To All the Boxers I’ve Loved Before

Naoya Inoue, you’re my favorite boxer
Fans really like you, they call you the “Monster”
You’re small like me and your hair used to be orange-y
Everyone’s afraid of the power of your punchies
You knock out opponents like it’s no big thing
Usually right after the bell in the first few rounds goes “ding”
I’m not really sure how I should end this po-em
But just know that, to me, you are the bo-mb

Rios, Rios, you say “fuck” a lot
And that is something that I can really get behind
The End.

Mario Barrios you’re from San Antonio
Your name rhymes and that’s really cool-io
I’ve been a fan for about two years
We even took a picture together, in it I’m holding a beer (this happens a lot)
You’re 23-0, fo sho
From you I’m expecting years of greatness + mo

Teofimo Lopez, I think the English translation of your name is “Ted”
You got a lot of backlash recently for pretending that your opponent was dead
I didn’t see the big deal, it was part of your spiel
You also did a flip, just like a seal
You’re a badass, something real grand
A lot of damage has been done by your hands
You seem to me a real businessman, you box and put on a show
I hope that your time in the ring isn’t limited, though
And that you don’t lose to Lomachenko

Amir Khan, remember when Danny Garcia KO’d you in the third round?
Me too, that’s why I don’t like him.

Saul “Canelo” Alvarez, I like your red hair
Some of your training happens in Big Bear
I’m going to stop writing about you for un momento
To mention that Shane Mosely lives in B.B. with his monkey, Tito
You met Tito on an episode of “All Access” if I’m not mistaken
Your affinity for whom there was no fakin’
I hope I’m not making this up because that would be weird
By other boxers you are quite feared
You’ve been given some wins that I don’t agree with, though
And also a horse by the mayor of Tepic, Mexico (according to Wiki)
This makes me a little mad, I want a horse too
If ever gifted a pig I’m not speaking to you

Keith Thurman, you like to play the flute
At your wedding you did not wear a suit
You took two years off and this made me real sad
I bet when you hurt your hand you were mad
You say funny things, but what you should know
Is that I think you lose if you fight Pacquaio

Gennady Gennadyevich Golovkin, you have have a really cool name
The first and middle are almost the same
In the past, you fought David Lemieux
I like his hair, it looks really cool
I also like you, I like box, I like Max
That loss to Canelo I felt was some crap
You definitely won the first fight that’s for sure
That victory was stolen by Adelaide Byrd
I completely forgot that you have a twin
I’m not sure the world can handle two GGG-like men

Oh Loma, what else is there to say?
A rare individual you are every day
You’re funny and endearing, you sure charm a crowd
Sometimes when you land a punch it is loud
As I write this my dog is snoring
Nothing about your fights is ever boring
You have a good attitude while training it seems
If you start one, Usyk should be on your dance team
Your footwork is great, it’s really advanced
It’s also fun to watch you do headstands

Twitter: @littlejenna37

Beaches and Boxers

If you ask me on any regular day if my job is fulfilling, I’d probably say yes. Ask me the question during “Shark Week,” though, and it’s a hard no. A definite “naw.” A “fuck no,” even. Because during “Shark Week” no job is cooler than that of the adventurous, ginormous balls-of-steel possessing (or for women, like, tons-of-courage-having) shark researcher, underwater cameraman, or conservationist. Their “office” is the open sea and their co-workers are some of the most feared and misunderstood creatures on the planet.

(This might be true of your co-workers as well but it’s still nowhere near as cool).

There are definite similarities between the behavior of sharks and boxers, and it’s hard to tell which came first: Do boxers mirror the circular attack style of sharks about to demolish their prey after years of observing their successful tactics in the wild? Or do sharks mirror the circular attack style of boxers after a friend of theirs somehow rigged up an underwater television and they were able to score a decent stream for a Tyson fight years ago? The eternal question still unanswered, indeed.

Just as there are similarities between the fighting styles of sharks and boxers, the personality styles of boxers and marine/marine-related life in general tend to parallel each other as well. Certain types of sharks possess more aggressive tendencies toward humans than others, as certain boxers fight more offensively than others. Sharks migrate often, just as boxers travel often for fights. And some sharks are even banned from entering American waters due to (alleged) tax evasion charges. There exists cute and endearing marine life and some….that you just want to stay away from.

Angel Garcia in any form is something I’d like to avoid, and if I had to choose an animal adaptation for him it’d definitely be a seagull. He’s loud, annoying, and relentlessly tries to steal your food. Also, a seagull would absolutely frequent strip clubs with it’s offspring and revel in making it rain together.

(Fig. 1. A candid photo of Angel Garcia in the wild)

Teofimo Lopez is the seal of the boxing world. On a recent episode of the podcast “In This Corner,” when asked if his antics at the end of his fights are a celebration for himself or to entertain the audience, Lopez unabashedly confirmed that he likes to put on a show for the crowd. Although I’ve yet to see a seal do the dance from “Fortnight,” both Lopez and seals remain undefeated in their respective flip games.

Ever seen those fish that attach themselves to a larger shark or whale host to survive? Those are called remoras, and I can think of no one in the boxing community who better encompasses the remora than Gervonta Davis and Adrien Broner. Talent and effort notwithstanding, these two definitely wouldn’t have gotten as far as they did without (unsurprisingly) exemplifying everything bad about the Mayweather Promotions image.

(Fig. 2. There’s really no explanation needed here)

The Mako shark and Naoya Inoue are both fast, sleek, and aggressive toward humans when provoked. They both have names that start with the letter “M.” And if ever there were a shark that was edgy enough to pull off the orange-y hue that comes as a result of bleaching jet black hair, it’s the Mako.

I’ve been thinking for days about who could possibly compare to the greatest and most majestic sea creature in existence, the whale shark. True to it’s name, this shark is ginormous, beautiful, and extremely chill, and can be found swimming around with a wide open mouth catching krill. I’m not sure how he feels about krill and I’ve yet to see him walk around with his mouth constantly open, but this definitely reminds me of Anthony Joshua, also known for his majestic stature and undeniable good looks.

(Fig 3. Spot on, v. good depiction of a whale shark)

Manny Pacquaio reminds me of an octopus, because even though he does’t ACTUALLY have eight arms, he punches so fast that sometimes things get a little blurry and it looks like he does. Plus, octopuses are the politicians of the sea. Everyone knows that.

I’ve compared this next boxer to a shark in a previous post, but would like to officially recant that statement as he’s the one thing in existence that’s scarier than a shark, and that is the creepy eye-roll thing that sharks do when when they get close to a camera on “Shark Week” (and maybe at other times as well, but there’s no documented proof of this.) Congratulations, Sergey Kovalev, on being the walking, full-bodied adaptation of nightmare-inducing terror.

(Side note: Do y’all think girl sharks are like “bitch, why are you rolling your eyes at me?!” whenever that happens. And do shark parents tell their shark children that if they keep rolling their eyes like that they’ll get stuck that way? Ideas to pitch to Discovery for next year.)

Twitter: @littlejenna37

Four Rappers Who are Arguably Scarier than 6ix9ine

I hate that I’m writing about AB, y’all, I really do. But he’s given me a reason to do it, and when you’re given a gift like this you don’t just return it for store credit and walk away.  A recap, for those of you who have smartly decided to abstain from all things Broner:  Broner (who should really probably stay away from all forms of social media but for some reason just can’t) posted a picture on Instagram earlier this week and rapper Tekashi 6ix9nine replied with “Clown.”

Most would have ignored that, because although I guess it could be considered inflammatory, it’s fairly innocuous overall and I’m pretty sure Broner’s been called way, way worse. But since he loves attention, Broner quickly responded with a video rant that I refuse to watch but have read a transcription of (a bad decision) basically refuting 6ix9ine’s claim, stating that the only thing that has a red nose where he comes from is a pit bull (which is a flat out lie because we all know that Rudolph travels worldwide on Christmas Eve). Broner ended the rant by threatening to “pull up” on the rapper when he arrives in New York for fight week.

6ix9ine responded by telling AB that he has $100K on him losing the fight to Jesse Vargas on Saturday, which I honestly found kind of funny and is really one of the best ways to respond to something like that unless Broner actually wins the fight. He also invited Broner to “pull up” while in New York, which I’m guessing isn’t just a polite invite from the self-proclaimed “King of the City” to hang out.   Allegedly, the bet then went up to $300,000 and I could have sworn that I later saw Broner post a picture on social media of a check for $300,000 made out to 6ix9ine which was confusing but by that time I was done with the whole thing so I didn’t look into it any further.

Being completely unfamiliar with 6ix9ine up until this point, I have no opinon of him other than I really like his hair. But this incident made me start thinking about which rappers are truly the ones that you don’t want to fuck with. The scariest of the scary, even. The ones who, when people say “I know people” ARE the “people”. And this illustrious list begins with none other than:

4./3. Kanye and Drake

Kind of a let down, right? I mean, I built it up as “oooooh scary rappers who do bad things, who could it be” and then start it with two of seemingly least intimidating guys in the business.  I mean, Kanye isn’t nearly as scary as the family that he married into. And Drake, (who the best of you will remember from “Degrassi: The New Generation” as Jimmy Brooks, the formerly mobile turned wheelchair bound all-American-but-Canadian high school basketball star who dated Ashley for way too long to make sense because she was super emotional and he could have done better just in general) strikes fear in the hearts of no one.

These two are so un-scary on their own, in fact, that it took thier powers combined to make a really bad decision that landed them on this list in the first place. Now, bad decision making on it’s own is not in and of itself a supremely scary thing. And of course, all bad decisions are not weighted equally. Streaking, for example, is probably a bad decision. Funny, but maybe not the best idea. Playing basketball with some friends and then enjoying a bowl of banana pudding afterward, not such a  bad decision. Unless you do it with this guy…..

2. Ninja from Die Antwoord


It’s hard to refute that Ninja seems…….a little rough, to say the least, and if you’ve ever heard any of Die Antwoord’s music it’s absolutely congruent with his image.  Maybe it’s just that Afrikaans sounds really, really scary to this American, or maybe it’s the fact that the majority of the lyrics to their songs are truly fucked up, but I wholeheartedly and absolutely without a shadow of a doubt would not want Ninja to know where I lived regardless of the presence of a legion of heavily armed security guards.

And yet, Kanye invited him to his house to hang out and then took him next door to play basketball with Drake (and others).  I don’t tell this story nearly as good as Ninja himself does, so definitely look it up.  But trust me when I say this-Ninja is your worst nightmare. Whatever the quintessential scary thing hiding in your closet was as a child, Ninja fully embodies it, happily so. And the fact that Kanye and Drake chose to invite him to their homes (so now the nightmare knows where you live) and then spend a day hanging out with him speaks volumes to what evil they are capable of.

1. Jay-Z

Y’all can fight me on this if you want, but Jay-Z is definitely the scariest rapper of our current time. Jay-Z is like the big red button that you push to make the world end in the most gangster and unimaginable way possible, because his public image is so professional and polished and classy, but if you’ve read his book you know that there’s another side to him that’s downright terrifying. He’s the dichotomy of good vs. evil, the epitome of swagger vs. sin, and let’s just say that if I were Beyonce’s parents I wouldn’t have let her date Jay-Z to begin with. Also, Solange is either a brave motherfucker or the biggest idiot on the planet.

Part of Jay-Z’s scariness comes from how utterly calm he is. I mean, sure, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, but he seems like the type of guy who could off someone in the middle of the street with his bare hands and not even feel nervous about it. He also seemingly exists without fear of the causes of his actions, because y’all-he signed Rigondeaux to Roc Nation Sports, and we all could have told him how that was going to work out. Jay-Z is so scary, even, that I’m a little nervous about publishing a blog wherein I talk about how scary Jay-Z is.

But who knows, right? Maybe Drake and Kanye’s next decision will be finger painting. Maybe Ninja will join them, if he’s not too busy playing with puppies or running in slow motion through a field of flowers somewhere. Maybe Jay-Z is really just someone’s dad, and he spends a lot of time telling his kids to close the door to the refrigerator and the front door so as to not let all of the cold air out.


If y’all want to hang out, find me on Twitter @littlejenna37


The past 38 minutes I’ve spent attempting to write this post have been comprised of the following repetitive actions:

1. Stare at screen (anywhere from 5-10 secods, total blank stare).

2. Go to “Drafts” and attempt to flesh out one of the three posts that have been there for months.

3. Go to “Posts” to read my old ones and find out why the hell I started this whole thing to begin with.

4. Lament the fact that for the past two years, all writing has been done on a tiny Bluetooth keyboard (with a currently malfunctioning “N” key). This has been both torturous ad has served as a constant reminder to take my laptop to be fixed; something I’ve clearly yet to do.

5. (My favorite as of yet) Pull the collar of my shirt over my head and stare at the room from inside my shirt. This is oddly comforting and gives me a newfound appreciation of turtles.

I got nothing, y’all.

Oh sure, I could go for easy and rattle off five good things Adrien Broner could have been doing yesterday instead of sexual battery (1. Cross stitch 2. Anything but rapping 3. Bowling. (Haaaaaay!) 4. Plunging toilets previously clogged with $20 bills and, 5. I dunno, training?)

Or I could discuss my admiration of Paul Malignaggi’s meticulously shaped eyebrows. (2012 was a peak year for Paulie’s brows, if you ask me. Although it’s clear that his priorities have lied elsewhere in more recent years, his eyebrows remain a thing of beauty to this day.)

I could even talk about the number of times I’ve accidentally punched myself in the face while boxercising (anywhere between 3-5, always when I’m throwing straight rights. With that kind of abject consistency you’d think that I would have fixed it by now, really.)

But instead…nothing. This post is as lonely and sad as Floyd standing in his masionesque kitchen awaiting his cousin Roy.

Truly, I am not firemen. Not tonight, anyway.



Havana Banana

I can’t even begin to fathom how difficult it must be for one to leave Cuba knowing that they can never return.

Yes, this is my cliché opening line, the same sentiment echoed by most who tackle the subject of Rigondeaux or defectors in general. Originally, I had planned to open this post by discussing “Havana Affair,” by The Ramones (which has always struck me as a bit racist, and which the Chili Peppers actually do a really good cover of, both of which are reasons why I decided against it) or even about that time I wrote a piece about Rigondeaux as a drag queen, complete with fun name, personality, genre, and backstory about her long climb to the top but then backed out on publishing it because even with all of that, it still wasn’t good enough.

So here we are. Still great, but somehow never good enough.

Remind you of anyone?

My grand love of Rigondeaux began on that fateful night back in 2013 that he is undoubtedly most well known for. But before I recount it in flowery terms that will surely embarrass me in the morning (because don’t they always?) I must start on the eve on November 13, 2010.

AKA-The night I was a ginormous hypocrite.

To be fair, I didn’t realize that I was being a ginormous hypocrite at the time. All I knew was that I was out for the blood of Margarito at the hands of Pacquiao and all of this was being stilted by some boring little guy who had 15 pounds and 5 inches* on me. And I hated it. I exaggerated greatly my gratitude for the fight’s conclusion and continued my life with beer in hand, sure that I would never be subjected to another terrible fight by that-guy-with-the-weird-last-name.

Enter 2013

Like most, I was set to watch ESPN’s “Fighter of the Year,” Nonito Donaire, accumulate yet another win against some guy I’d never heard of (as by this point I’d forgotten all about Rigondeaux). A friend of mine had even inquired about “any good fights lately,” and I’d been talking the bout up to him for a week at that point, how exciting it would be, how lightning quick Donaire was, how I was sure the fight wouldn’t even make it past six rounds.

Aaaaaand then, three rounds into the main event, my now husband (then boyfriend) announced that he was falling asleep on the couch and was going to bed, and my friend texted to make sure he was watching the right channel.

I, however, found myself utterly captivated by what I was witnessing. While admittedly not the most entertaining fight, it occurred to me that I was watching a true thing of beauty-a side to the sport that I’d yet to witness. (I’ve since described it as “boxing ballet.”) Here was a man picking apart a reigning champ (a Fighter of the Year, even) utilizing strategy alone, and the greatest example of ring generalship that I’d ever seen.

The Psych major in me was fucking pumped, y’all.

I became an instant fan, and almost just as instantaneously learned how difficult life can be as a Rigondeaux supporter at times.  Aside from constant defenses of the Cuban style of boxing, long lapses between fights and bouts overseas with streaming capabilities only (I hate watching  pretty much anything on a computer) added to the mounting difficulties. In hindsight, I think this only fanned the flames. The mystery of it all, the inaccessibility-you know. (The majority of the boxing public’s outright hatred for the “boring”, although I’ve noticed that some of those who refer to Rigo as “boring” also do things like read Shakespeare or watch baseball. The irony.)

Enter 2017, and how I tie this all back to the first sentence.

Inspired by my love of Rigondeaux and the works of Brin-Jonathan Butler, (as well as the fact that some friends were already going and invited my husband and I to join,) I visited Havana this summer. (Also, Mike Tyson went to Cuba in the late 90’s and I feel like if Tyson did it, I can do it too. Probably not the best yardstick with which to measure my life, but it’s gotten me this far.)

Attempting to describe Havana using merely words would do it a great disservice. The city has a soul and a presence like none I’ve ever witnessed, and a piece of it will remain with me always. Among the various memories I’ll hold from my short time in Havana, my favorite by far was a conversation I had with a local tour guide about Rigondeaux and Cuban boxing in general.

First, I learned how to pronounce Rigondeaux’s last name correctly: (say it with me now: Ree-gOne-doh, NOT Rih-gOn-DEE-OW which you will likely hear over and over on Saturday night). I also earned mad street cred with him for knowing who Erislandy Lara was and pronouncing his name correctly. But mostly, I noted how his eyes lit up when discussing Teofilo Stevenson. (“Did you know that Muhammad Ali came HERE to see HIM?!”)  I did, but I’d trade a number of the less-cool experiences I’ve had to see that light replicated in the eyes of another when speaking of something that pays them only in joy.

I lived off that light for days, fed off of the experience when other annoying or shitty things were happening. I hold onto it still, and surely will for the rest of my life.  To me, that light can be equated to another discussion we had on the great difference between American and Cuban boxers: pride. One need look no further than Adrien Broner flushing cash down a toilet, fighters carelessly missing weight for their bouts, or the infrequency of fights amongst top name pugilists to see that lack of pride in American boxing.

Enter Rigondeaux

The scrappy little guy with the reputation for being difficult to promote (not wholly unearned)  and the ever present sullen expression. The man who, despite surely being told that he would earn more money or have a greater presence and following if he would just be more of an offensive or entertaining fighter, continues to engage in “boxing ballet.” The man who carries the soul, history, and pride of Cuba as he walks through America today.

I can’t say for sure if Rigo will win on Saturday, partly because I lack clairvoyance and a crystal ball, but mostly because my predictions have historically sucked. (And, if I’m being honest, superstition is at play here as well.) But I will say this, and it may likely be something flowery that I’ll regret in the morning: it snowed steadily in San Antonio tonight. Reports say at least an inch (which, before you Northerners give me any shit, is a LOT for us-it was 85 degrees here on Tuesday), but December snow is uncharacteristically rare here-when snowfall does occur in any mediocre amount it typically happens in February.  In fact, the last time it snowed in San Antonio in December was on December 21, 1929. (2.9 inches, for those of you keeping score.)

88 years ago (Yes, I had to use a calculator.)

It could all just be some huge coincidence-probably is. But how cool would it be if this was all some big, cosmic foreshadowing to another upcoming rift in the “norm”?

I wonder if Tyson ever made it snow?


To talk snow, Cuba, drag queens, beer, or even boxing, follow me on Twitter @littlejenna37

Brin-Jonathan Butler’s “A Cuban Boxer’s Journey: Guillermo Rigondeaux, from Castro’s Traitor to American Champion” is available on Amazon, and “The Domino Diaries: My Decade Boxing with Olympic Champions and Chasing Hemingway’s Ghost in the Last Days of Castro’s Cuba” is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.


*I didn’t actually research this

Stats for my San Antonio Weather Report were found at: “San Antonio Snowfall 1885 through 2011 in Inches,”

Inside the Mind of Brandon Rios

This post could just as easily be called “What’s Going on in Brandon Rios’s Head Aside from Heavy Rotation of the Word ‘Fuck’”?

Last week brought with it the news of a bout between Danny Garcia and Brandon Rios, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. This is mostly due to my love of Rios, but also largely in part to my deep dislike of Danny Garcia. (Warning: For some reason, I’m unable to refer to Danny Garcia as anything other than his full name or an expletive, both of which will probably make their presence known here. Also-trigger warning-Angel Garcia is mentioned, in case you need a toilet or trash can nearby for the impending violent dry heaving that is sure to occur upon the mere mention of his name. On second thought, just read this entire piece while either on or near a toilet.) I also just enjoy watching Rios in all his unhinged glory, and the first Rios vs. Alvarado fight will remain one of my all time favorites.

I’m elated over this fight for two reasons: 1.) From what I’ve seen of Danny Garcia (which isn’t much, because refer back to the first paragraph where I talk about how I can’t stand him) he’s not a very interesting fighter. Yes, he pushes the gas pedal when necessary and one really can’t deny his talent (I’ve tried), but I’ve yet to see anything too impressive in the way of an all out, toe-to-to brawl; and 2.) Rios is batshit crazy, and I mean that in a good way. One of things I find most intriguing about Rios is that the guy smiles everytime he’s punched in the face, and  I’m not sure Danny Garcia will know how to handle that.  (To be fair, I’m also not sure that anyone save for a trained professional knows how to deal with that.)

It’s not the smile itself that mystifies me, but what the smile represents-an absolute, all out war mentality with a fuck-you-I’m-not-quitting attitude.  That, or Rios is just thinking about when he’s going to get his next scoop of Baskin Robbins. Either way, join me below as I delve deeper into the elusive meaning of the smile behind the punch.

1. Ice Cream

Who doesn’t smile when they think of ice cream? (Aside from vegans and the lactose intolerant, and even then they’ve taken it upon themselves to invent lactose-free and soy ice cream, so my point still stands.)   The mere thought of Rocky Road has evoked mirth in even the most stoic of humans, and the Dalai Lama himself once said “If you think you’re too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito in the room.” Granted, this has nothing to do with ice cream, but when I googled “Quotes about Ice Cream from Major World Leaders” it was either this or some quote from Steve Jobs that isn’t nearly as cool. (Ha. Ha.)

Anyway, ice cream can move mountains and solve the problems of the people, both big and small, and for that it’s deserving of a a smirk at the very least.

2. Dogs

Everyone loves dogs, even those who say they’re allergic or claim to be immune to the charming powers of the canine.   While I can’t be absolutely certain what kind of dog Rios is thinking of while grinning (and I hope like hell it isn’t a chihuahua), I’m sure that some lucky pooch somewhere has captured his heart-and yes-his smile.

This isn’t Rios’s dog. This is my dog, who is clearly not a Golovkin fan.
3. Trick-or-Treating

Training camp be damned, Halloween is coming up and Rios has kids. Trick-or-treating is a rite of passage for all children, teenagers, and those few lucky adults over the age of 23 who are the same height as a fifth grader and are acting as the chaperone for their 10 year old niece.  ‘Tis the season for Kit Kat, Butterfinger, and those really cool Reese’s pumpkins as it truly is the most wonderful time of the year.  Besides, even if he has no interest in candy he can still sport a badass costume. (But never one of those lame t-shirts that says “This is my Costume,” only derelicts and Pennywise [not the band] wear those. )

4. The Smell of a New Book

I’m not sure how one would  physically carry this out, but take all of your previous notions and pre-formed ideas about traditionally good smelling things and get rid of them (probably a good idea to do this on a bulky item collection day), because friends, few smells induce a smile like the smell of a new book.  Although his image might suggest otherwise, Rios could secretly be a bibliophile of massive proportions, hell-bent on sustaining the image of a shorter, lighter, foul-mouthed modern-day Rocky.

Picture this, if you will: An obviously tired Rios, exhausted and spent after a long day of training, collapses into a red leather arm chair with a hardback tome. Possibly “War and Peace,” or perhaps the ninth installation in the Harry Potter series, whose title I can’t remember but which was long as fuck and really intimidating looking at first glance.

Not buying it? Me either, but here’s a picture of a book anyway.
5. (And most likely): Beating the Shit out of Angel Garcia
When you really think about it, this makes either the least amount of sense or the most amount of sense. While it’s somewhat likely that in truth Brandon was never thinking of beating up Angel Garcia until quite recently, it is far MORE likely that he’s really been pondering the idea since he was in the womb.  Because surely, deep down inside all of us there’s a tiny, sweet piece of something that yearns for the day when Angel Garcia will get caught by the cheapest of shots as a consequence for his annoying and ever present running mouth.

And who better to deliver this shot than Rios himself? It’s almost as if Brandon were privy to the knowledge that Angel Garcia was destined to become a douchebag of immense proportions before Angel Garcia came to fulfill this prophecy. And Rios, being the gift from God that he is (along with breakfast tacos) was sent from the spiritual world to the physical in order to vanquish this, our true mortal enemy.  But not, like, kill him or anything. Just shut him up for a minute.  With his fists.

(Those are either boxing gloves or Rios is suffering from the same affliction as Evan Peters on “AHS: Freak Show.” Also, here I’ve            reduced Brandon’s communication skills to that of a Pokemon.)

I’ll continue to hope that Angel Garcia will someday stop talking (thought not as a result of any bodily or neurological harm and by choice only ) on Twitter at @littlejenna37 or at


GGG vs Canelo: Choose Your Babysitter

Close your eyes, my friends (after you read this intro, that is) and picture with me the front door to your residence. The doorbell rings unexpectedly, you aren’t expecting company, and since you’re nothing like me you answer it anyway. On the front step are two very recognizable men, one in a suit and one in a shirt emblazoned with the initials “CA” (I assume this is their normal walking-around wear). From the outstretched hand of the suited man is a flier with the words “Need a Babysitter? Please call: …..” (only there’s really a number there not a bunch of dots).

The men in front of you are none other than Gennady Golovkin and Canelo Alvarez, and for some untold reason they’ve become babysitters.

Clearly, you’re a bit angry as they’ve ignored the “no soliciting” policy of the neighborhood. But you quickly forget this anger, as  at the very least they aren’t peddling the shitty Chinese restaurant up the street, an irritating occurrence you’ve become used to. And also-it’s GGG and Canelo. You politely accept the flier, shake hands with both, and close the door (after telling Canelo that he lost to Lara). Now you’re faced with a bigger problem: which one do you choose?

Luckily, I’ve done the hard work for you. After extensive hours of research on the subject, I present a comparison of how the two men stack up in the most crucially super important points to consider in selecting a sitter for your child. (Or adult. I don’t know your life. )  Read below to reach enlightenment:

Birth Order

Birth order could certainly serve as an important factor in choosing a caregiver for your child. After all, in multi-children households, who else do irresponsible parents often look to as a “suitable” caregiver but the older sibling? As the youngest child and only girl in the family, I was countlessly left in the care of my two older brothers- one of whom openly hated me (it’s not his fault, I was clearly the favorite) and the other who often took to pelting the-one-who-hated-me and me with pennies or anything else within arm’s reach when the mood struck him. (There were also several incidents that involved me being tied to a chair with my jump rope and a sock stuffed into my mouth because I was being “too loud and annoying” [lies], but there’s another time and place for those anecdotes.)

At any rate, even though the experiences frequently include incidents that one might equate to child abuse, baby sitting a sibling could easily provide one with the experience necessary to be a caregiver for a child. Unfortunately, for this particular dilemma, both are the youngest in their families. However, GGG IS a twin, and while I’m not certain who was born first I’m gonna go with it was him for the purposes of this article. Clearly, this puts him in a position of superiority over his seconds-to-minutes younger brother and gives him the upper hand in this category.

Number of Children Legally Assigned to Them (AKA: How Many Kids Do They Have?)

One. Each. Not making this easy on anyone. is starting to look pretty good. Side note but relevant-I just had an urge to see if a “true” Baby Sitter’s Club exists outside of the books. It doesn’t.

How Old is the One Child They Each Have?

This is a little tricky, y’all. Understandably, both men likely prefer to keep the lives of their loved ones (especially their children) under wraps (no pun intended unless it was funny), so little information exists on the kiddos. However, I once saw an episode of “24/7” where Canelo said that his daughter was born when he was a teenager. As I don’t know his exact age when she was born and we technically have seven years to work with, I’m gonna go with 15. Seeing as Canelo is now 27 years old (a slightly depressing fact when I think of all the bullshit I was doing at 27), that would make her 11ish, depending on her birthday. According to one of the scant sources I found online addressing the subject, GGG has a son in primary school and recently welcomed a daughter into the world. Even though GGG has more children, Canelo has more years of experience, so this round goes to him.

PSA-While doing research for this, I found an article referring to Canelo’s daughter as his “seed.” Outside of fertility clinics, this should probably never happen.  

Languages Spoken

I’m not a parent, but as someone who has seen parents in public with their children (and is the proud leasee of cable each month), parents seem to be OBSESSED with their offspring being multilingual. And why not? While being anything more than unilingual has been all the rage in pretty much every country besides the US for decades now, we’re finally starting to catch up. So of course, parents would want a sitter who can help little Jackie and Judy learn Blackfoot (the most metal language that came up when I googled “Names of Languages”).

In the Language Department (not a true department), Canelo speaks Spanish fluently and some English-very little though. GGG speaks four languages: Kazakh, Russian, German, and English.  While I’m super impressed that he speaks four languages, I’m going with a draw in this category. Yes, it’s crazy impressive that he’s quadrilingual, but when are my fictional children ever going to use Kazakh? German would be really cool to know for Oktoberfest, but in South Texas English or Spanish would more than suffice.

Ginger vs Sandy Blonde or Light Brown, Whatever Color GGG’s Hair is Dependent Upon Lighting

Since this is vital in choosing a caregiver for your loved one, I’ll spare any intro and jump right in.

Famous Male Redheads:

Seth Green-Most notable for his role as Kenny Fisher in “Can’t Hardly Wait.” Is also short and seems kind of funny.

Ron Howard-Who could look at Richie Cunningham and not automatically think of a warm blanket of trust and dependability?

Rupert Grint- Duh.

David Caruso-The cheesy, sunglasses wearing pseudo-badass on CSI: Miami who will never be as great as Gil Grissom.

Prince Harry-I mean, he’s a prince.

Famous Male Guys with GGG’s Hair Color: (Credit to Xazu 20 and the list “Beautiful Blonde Men” on IMBD for their assistance.)

Justin Hartley-He’s an actor of some sort.

Ryan Philippe-That dude who knocked up Reese Witherspoon.

David Beckham-Should have been at the top of this list.

Ashley Parker Angel-This guy who went “Girl name, boy name, porn last name” when choosing his celebrity moniker.

David Bowie-Fucking. Icon. (From a non-fan, even.)

Jason Mewes-Though I love him, I’m a bit (read: very) confused as to how he ended up on a list of “beautiful” men.  The incomparable Jay to Kevin Smith’s “Silent Bob,” he’s the offensive, druggie loudmouth we all love to-well love, really.

Canelo takes this one. Also, I think we’ve all learned that there’s a definite “put up or shut up” quality associated with being a redhead, as not one of those peeps is unknowable.

Who is Better at “The Game of Life?”

This question is not being posed in order to provoke thought or to be existential,  I just really want to know who is better at the board game “The Game of Life,” because that’s what you play when you babysit someone (or at least it was when I was being babysat  by people other than my brothers 20+ years ago OMG).  To be honest, I see Canelo as more of a video game guy. An X-Box player, really.  He probably thinks that board games are boring or beneath him, or even worse he plays “Risk.” GGG seems more willing to enjoy a riveting game “The Game of Life” with his charges, and probably picks the red car.  Dude might even play “Candyland” if you remember to add the word “please” to your request. Clear winner-GGG. 

The Verdict?

Going off of points alone, Canelo would appear to be the obvious choice. But, since I like GGG better I’m going with him for the win. (Strange turn of events, no?) Here’s hoping that’s not the only decision he gets this weekend.

PS-I’m fine with a knockout, too.

If you’re bored and on Twitter, you’d an find me at @littlejenna37, or by searching “Junk in the Trunks” on Facebook.