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Category: boxing

Float Like A Breezeblock, Sting Like A Ballistic Missile

Float Like A Breezeblock, Sting Like A Ballistic Missile

I always liked watching Mike Tyson box because he fights like he’s got somewhere to be in about 20 minutes and he really doesn’t want to be late. He’s usually halfway to the locker room before his opponent hits the floor. Of course, he somehow manages to get lost on the way back to his corner, but there’s four corners to choose from so I can see how he’d get confused.

I even enjoy watching his interviews because it’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck as he slurs and spits his way through every syllable. It makes you appreciate how some humans are built to do one thing and one thing only. While some people are natural-born accountants or used car salesmen, Mike Tyson is a janitor — he takes whoever is within arm’s length and mops the floor with them. He takes out the trash like you wouldn’t believe, and it appears that he really likes his job.

I’d like my job too if I got sent a six-figure check for a match that had a longer weigh-in than actual fight. That seems like a pretty good deal.

What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger


Boxing was great back in the day. This was the greatest of the great, I think.

They called this the Fight of the Century. If you’re an oldster, it can be hard to wrap your head around the fact that it’s referring to the last century. This century has its own problems and satisfactions. Back when this fight earned its name, referring to the “last century” meant you were talking about a century with Queen Victoria and the Civil War in it.

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I Miss Boxing

I Miss Boxing

I assume boxing still exists in some form or fashion. Like a lot of sports, it doesn’t matter anymore, which is the same as being extinct to me. They have that wan replacement with barefoot guys with manbuns rolling around on the mat and barfighting occasionally. I’m not interested. Barfighting ain’t boxing.

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But That’s Too Many Things!

But That’s Too Many Things!

Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Manny. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. The Manny, he called himself the Manny. Now, Manny — Manny didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.

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