"Going with Cotto over Canelo..." ~ Mosley

[Agent Mulder]

Just spoke to a bruja from a botanica here in LES. She seems legit as a lot people tend to go in and out of her small shop. Someone told me it was also a numbers spot but I can't call it.

Anyways, when I asked her about the fight, she closed her eyes then claimed to have vivid visuals of Cotto looking worst than when "el pacman(el que le rompio la cara!)", left him. I was surprised she knew about that and asked her if she watched boxing. She replied "no" but that her son is always watching his fights and making excuses for his losses. Btw, she assured me Margarito beat him fair and square and that her son only acts like that "porque el no tenia un pai".

She took a shot of some clear fluid that she claimed helped her with her visions(smelled a bit like cheap rum) rolled her blue contacts to the back of her head and told me Cotto would quit in the 10th. She made sure to double-check and asked if taking a knee in boxing would mean you've had enough and don't want to receive anymore punishment. I assured her it was the case and went on youtube to show her Margarito taking Cotto's manhood. She yelled "ASI MISMO!! IGUUUAAALITO!"

I payed her with the pack of Newports like I promised and began walking home. During my walk I could only think of my Puerto Rican brothers and sisters and how they keep getting the short end of the stick. It sucks man. If Canelo crushing Miguel Cotto's face and body with combo's until he quits won't demolish Puerto Rican pride, then their island collapsing and becoming a jobless, waterless, school-less, debt-filled, welfare ridden, desolate, third world country most definitely will:

http://www.theguardian.com/world/201...us-us-mainland

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/04/us...isis.html?_r=0

http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/...w/47936889.cms

http://www.wsj.com/articles/ends-no-...ico-1435880300

PS. She assured me that Cotto will still be a prominent puerto rican as he'll go on to devote his life to the Gay Rights Movement on the island.

In the end, this has fight of the year written all over it. I hope it is and isn't reduced to just being beating of the year

[sparkman0811]

Canelo doesn't pressure when there is incoming. He resets when he gets hit, don't know what Canelo are you talking about

I never said Canelo pressured...he doesn't have to. Cotto is there to get hit. Cotto is open as **** for uppercuts right down the pipe, and I really don't think anyone throws uppercuts better than Canelo. How many times has Cotto been hurt or dropped by uppercuts? Alot. Cotto really doesn't have very good defense, don't know where people get this idea.

[Weebler I]

I favor Cotto because he has more experience, has cleaned up his defense, more dimensions, and way better footwork. Footwork, a tight defense, and a good jab will be the key for Cotto in this fight. Canelo refused to attempt to walk down Floyd and Lara with pressure and a high workrate, this would be his key to victory against Cotto but he just won't do it. I'd be picking Canelo if he had shown the ability or desire to walk down mobile fighters and cut off the ring but this isn't something in Canelo's arsenal.

To be fair, he did try to walk down Lara, he's just not very good at it (although I did have him winning close).

I'm picking Cotto too, better footwork and better stamina.

[PeasantCrusha]

Just got back from 115st and third ave. There I met a sweet old Mexican woman known to the locals as Maria De Los Burros... We spoke briefly about Mexican folklore and touched on a myriad of "remedios" used throughout her pueblo back home in Jalisco. I probed her about her experience with black magic and other such traditions. True to her sunny disposition, she obliged me at first with a very rudimentary introduction. As we spoke, I could not help but feel she was holding back...Keeping for herself; rationing out only the outer layers of this mysterious world in which she moved about. Having worked with peasants before in a brief stint with the peace corp back in 83, I knew how this game was played and reached into my wallet for a crisp one dollar bill. Her eyes lit up and suddenly...I was in. We spoke a little more about why she ran from home at such an early age and how her step-father and all of his brothers had abused her as a child...At this point, tears began to pool in her left eye. Just then, a tiny man with odd legs, bowlegged to be exact, and small apprehensive eyes, approached her as "madre..." It was her oldest son Cuactemoch. He had come to replenish her fruit cart and ask her for some money. The smell of freshly peeled oranges seemed to lighten up the mood and soon we were smiling singing traditional songs together. I tried in vain to keep up but my knowledge of traditional folk songs was limited to say the least. We sang La Cucaracha, Una Paloma Blanca and a few other peasant classics. She complimented me on my efforts and mentioned that it was time to move her cart to the next avenue near an old public school. I mentioned I had to get going as I was meeting an old friend for a drink. As I went to summon a cab, I felt a sharp jerking clutch on my left elbow... Strong little hand...The hand of a woman who had toiled the fields for many years. She reached up, as if to kiss my cheek...What happened next I will never forget. She whispered the words, "Cotto knock out Canelo in eight..."

How did she know?! I had come here for this very information and had decided to let it go once our dialogue had taken a less than jovial turn... I had chosen not to bother her with my silly need to know and yet somehow, Maria De Los Burros knew exactly why I had come to see her....


I got into a gypsy cab and waved`goodbye to my little old fiend. Her voice still ringing in my ears... "Cotto knock out Canelo in eight...Cotto knock Canelo in eight..."

[PrBoxing88]

Just got back from 115st and third ave. There I met a sweet old Mexican woman known to the locals as Maria De Los Burros... We spoke briefly about Mexican folklore and touched on a myriad of "remedios" used throughout her pueblo back home in Jalisco. I probed her about her experience with black magic and other such traditions. True to her sunny disposition, she obliged me at first with a very rudimentary introduction. As we spoke, I could not help but feel she was holding back...Keeping for herself; rationing out only the outer layers of this mysterious world in which she moved about. Having worked with peasants before in a brief stint with the peace corp back in 83, I knew how this game was played and reached into my wallet for a crisp one dollar bill. Her eyes lit up and suddenly...I was in. We spoke a little more about why she ran from home at such an early age and how her step-father and all of his brothers had abused her as a child...At this point, tears began to pool in her left eye. Just then, a tiny man with odd legs, bowlegged to be exact, and small apprehensive eyes, approached her as "madre..." It was her oldest son Cuactemoch. He had come to replenish her fruit cart and ask her for some money. The smell of freshly peeled oranges seemed to lighten up the mood and soon we were smiling singing traditional songs together. I tried in vain to keep up but my knowledge of traditional folk songs was limited to say the least. We sang La Cucaracha, Una Paloma Blanca and a few other peasant classics. She complimented me on my efforts and mentioned that it was time to move her cart to the next avenue near an old public school. I mentioned I had to get going as I was meeting an old friend for a drink. As I went to summon a cab, I felt a sharp jerking clutch on my left elbow... Strong little hand...The hand of a woman who had toiled the fields for many years. She reached up, as if to kiss my cheek...What happened next I will never forget. She whispered the words, "Cotto knock out Canelo in eight..."

How did she know?! I had come here for this very information and had decided to let it go once our dialogue had taken a less than jovial turn... I had chosen not to bother her with my silly need to know and yet somehow, Maria De Los Burros knew exactly why I had come to see her....


I got into a gypsy cab and waved`goodbye to my little old fiend. Her voice still ringing in my ears... "Cotto knock out Canelo in eight...Cotto knock Canelo in eight..."

thats what is going to happen!!!

[PeasantCrusha]

Continued: [B] "Pez's Inconvenient Blog."



When I finally arrived at Carmine's Restaurant, I was greeted by a confused young man...He had pre-Columbian features and yet, one could discern the effort with which he tried to appear less so. He was dressed the way you'd expect a mail room clerk to dress and his shoes had Kohl's written all over them. He quickly introduced himself as, Agenio Peasante Muldero Jr.

I shook his clammy and oddly limp hand and asked him why he felt the need to introduce himself to a total stranger... He replied he had read my earlier works and felt compelled to meet me. I mentioned that I was running late and had but a few minutes to spare. Just then, I saw something in his eyes... a hurt so deep...His inability to utter a single word, spoke volumes and I knew right away that he had read my first book, "The Peasant..."

His pre-Columbian face began to contort and he let out a loud gutteral cry... I placed my pale hand on his shoulder, the feel of sweat and polyester I will never forget. His trembling torso...The look of passersby and the terrible feeling I had in the pit of my stomach. Was I really a mean man? How could I have been so irresponsible to write such a book? I hated myself for what seemed like an eternity.
[IMG]http://i1130.***********.com/albums/m538/EbayBuyer101/mask-5_zps2st54le0.gif[/IMG]

There I was on west 89th and Broadway, trying to console a small sobbing man... What could I have said? There was nothing to say... I decided it was best he absorb my work...process my teachings and deal with the reality of it all. There was no use in denying my body of work to simply provide a false comfort. I felt like a bastard...There he was in his best corporate garb...Mail-room chic to be exact. Man, I hated myself for noticing the rubber soles on his tightly laced cop shoes. I hated the fact that I laughed inside because he still had the label on the sleeve of his Macy's blazer. Yes, I was coming to terms with my cold mean heart.

Now, I would be lying if I told you I felt completely bad. There was a side of me that was laughing hysterically which I tried my darndest to supress... I asked him to settle down and tell me exactly how my book had impacted his life... He was slow to respond...He could not speak but managed to pull a picture from his wallet. A black and white shot of a man who looked very much like him with lower caste pre-Colombian bones..." Is that your father working the fields?" He replied a shameful, "yes." Now we were getting somewhere.

Thus, Agenio finally began to reveal to me his true pain...He raged against my use of the word "peasant," when describing his people. He said it hurt his soul in every corner when he finally came to the realization, that for many...he was merely a peasant regardless of his attempts to procure any semblance of the American dream.

"Well, you see...ALL my life I have had to wrestle with feeling utterly inadequate. Always trying hard to fit in and shed this Olmec mask. Do you know the hurt and humiliation a man feels when he shows up at someone's home to sell life insurance and the man at the door says, "Sorry we already have a landscaper and he's a damn good one too..." Do you know what it's like to ride in the trunk of a 1976 Pinto for 100 miles? For years, I had to listen to my old man talking about the how lucky the Puerto Ricans were...How they did not have to crawl into the great American life... He spoke of bringing us to America for a better life if we could only be more like the gringo-approved Puerto Rican. He often drank all night and cried while staring at maps of the great border...I recall how he would play these old Puerto Rican boleros day and night, as if desperately seeking the answer to our freedom in the lyrics...He was certain that the secret to freedom lie hidden in Rican folklore. It drove him mad... It also bore a hole in his heart that my mother kept a shrine for legendady Puerto Rican actor, Jose Ferrer...Whenever he had a bad day, he would curse Jose Ferrer and wish death upon him. Ha, I remember one summer he smashed our stereo because my sisters kept squealing with delight whilst playing the Menudo hit, Oh Coqui, over and over again...He screamed, you girls are just like your slut mother with this thing for Puerto Rican men! I grew up resenting the Puerto Rican and how they were alway so proud regardless of circumstances, while we peasants harbored a deep subconcious pain and shame...Pez, I hated you before I ever even knew you existed..."



At this point, his pain poured like molasses from his soul... I could feel how every word teetered on the cusp of a nervous breakdown. I finally felt some guilt...Phew, I was human after all! He was not exaclty a good-looking fella and when he sobbed like that, it did nothing for him. Those peasant-genes...damn it, life can be cruel. I offered for him to come and sit down with us for a drink as I found some entertainment value in his inconsolable yelp but he was a mess a this point. The best I could do was give him a few bucks for a cab and go about my business. I smiled, watched him jump into a cab and thanked my father for while not leaving much wealth, left his progeny, rich as it would apply to the genetic lottery.



I enjoyed a nice dinner with my publisher and we discussed everything from my run-in with a weeping peasant, to the bankruptcy of morals and the 8000 documented sexual assaults in Texas alone.

We argued back and forth as to the merit of Trump's recent assertions to the media...Were some cultures simply superior after all? Were some peoples more prone to sensually driven impulsivity?

In my newest book, "Building fences," I talk about moral bankruptcy and how such low cultural values, have nothing to offer a decent and evolved society. It is imperative that we procure only the finest stock lest we too, devolve into some lowly third world experience.

~Dr Pezante Crushnov

[PeasantCrusha]

To be fair, he did try to walk down Lara, he's just not very good at it (although I did have him winning close).

I'm picking Cotto too, better footwork and better stamina.

Indeed. I think it's the subtle things Cotto does that will bring home the victory. May not be flashy with it...But damn it he has been sneaking that left in with killer intentions ala the Cotto of 140. His movement is less predictable under roach and he is floating like a butterfly at times.


Cotto Via TKO in 10.

Canelo will be picked apart.