by Fox Doucette
Earlier this week, via Twitter, boxing “writer” (and I use the term loosely, the same way I would call a toddler transcribing his ABCs a “writer”) Gabe Montoya of Max Boxing called out Mark Ortega, who unlike Montoya can actually string words together into sentences that people whose brains are not comprised entirely of tau proteins would want to read. He suggested four rounds to hash out whatever petty little whiny beef Madame Montoya imagined in his head and/or took as a slight when sensible people wouldn’t take themselves so goddamn fucking seriously.
Mind you, I think if Ortega actually took the fight, Montoya would punk out like the little bitch he is. Still, since Gabe Fucking Montoya is so hell-bent on becoming the Boxing Scribe Champion of the World (can we get the WBC to make a belt for this?), I figured why should Mark Ortega have all the fun? Considering my own history (admittedly not on Twitter but rather behind the scenes) with everyone’s favorite self-righteous dipshit boxing acolyte, I’d kind of like to get in the ring with Montoya my ownself, six rounds, using either eight-ounce gloves or (preferably) the gloves Luis Resto used in the Billy Collins fight, the better for me to knock that ugly-ass smirk off of Montoya’s mug and make him look like Rob Frankel after John Molina got through with him on Friday Night Fights.
Ordinarily I would refer beefs with our staff up to the editor-in-chief. The problem here is that Paul is a Klitschko-sized heavyweight who has trained actual fighters in actual boxing matches, and any battle between Paul and a little pipsqueak like Montoya would cease to be “boxing” and cross that unpleasant line into “what would happen if Wladimir Klitschko fought Billy Dib?” Reliable sources tell me that “I’ve stood next to Montoya and he looks like he weighs 150, max, even if dressed in full leather bondage gear and ball gag” (I’m keeping that source anonymous unless he wants to claim credit for it in the comments.)
You can see where that would be problematic for our man Paul. A hundred pounds of weight difference combined with the skill gap would be an attempted murder. Thing is, I walk around at light heavyweight and could pretty easily combine a Chavez Jr.-like dose of temporary dehydration and Acapulco Gold to get down to middleweight at the weigh-in before the fight, slugging Pedialyte and Gatorade to weigh 174 on fight night. It’s not like boxing has never seen a guy with a natural 25-pound weight advantage in an actual fight before.
Style-wise, it’d be a YouTube beatdown worthy of Kimbo Slice. I’m a southpaw (what, you thought this column was titled that just for fun?) with a snapping jab, and my hook to the body’s like a mirror image of Micky Ward (we Massachusetts guys gotta represent.) Montoya couldn’t handle me. I’d knock his damn fool head off, yelling at him like Ali yelled at Terrell all the while.
If that’s still too much for Captain Chickenshit, since he’s not the one dictating the terms in his own favor here, we understand. It’s not easy being a guy who has to steadfastly defend his reputation in the eyes of his sycophant moron readers (one thing my readers decidedly are not is sycophantic, at least if the comments sections on my articles about Manny Pacquiao are anything to go by, and most of the chatter I get on Facebook about these columns comes from women who say things to the effect of “I know nothing about boxing but I love your writing”, and I love them all for it.)
I fully expect this to be the Shakespearean tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Because, like I said, Gabe Montoya is a punk bitch who wouldn’t spend the time eating Steak-Umm and getting up to middleweight to get his ass kicked by a guy who would actually be motivated to kick his ass in a ring. He instead wants to start a Twitter feud and be an Internet tough guy, secure in the knowledge that he’d never have to put his money where his yappy-dog asshole mouth is (not that one can tell Montoya’s mouth from his asshole, since his words and his farts sing in the same key.)
I’m willing to walk the walk. Let’s have someone put up a purse. I’ll donate to the Jimmy Fund if I win. You got a charity, Gabe? Or did you expect to just pocket the dough selfishly?
Oh, and one other thing. Let’s have Russell Mora as the ref. Because one other thing Montoya’s deserving of is a few uppercuts to the forbidden speedbag, and Mora’s just the kind of guy to let that thing slide.
In the words of the legendary Mills Lane, “let’s get it on.”
** Editor’s Note: Any and all harassing emails will be considered “on the record” and subject to publication.**
Fox Doucette covers Friday Night Fights for The Boxing Tribune. His weekly column, The Southpaw, appears on Thursdays. Fan mail, hate mail, and a purse bid on the heavyweight undercard involving fat fuck Carlos Acevedo and our man Paul Magno can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.