Well it's fight night here over at Chez Folo, so at approximately 8:00 P.M. local time, another group of unappreciative ingrates will descend on my lair to leech a viewing of a pay-per-view card they wouldn't pay for themselves. And what tidings and offerings might they bring for me, the man footing the bill for this highly anti-anticipated Manny Pacquiao-Chris Algieri mega-stinker from Macau? An optimistic projection might include a six pack of beer, a bag of sour cream potato chips, a half-empty jar of peanuts, and a cigar that I have no interest in. So I figured I ought to lay out some ground rules, let everyone know what's what so they don't end up facing the greatest indignity known to man: eviction, lifetime ban, and my eternal disdain.
The host will come strapped with two avocados. One will be used at the first mention of Algieri's nutritionist tendencies: "What kind of a douche likes avocados, huh?" **Pulls out avocado, flashes crowd wry smile. Classic gag.
The second avocado will be gloriously produced in the unlikely event of an Algieri victory. As the room sinks into despair at the realization that the Pacquiao era is officially over, I simply toss the avocado up and down in one hand, like George Raft flipping a dime, and say, "Yep, that's my guy." (Note-Might call an audible and use the same avocado for both gambits.)
Jim Lampley is the greatest play-by-play man in the history of the sport. Don't be an arseface and try to do his job for him. And hey, dude who's a friend of a friend: Chill out with the "Zing!", "Bang!", "Boom!" every time a punch lands-what is this, the Batman TV show from the 60s? Relax, pal.
If Pacquiao can exhibit the same accuracy as the guy who perpetually fumbles a sour cream chip onto the ground and inadvertently steps on it, we should all be in for a treat.
Hey, social drinker guy who couldn't care less about boxing but is all over any excuse to get together and hang with the brohams, your over-enthusiastic faux-fandom during the fights has taken my buzz lower than Julio Cesar Chavez Jr. getting the results of a drug test. You're raving like a wild lunatic as though we're witnessing some cross between the Rumble in the Jungle and Hagler-Hearns and I didn't even see a punch land. Why don't you head outside, grab another smoke break. You've only had seven in the hour you've been here, you Johnny-come-lately, bandwagon hopping turncoat.
Hey, last-minute guy, you say you doubt you can make it and then call twenty minutes before the main event asking if you can bring four people....NO.
Hey, dude who's not hungry when we order food, doesn't throw in any money then mysteriously develops an appetite when everyone's done eating and there are leftovers...no, you can't just have a slice or two, you calculating, cheap fuck.
Hey, guy who predicts an upset every time with no logical basis for it hoping if it ever happens you'll look like a genius and we'll all forget about your long, undistinguished track record of faulty prognostications, we won't forget, you don't know what the hell you're talking about, and the first time you saw Algieri was in 24/7 two weeks ago.
Comrades, you are a solid crew or I wouldn't have invited you in the first place. But seriously, stop acting like a bunch of rank amateurs. This is a delicate operation. I'm the one hosting and paying for this mess. I want to enjoy it on my terms. We simply can't have you mucking this up. Thank you for the peanuts and the Michelob, now let's sit down, root for a bloodbath, and conduct ourselves like men. Like men!