“My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!”
Mike Tyson: Undisputed heavy weight champion of the world and warrior poet for all times. His golden tongue and anvil like fists indiscriminately devastated men, women, and animals alike. He once sparred with a silverback gorilla just to prove evolution was moving forward. He had to pay $4,000 a month in tiger support – he never missed a payment. Iron Mike is a man of contradictions, controversy, and killin' it. In just one decade he unified the belts and expanded his rap sheet from petty theft to a full-on rape conviction. And for all would be pretenders to his title he brought one simple message; “You aint man enough… I’ll fuck you till you love me, faggot.”
“One day I'm in a dope house robbing somebody. The next thing I know, ‘You're the heavyweight champion of the world.’”
He once knocked out an opponent in eight seconds. He truly was a god in the ring – as he explains in his own words; “My power is discombobulatingly devastating… It's ludicrous these mortals even attempt to enter my realm.” His days were comprised of sleeping on a pile of money with the most beautiful women, training by cage fighting with a Siberian tiger, eating the hearts of his enemies, hanging out with his brother in law, Michael Steele, and then standing in front of his bathroom mirror trying on his various title belts while blasting Glenn Fry’s “You Belong to the City” as loud as his $135,000 stereo system could play it.
“I'm the biggest fighter in the history of the sport. If you don't believe it, check the cash register.”
But to simply cover Mike’s prowess in the world of boxing would be to deprive the annals of killin’ it from some of its finest material. Tyson was not merely dynamite in the ring; he was also a dynamo in the sack. A ladies man through and through, his dedication to killin’ it with the fairer sex was a defining aspect of his character; “I think it's un-American not to go out with a woman, not to be with a beautiful woman, not to get my dick sucked.” Yet, in the pursuit of such pleasures Mike never seemed to lose his sense of propriety. Take for example his exchange with a female reporter: “I normally don't do interviews with women unless I fornicate with them. So you shouldn't talk anymore... Unless you want to, you know.”
“I can sell out Madison Square Garden masturbating.”
In the end, Tyson is a man that has lived, loved, and lost. Despite having been worth $400 million at times and fathering at least seven children, Mike often finds himself alone and in debt, but he doesn’t let that get him down and is still totally killin’ it. Whether it’s cruising around in one of his Rolls Royces, wining and dining the most beautiful and intelligent women, or taking out multi-million dollar lines of credit for the construction of another sumptuous and tastefully furnished pleasure palace fitted with hot tub waterfalls, heated extra-large circular waterbeds, bathrooms entirely incased in gold, or cages for the most exotic animals, Mike Tyson is still clearly on top of his killin’ it game.
“I sacrificed so much of my life, can I at least get laid? I mean, I been robbed of my most of my money, can I at least get a blow job?”
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