at Extreme Fighting, fuck this ignorant crowd, and I'm officially retired.
Oh, and this is all bullshit.
I dont know if they banned the groin strike be then by if not I would put a two piece on his nuts and follow up with a hair grab to flurry of stikes to the head in hopes of a quick stoppage
global warming- I take away his ice sheets and he cannot feed
Peoria Athletic Club - id be sore... but he'd be limping out of the cage.
Beep?
At 5'7" 165,I'd think Ruas' strategy would be the only one that would stand a chance, pick away at the legs, stay out of reach,if he finally hit the ground, rear naked choke for all I was worth. (Actually the answer for me would be steel toe boots and brass knucks.)
Remember his fight with Igor V?!!
Got your work cut our for ya.
Late 90's guy I know (6'7" 280) who was a recent graduate from a solid NCAA D-IAA football team (OL) gets into it with a smaller (5'10" 180?) but tough guy who seemed to have some skills, which makes sense since he started the altercation. He obviously had some confidence because it sure didn't 'look' like a great idea.
Little guy had fast hands and landed a couple early shots, he dropped back and quickly moved in to let those fast hands fly once more. Oh but one problem, 6'7" 280 guy put both his hands around little guys neck lifted him off the ground and slammed his head into a nearby parked car. This knocked little guy absoultly loopy and split his head wide open. Fight over. And the only thing to do was hope it didn't turn into a manslaughter charge because little confident badass guy with decent hands DID NOT LOOK WELL.
No booze involved either. Everyone stone cold sober.
Like Buddy Ryan said: "There is a place for a good small man in football. It's just not across from a good big man".
I would leg kick him into a living death.