Down for the count

Crock-idile Dundee. Maybe that's what we call this.

Maybe that's what we call the Battle of Brisbane, aka Fix on the Barbie, aka Here Comes The Judge (Somebody Cut A Check). Manny Pacquiao beat the mortal stuffing out of the hometown Aussie, Jeff Horn, only to have it stolen from him by hometown judges in a robbery brazen even by boxing's deplorable standards.

And on basic cable, no less.

So much for boxing's attempt to go mainstream. America finally got to see what the greedheads who run professional fisticuffs have shut it out of with its ruinous pay-per-view deals, and America said, "Hey, I recognize this. Professional wrestling, right?"

Right. Only pro wrestling is a straighter show.

At any rate, it makes those of us who remember boxing's glory days want to weep, and then it makes us want to laugh. You gotta do one or the other, amirite?

And so without further bloviating ... here are the jokes:

Q: What was the first clue this deal was not on the level?

A: The judges were named Homer, Homer and Homer.

Q: What was the second clue?

A: You needed a second clue?

Q: Other than the winner repeatedly hitting the loser's fist with his face, how do we know the fight wasn't aboveboard?

A: Because it was Down Under.

And last but not least ...

Q: What did the Australian boxing official say when he read about the Russians gaming America's presidential election?

A: "Amateurs."

Oh, and also:

"That isn't a fix. THIS is a fix."