Bad announcing, bad reasoning, and the hypothetical “bad boy” that all ladies love are each on my mind-piece at the moment:
UFC Fright Night – After the unceremonious and unnecessary replacement of twenty-year announcer Mike Goldberg by the new douchebag owners of the UFC, fight fans around the globe got to be introduced to the abysmal choice that is his replacement: Who The Fuck Cares McGee. McGee proceeded to make Marv Albert doing commentary in his panties seem respectable. I fortunately got to be subjected to his blithering idiocy for only one fight, Derrick Lewis’ brutal knockout of Travis Browne, but it was bad enough that they should have tossed him into the cage after the bout like chum. McGee seemed to lack the stomach for what he was calling, at one point crying, “Get out of there Travis!” like he was Ronda Rousey (Travis’ chick) before later fretting, “Now it’s panic mode,” during another punishing sequence. Hey assface, let the fuckin fight speak for itself without adding your vaginal emotional statements. His basic lack of understanding of the sport was maddening as well, like when he excitedly pointed out after a flurry of punches, “He’s landing rights, lefts, you name it,” or the even more expert analysis of, “His kick really packs a punch.” His kick really packs a punch? Fuckin seriously? And it’s not like his nerdish lack of fight knowledge was offset by some sort of supreme verbal ability, as he touted Lewis’ “262 pounds of behomethness.” McGee also made no mention of the dangerously late stoppage that was one of the most incompetent in recent memory. This is what the fuck the UFC got rid of Goldie for? They better hope Joe Rogan never leaves or their broadcast team is fucked.
When Irish Eyes Are Smelling – Recently raking a slab of green goodness across my Schwarzenegger-esqeu physique whilst showering, it struck me as kind of an odd ethno-based product. I mean, why “Irish” Spring? Are we Mics known for our scent? Besides whiskey-breath of course. I suppose cleanliness is next to drunkenness. Then again, we’re definitely a superior choice to certain smellier ethnicities. Could you imagine buying a product called “Polish Spring?” You’d unwrap the box and it’d be a big lump of shit—the perfect tool to provide the authentic stench of downtown Warsaw. Instead, from Belfast to Boston you hear a chorous of, “Ah might be ‘ammered, but I smell fookin terrific.” I guess it’s because alcohol is a natural disinfectant.
The Cure For What Ailes Ya – Six months ago perennial leading candidate for World’s Sexiest Man and Brad Pitt’s stunt double Roger Ailes was shockingly bombarded with allegations of sexual harassment. Like most people, I naturally assumed such ridiculous claims stemmed from the scores of lust-crazed women shamelessly throwing themselves at him—which no doubt is a daily hazard for a man of such high-powered sexuality—but amazingly it seems the acquisitions may indeed have had a shred of validity when Captain Handsome resigned from Fox News in July 2016. Then instead of thanking their lucky stars that a walking aphrodisiac like Ailes deigned to glance in their direction, these so-called women actually had the audacity to charge him with a crime. For what? Stealing their hearts? An investigation was launched, which reportedly came to a halt yesterday when Ailes was offered immunity from prosecution. Well of course he was. The leader of the investigation was a woman for goodness sakes. Once she feasted her eyes on a beefcake like Ailes during testimony, she wouldn’t possibly be able to stop her legs from uncontrollably opening. Then she’d fall over during questioning. You can’t have that in a courtroom.