To Fight Or Not To Fight In Rough 'N Rowdy This Friday

Francis4/16/2024 5:10 PM

With the return of a hot Rough 'N Rowdy this Friday, I find myself thinking—as I always do—about whether to throw my hat in the ring for a bout. For the past couple years, I have debated whether or not I should text Dave Portnoy to ask for a fight at Rough 'N Rowdy. It is a challenging calculus, for it carries a slew of upsides and potential downsides.

On the plus side, we've seen numerous examples where a Rough 'N Rowdy fighter utilized the promotion of their fight to gain social media followers, fans, street credit, and legitimate money. Win or lose, you should be in good shape too. The way it works here, I believe, is that the company will pay for you to be trained by an actual boxing trainer for a month leading up to the fight. I'd learn the basics of boxing and, in all likelihood, find myself in a state of physical shape such that one could grate parmesan reggiano upon the striated ridges of my abdominals. At 35, this may very well be my last hurrah before my body descends into the shapeless glob one finds sitting at the base of a lava lump long since unplugged. To be forced to seek one last physical prime could offer dozens of professional, shirtless photos to look upon proudly for years to come; to show to my children someday as a paradigm towards which they might strive, or a warning should they start to put on excess weight. Especially in the ankles. We will be a family of defined ankles or else I'll leave. Let the courts sort what I owe.

So what are the drawbacks? Let's see… off the top of my head, it's my crumpled corpse lying face down on a mat soaked with the vaginal residue of tramp-stamped West Virginian mothers who are currently ceding substantial ground in custody battles with the town chiropractor, some guy who stocks the vending machine at the DMV, or maybe the bilingual overseer of the pick-your-own pumpkin patch who lost his hayride license last year when he plowed the tractor into an occupied row of portapotties. Or my parents having to charter a private flight to Clarksburg, West Virginia to collect my body, where they will step through piles of peanut shells and vomit to cradle their broken boy before whisking me back to the land of the literate.

I've learned the limits of my fighting prowess before. It is a lesson I need not revisit.

Would we set me up with another employee? Or find me some backwater porch painter whose partially-torn meniscus won't fully sever until round two, so I just need to dance a bit until it's safe to tattoo the one-legged moron. There would be more hype, more followers, more cash against another employee. The logical opponent is Billy Football, but he's running for Congress these days. Plus, he's pretty big and strong and it's entirely possible he would dismantle me by drawing upon the animalistic rage that comes from feeling that nobody takes you seriously despite weeping openly at the injustice of poor officiating in a football game in Uganda—where the refs likely learned the rules just minutes before the coin toss.

Plus I like Billy. It's hard to feign feuds here. The audience sees through contrived dislike.

And with this back-and-forth playing out in my head, another Rough 'N Rowdy will pass, and I will continue to wonder. Luckily, I can watch those braver than I am duke it out this Friday from the comfort and safety of my air-conditioned apartment, with its stunning vistas of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge, popping grapes and spreading camembert across a raincoast fig crisp from a stunning charcuterie board I painstakingly assembled, feeling sad as it loses its symmetry from our snacking, but knowing that's the point.

Join me as we honor these most noble warriors on BuyRNR.com