The original Nibbling Fight Club, founded in 1871.
Do you sense that you are not special?
That you are not a beautiful or unique snowflake?
That you are the same decaying organic
matter as everything else?
This is your life, and it’s ending
one minute at a time.
The Lesser Minnesota
Association of Fight Clubs
You might die at any moment.
Why not go out fighting?
Uff da! You betcha there ain’t nobody more qualified to tell the tale of the Nibbling Fight Club than us—Diddly Squat, proud founder of the Zilch Gang and unofficial Mayor of Broken Noses.
Fightin’s in our blood, don’tcha know. Runs thicker than Aunt Lorna’s Jell-O salad. My pappa had it in his blood too—though we got no earthly clue who the heck he is. Could be a raccoon for all we know. And Hector’s Papa? Oh ya, he had fightin’ blood so potent he coulda drop-kicked a moose.
Now Hector’s Papa, that’d be Durden Klumpp. A local legend. A man of mystery, muscle, and mildly suspicious cologne. We respect him so much it makes our teeth hurt. He’s the one who unlocked the dusty doors of the Nibbling Fight Club and blew the cobwebs to kingdom come, way back when we were knee-high to his titanium knees (courtesy of ‘Nam—and by that we mean the war, not the Vietnamese restaurant in Duluth).
But hold your lutefisk, we gotta go back even further. All the way to 1871, when the Lesser Minnesota Association of Fight Clubs was founded. Yup, you heard right. There once was hundreds of clubs dotting the flatlands like potholes in April. And right here in Nibbling, our club’s got photos of generations of happy violence—bleeding lips, cauliflower ears, and broken noses so crooked they could open a bait shop.
Then came the Dark Times. A fog rolled in—figuratively and literally, on account of Roger Tedsworthy’s Great Grandpa and his failed fog machine business. Folks stopped fightin’, locked the doors, and took up less noble hobbies like interpretive quilting and indoor ice fishing. Still don’t make no sense.
But wouldn’t ya know it, on the very day Hector was born—bam!—Durden Klumpp kicks down the doors of the Nibbling Fight Club with both titanium legs and a vengeance. Being a Beefy Nihilist to the bone, he don’t venerate no saints. But that sacred day, he swore on his Saint Urho bobblehead that no one with a fire in their belly and a clenched fist would ever be turned away again. Gosh, that gives me goosebumps just thinkin’ about it. Or maybe it’s the draft.
Sure, all the other fight clubs across Minnesota are still shuttered up tighter than a Tupperware of hotdish in a snowstorm. But do we care? Nope. Because right here in Nibbling, we’re keepin’ the dream alive. We host the Society for Beefy Nihilism meetings every Tuesday (BYO existential dread). On Thursdays join the Nietzsche Study Group hosted by the very same Society for Beefy Nihilism. But most importantly, we got nightly sparring sessions for anyone who’s not too busy making soap from human fat, or advancing Project Mayhem, or any other activities subverting the established order and seeking a more chaotic and meaningful existence. .
And here’s another thing that puts us on the map– the humble storage closet at Nibbling Fight Club is the official birthplace of the Nihilist Lites of America (NLA). They’re a gentler, slightly soggier offshoot of us Beefy Nihilists. We don’t judge—but oh fer jeez, we sure don’t understand ‘em either. Hector is their father, bless his indecisive soul. I still cry thinkin’ about the good old days—Hector and me, two kids in the cage, swingin’ wild with love in our hearts and blood in our teeth.
So that’s the story, plain and true as lefse on Christmas. We’re Minnesota nice, don’t let the bruises fool ya. If you ever find yourself in Nibbling, swing by! We’re open 24/7, kitty korner from Old Mother Mayeye’s Bed and Biscuit—just ‘bout the only other place in town worth your time. Sorry Roger, but your Nibbling Cat Rental ain’t exactly drawin’ the crowds. Not like biscuits or bare-knuckle brawls, anyways.
Welcome to Nibbling 