punch_drunk raze we're the only animal that pays to watch two of our own kind try to kill each other while wearing padded gloves and jockstraps tucked into shiny bathing suits. even the meat-eating dinosaurs were more merciful than that. they ripped the shit out of whatever they wanted to eat or end, and they moved on. we need to dignify our dances with death and disfigurement. we created a ten-point scoring system and a list of rules no one follows or enforces anymore. there's no dignity in being ignored by your corner when you tell them something's wrong between rounds, or puking backstage after losing a slugfest they're calling a fight of the year contender, or suffering a massive stroke when your swollen brain has passed the point of no return. twenty million dollars from the state of new york won't buy back what the fists of a cuban fighter took from you. bloated children with too much heart for their own good are fed to prospects to pad their records all the time. tomato cans, they call them. if you're lucky, you still know who you are at the end of the twelfth round, even if your words fall out of your mouth slow and thick and sloppy. even if you can't breathe through your broken nose. even if you can't take a shot anymore. maybe you get one last chance to prove yourself after eating a few thousand punches to provide for your family. maybe you get blown out in three rounds by some nobody you could have handled with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back when you were in your prime, and then your thirteen-year-old daughter gets to mop up the mess on social media, learning something about her own punch resistance when she reads the comments of keyboard warriors who think it would have been funny if her dad died in the ring. there's a reason they call it the cruelest sport. 220221 what's it to you? who go blather from