A few days ago I flounced into the living room and discovered The Mister watching a boxing match on television. Because I consider boxing to be little more than a couple men trying to punch each other in the face while hopping around in a satiny square, I was less than enthused. Now, I realize there's more to the sport than what I see, because if it were just a couple random people putting on gloves and getting into bitchfights, and being paid millions of dollars to do so, every bonehead in America would be getting in on the action. I know there's timing and jabbing and shucking and jiving and God only knows what else, but to me it's still just a couple of dudes wearing some fancy shorts and puffy gloves jumping around and swinging their arms trying to see who can get the other bloody first.
However, I am incapable of watching a competitive activity without selecting a side to cheer for. I could be watching Canadian transsexual bikini logrolling; it doesn't matter. I am compelled to cheer for somebody, no matter how disinterested I may be in the contest itself. So when I saw the boxing on television I had to determine who was going to be the lucky recipient of my goodwill. There was no clear underdog in this fight, so I had to pull out the heavy artillery: Their outfits. One of the boxers was wearing rather nondescript trunks. They were tan and black with the words "2 pound" on the waistband. Eh, not spectacular, but I could accept it. But when I laid my eyes on the other fool in the ring my choice was clear. His trunks were bright green with gaudy tangerine fringe dangling around the waist and down the side of each leg. As if that weren't enough of an affront to athletic fashion sensibilities, there were tassles. Tassles, people. His trunks looked just like the drapes my parents had in their bedroom that matched the orange shag carpet. In 1977.
My choice was clear. I announced to my husband that I was cheering for 2 Pound.
"Which one is he?"
"The one who isn't dressed like the goddamn New Years Eve buffet table at a Bangkok whorehouse."
However, I am incapable of watching a competitive activity without selecting a side to cheer for. I could be watching Canadian transsexual bikini logrolling; it doesn't matter. I am compelled to cheer for somebody, no matter how disinterested I may be in the contest itself. So when I saw the boxing on television I had to determine who was going to be the lucky recipient of my goodwill. There was no clear underdog in this fight, so I had to pull out the heavy artillery: Their outfits. One of the boxers was wearing rather nondescript trunks. They were tan and black with the words "2 pound" on the waistband. Eh, not spectacular, but I could accept it. But when I laid my eyes on the other fool in the ring my choice was clear. His trunks were bright green with gaudy tangerine fringe dangling around the waist and down the side of each leg. As if that weren't enough of an affront to athletic fashion sensibilities, there were tassles. Tassles, people. His trunks looked just like the drapes my parents had in their bedroom that matched the orange shag carpet. In 1977.
My choice was clear. I announced to my husband that I was cheering for 2 Pound.
"Which one is he?"
"The one who isn't dressed like the goddamn New Years Eve buffet table at a Bangkok whorehouse."
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