Merry MAXI Morons

The UK has some of the greatest boxing fans in the world.

Their devotion to the sport has been rewarded: supporting their fighters and paying to attend matches has brought them about a dozen world-level champs, more than Italy, France and Germany combined.

The UK also has two of the best boxing commentators in the world, in John Rawling and Adam Smith. Neither of them has an obvious flaw, compared to their American counterparts, like slightly-whiny Al Bernstein, goofus-voice "experts" Teddy Atlas or Max Kellerman, lemony over-age preppie Jim Lampley or the blowhard jackass "Colonel" Bob Sheridan.

If they have a tendency to babble about whether or not someone is fighting "off the back foot" or not, that's a very minor complaint. (NOBODY ever seemed to notice what part of the fucking foot a boxer was fighting off of, till this shitty 21st Century. Certainly not Don Dunphy, Howard Cosell, Al Albert, Ferdie Pacheco, Larry Merchant or others who called the great fights of the 60's, 70's, 80's and even 90's.)

Too bad the UK has the shittiest COMMERCIALS.

It seems almost all of them are for online betting. Gullible idiots are being dazzled into forgetting that the house makes the money and almost NO gambler actually comes out ahead.

Sky is the worst, because they also encourage the Merry MAXI Morons. This is a cheap company marketing some bogus pill.

Right, some dimwit Grimsby blimp thinks he'll chug this shit, and somehow have the physique and stamina of an Anthony Joshua or Ricky Burns?

The most annoying thing about this particular shitty commercial is that the cheap fucks who run MAXI are such pussies. Instead of a 30-second spot, they will ONLY buy 5 seconds.

The idea is to be as pesty as possible. A round ends? Have a sudden five second reminder: show the bottle and run a discordant minor key jingle. The music sounds like it should accompany video of a dog shitting: legs quiver and lower, and SPLAT. Listen next time, and you'll agree.

This naggy bit of musical turdness is supposed to REMIND you of what a great product the MAXI is. No, it reinforces: "I WILL MAKE IT A POINT TO NEVER BUY YOUR SHITTY PRODUCT." Or, putting it another way, "You'll get NONE of my CUSTOM."

It's a relief when a match is on Pay Per View, or a commercial-free channel. Then, the worst you get, in terms of commercial intrusion, is seeing the ringposts and slippery canvas festooned with "RAINMAN STEEL." This is a reminder that autistic people are hard at work creating products that will buckle and collapse in a crisis.

Once the fight is underway, and Rawling or Smith get into it, the only distraction is the "color" man, the ex-fighter giving special insights. Only the ex-fighter is either from Scotland or is black, and only every other word will be intelligible. Maybe you'll get a white fighter they've taken pity on, and he'll be fairly brain damaged and look like Geoff Dunn and mumble like Barry Gooker.

Another thing we don't need is the bawling ring announcer, the ugly goon with the gravel voice, or the freaky hairstyle, or the megalomaniac howl. YOU ain't doin' SHIT, standing there getting over-excited in announcing fighter names. Too many of these oafs figure if they can't be classy, they should just act like sea lions. And who invented this inane mantra: "The judges are ready, the fighters are in the ring and THEY are ready...ladies and gentlemen...are YOU READY?"

Yes, to fire a bee-bee gun into your crotch. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Introduce the goddam fighters and let's dispense with their national anthems. Anthems are designed to polarize the crowd. It's racist. The idea is to scream for the home fighter and boo even the national anthem from the opposition. It's "us against that greasy wop...that mongoloid Serb...that gooky Asian...that slimy Spic...that retarded Pole..." People are prejudiced enough without getting angry over listening to some moron's shitty national anthem for two minutes.

The boxers are already in a fighting mood. Is does nothing to piss off people sitting at home. What are we supposed to do, sublimate our fever-pitch rage by drinking a pitcher of beer? Great. After the fight, the boxers towel off, and the spectators all have to change into dry underwear.