I HAVE a proposition for Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather.
Halve your pay cheque pocketed for the fight of the century and donate it to put on the real battle of the century.
Trump v Kim Jong-un. The Bum (thank you LeBron James) v Rocket Man.
It'd be one for the ages. In fact it'd be the only fight for the ages to come because I'm pretty sure the outcome would be nuclear holocaust.
But what a way to go.
It has to be better than this viral name-calling Groundhog Day we're seeing rinsed and repeated every day, waiting for one of them to actually go postal enough to hit the red button and reduce us all to dust.
I can't handle the tension. So why not let the two of them slug it out.
Broadcast the fight into every country on Earth.
Imagine Trump strutting into the centre of the MGM Grand convention centre, crisp, white KKK robes on, throwing shadow jabs.
Kim Jong-un follows shortly after, still getting his hands strapped by a desperate looking assistant, a line of dead bodies litters the hallway behind them.
They're the lifeless forms of other strappers who applied the tape a touch too tight, or not tightly enough, and felt Kim Jong's full wrath as punishment for their treachery.
Legendary ring announcer Michael Buffer nervously reaches for the silver microphone descending from the roof.
But one of the tech guys has accidentally lowered the nuclear launch pad instead.
Trump and Rocket Man start clawing at each other, trying to climb above Buffer and grab the nuclear pad.
Buffer bravely holds both men off as the launch pad is retrieved and the microphone lowered, Kim Jong-un's short arms sending punches windmilling past Buffer's face, but his hair, somehow, remains unmoved.
"Le-le-let's g-g-get readyyy t-to rum-rumbleee," Buffer stutters out, before bursting into tears and running from the canvas.
The stress of knowing regardless of the outcome, his hair will end up out of place, simply too much to bear.
The fight kicks off and it's ugly. No rules, there's biting, eye-gouging and spitting, in between shin kicks and nipple cripples.
They floor each other with simultaneous low-blows, and Buffer peeks up from the bar with nervous hope. But out of nowhere swoops Vladimir Putin.
Through the relieved celebrations no one remembered to secure the nuclear launch code pad.
Putin cackles as he pockets the pad and makes his way to the submarine.
The world remains, but for how much longer, we still don't know.
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