It’s your old pal Jesus here, just basking in your endless justifiable “thank you’s” for aligning the stars properly in the last few weeks. Not for that corny eclipse of course, but something even more inspiring, the fight of this young-yet century: it’s The Abuser vs. The Boozer, The Wordy Mic vs. The Dirty Prick, and The Spud Eater vs. The Crud Reader. Normally I don’t get involved with such trivial human affairs, but since I almost came back to earth in the time it took Floyd and Pacquiao to get into the goddamn ring, I wasn’t waiting around this time.
So tonight in a few short hours we have the biggest fight, and even more importantly to all my fellow Ace Rothstein’s out there, the biggest betting night of the millennium. Since I was known as Je-zee the Meek for my betting prowess back in the day, until some unfortunate “high thighs” comments, I’ve decided to annoint the winner by dusting off my old bookie notebook and making my blessed cruci-pick:
Conor by knockout in the first round. The second he nails Floyd, it’s over. And I should know a little something about being nailed.
Now I know what some of you are saying, that sounds mysteriously close to the same exact pick as Mulligan. Well I do move in mysterious ways. As a matter of fact, speaking of which that bean dip Mary Magdalane brought to my fight party isn’t sitting well with some of the guests. My bowels are about to move in some mysterious ways any minute. By the way, if anyone wanted an answer to the age-old riddle, “Can god take a shit so big that even he can’t flush it?”, he just came out of my bathroom. The answer is a resounding yes.
But anyway, the absurd odds notwithstanding, I pray you bet all forty of your pieces of silver on McGregor. Take no thought for the ‘morrow. I can’t even understand those stupid odds anyway. What happened to something decipherable, like ten-to-one? Now it’s all crap like “minus two hundred, plus two million.” And I thought John 3:16 was confusing. All I know is any Judas who betrays normal odds for that stupid dollar form is getting a ticket straight to hell. In coach.
As the best cutman of biblical times, with my ability to make blind men see, I happen to know betting on Floyd’s judgment day is only for wise men. Everyone always asks, what would I do, right? Well listen up you clowns because now I’m finally telling you. If you want to get spanked by your bookie, then bet Floyd and turn the other cheek, but if you don’t want your finances to be a sacrificial lamb, listen to me and earn another week.
I just wish someday I could thank Conor for all the Emerald green he’s about to make me, but we all know Irish people can’t get into heaven.
I remain, messianically,
Jesus Herbert Christ