I can’t fight it anymore. I’m giving in to the peer pressure of the boxing biz.
Welcome to my new, revamped identity– Scoop Magno!
I was a fool for thinking that anybody actually wanted to read the truth about stuff. Obviously, it’s just better to makes shit up along the way while wearing my agendas like a 20 lb. overcoat. Critical thinking be damned! Being a boxing scribe is about clicks, ego gratification, and sharing slaps on the back with moldy-shoed members of the writing fraternity.
By the way, did you see what I did with the title of this Rant? (And, no, this article will not be about Manny Pacquiao)
One of the things that I learned recently was that you can make any stupid statement you like, but if you add a question mark at the end, you’re protected from legal action. So, this way, you can float rumors or half-truths out there, yet still fall back on ignorance.
“Huh? Me? I’m just asking the question!”
Even boxing’s pseudo-journalists, who toss around words like “due diligence,” apparently have no real, burning need to put agendas aside in the face of possible cheap publicity. Why should some bomb-throwing hack like me worry about these issues?
Recently, we saw Floyd Mayweather and Peter Quillin not-so-indirectly labeled as PEDs cheats by a couple of douchey and douchier members of the media without so much as a scrap of evidence. Obviously, everything must be fair game these days.
I just have to figure out where I fit in.
There are the metrosexual big shot scribes who play-act journalist and cling to social media as though there were an IV drip running directly from their iPhone to their id, ego, and super-ego.
We have the fake mean bloggers who are “tough” and “no nonsense,” but secretly long for angry, rough reach-arounds from members of the Fraternal Order of Buffet Divers.
The third group consists of the penny-click crew. Guys who get paid by the click and only exist to pander to whichever group clicks on their poorly written, factually incorrect articles.
Maybe I can combine all three and create a mutant mega-scribe capable of making 100 bucks per five minutes of writing work, all the while hanging on Twitter like a teenage girl and diddling myself to old copies of Ring Magazine. I would be unstoppable!
Then, I could write gushingly beautiful tributes to tragic figures such as Johnny Tapia and Paul Williams, all the while knowing that every word I say is fake.
Like the others, I’d only be able to actually respect the fighters in the past tense. Active fighters would incur my scorn and be branded as “bums” and frauds. I’d work to marginalize fighters like Paul Williams for having the nerve to hire the “wrong” management. I’d push to make it clear that fighters are overpaid. Of course, if they should die or get paralyzed, though, I’d drop all that nastiness and be the first in line to shed a tear.
What a wonderful world it would be for me.
I could have a few beers and smoke some cigars after covering a card from ringside. I’d update my Facebook/Twitter accounts with pictures of me scowling pensively at ringside. Then I’d go back to watch Sex and the City reruns while pondering the wonderfully delicious brutality of Jack Dempsey.
But, unlike the others, I’d eventually get tired of selling out my integrity and dignity for the sake of playing minor celebrity to a niche audience. At some point, I’d have the decency to put the barrel of a shotgun in my mouth and blow my brains out.
You can email Paul at firstname.lastname@example.org or watch him as he frantically shuts down the site to remove any and all homoerotic references regarding old issues of Ring Magazine. Paul is a full member of the Burger King Kids’ Club, a born iconoclast, and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church.