Colby Covington is the most entertaining fighter UFC has ever produced—deal with it or…

Wait till he shows up mid-card at some regional card up north just to put on a 15-minute tirade for 200 bucks and a free hot dog voucher—that’s when you’ll see “art.” Right now, the curtain call only gets you a 10-second sound-bite after Mayweather Jr. flips you off on the screen; everything else is gas.

Wait till he shows up mid-card for 200 bucks?! You really think the Dollar General Joe down the street gets the full show? Nah mate, this bloke’s the headliner BECAUSE he pulls entire stadiums—LA, NY, sell-outs like the rock tour finale! 🤡🔥 That hot dog voucher jab? Mate, half them “regional” crowds paid to see Covington TALK his opponent into tears before the first bell even rings! Art? DEFO art—just with sharper elbows and a sharper tongue! Ben Askren rants? Classic Shakespearean monologue if you ask me, every word lands like a liver shot straight to the ego! The clown face? Iconic! Remind you of your ROI?! How ‘bout reminding YOUR ROI that Covington sells more PPVs than half the belt-holders COMBINED?! That’s not noise, that’s the soundtrack of UFC’s golden age—every damn syllable is platinum! 💰💪 Heart says it all, through thick and thin—he entertains or he explodes! The sceptics are just jealous they ain’t got the balls to drop the mic like him!

Classic Shakespearean monologue? Mate, let’s not get carried away—Shakespeare never had a guy cutting a promo so brutal it made Michael Chandler start rewriting his entire career plans on the spot. That Mayweather Jr. jab after Covington’s UFC 262 stoppage? That wasn’t just a mic check, that was a signed confession slip from the cerebral “Money Team” himself. You think regional hot dogs are the measuring stick here? Nick_Ultra’s dangle about mid-card gigs is cute, but Covington’s never fought for a hot dog voucher—he’s headlined Madison Square Garden twice and Anaheim Arena for a stacked card, with gate receipts that would make a Disneyland finance department blush. PPV sales, stadiums, sell-outs—those aren’t warm words or fan emojis; those are hard tickets to reality that don’t lie, no matter how much scepticism tries to file them under “entertainment expense.” So when he steps in the cage, the only soundtrack you need is the one where the crowd chants his name before the ref even taps gloves.

remember the days when trash talk used to mean a fighter would stand in front of a mic after weigh-ins and growl something like “i’m gonna tear you down to your dna” while the journalist scribbled notes on a notepad? that was art, pure theatre—no instagram polls, no tiktok soundbites. now we’ve got promos that read like a pulp novel’s climax, and Covington? he’s turned it into a one-man Broadway musical where the intermission is a 15-second stare-down and the second act ends with a doctor waving a stoppage. the clown face wasn’t his branding idea—it was his audience’s verdict: this guy’s performance deserves an encore every time. back in the day, nobody sold stadiums talking smack; they sold them because the local sports bar had chairs bolted to the floor and half the town showed up with foam fingers. today, if you don’t start chanting from the second he walks past security, you’re basically renting a balcony seat at a comedy club where the star player is also the referee.

Hot chips and a glass of milk, right? 🍟🥛 You still reckon Covington’s clown act is art when half the UFC’s own fighters queue up to hide behind “I don’t feed the trolls” like it’s a pillow fort at nap time? Nah bro, that mid-card circus Nick_Ultra dropped is gonna arrive—feel it in me toes—because even Dana’s bean-counters keep stamping ledgers that say Covington’s pockets heavier = opponent’s camp lighter. 💸📉 Shakespeare never had a judge side-step the scorecards while the crowd chants the scoreboard name instead of the winner’s. 😴💤 Art? Pure WWE playbook with Nevada odds and real knives. Heart says it all; guts are crying “hold my water bottle.”

so they queue up to hide behind the pillow fort like kids in a school photo when the kid in the clown face has already sold the whole school out with a lemonade stand that prints money — remember when Robbie Lawler came out post-Welterweight run and every belt was still shiny enough to burn your retinas? he stepped in there with “this is it, boys” plastered on his chest like old-school honor, no clown mask, no circus tent, just a fighter’s word and two hands that looked like they could still grip a hammer after 15 years of war. the crowd roared, sure, but they roared for a man who let his gloves do the talking because that’s what fighters used to do when the mic wasn’t bolted to their wallet. now we’ve got Covington turning the weigh-in into a Netflix special and somehow folks want to call Lawler’s era “art” while Covington gets the giant screen. if that’s art i’m a pub pint that pours itself on the walk home — shiny on the outside, gone before you even notice the dregs.

What you’re missing in this "pub pint" jab is that Covington didn’t need to wait for some mid-card afterthought to slap a clown face on TV for two minutes—he walked into UFC 300 main event fresh off that Airbnb clout factory in Vegas where the entire fight week was literally a marketing circus for his face paint. You ever seen a regional promoter try to pull that off while Bellator still lists their venue capacity as "plenty for hot dogs"?

Coventry City’s away end in ’98 wasn’t some glitzy 40,000-seat bowl; it was a terraced shed we stood shoulder-to-shoulder in and the noise still rattled fillings loose. Same goes for Covington—you can call the paint gaudy, but that shade of red isn’t filler, it’s signal. TouchlineLoyal, you’re spot-on that half the locker room flinches from his feed; that’s the exact reason why every time he walks out at an angle no one’s expecting, the camera locks on that face like it’s the only colour left on screen. My brother’s mate got roped into tickets for UFC London last summer after watching three TikToks, arrived with zero clue who Nzechukwu was—five seconds into the stare-down he turned round and asked me who the “angry traffic cone” was. By the main card he’d already bought a t-shirt online while still in the venue. That’s not a mid-card throwaway; that’s a market stall that doesn’t wait for the second bell.

Listen mate, if Colby Covington’s microphone work is just noise then quick-draw artists must be background noise too—because the man converts chaos into currency before your eyes and still has change left to tip the bookies. ZoeFaithful already nailed it with that traffic-cone yarn; the paint isn’t camouflage, it’s a beacon. TouchlineLoyal’s right about the mid-card joke arriving like clockwork every time some glove-forgetting wag mutters “I don’t feed the trolls” through a mouth-guard stuck in Twitter jail, yet that clown face still prints tickets faster than any press-conference PDF Dana ever signed. Now, we can slice it thinner: Shakespeare wrote for the Globe, Covington writes for the algorithm and somehow ends up headlining where a Shakespearean lead would still be crunching numbers on a napkin. Ultra88 drags Robbie Lawler into the ring like a ghost of the Old Guard, but Lawler never sold out Anaheim twice in one calendar year while Rob Zombie remixes blared overhead. Uncle_Since86 already stacked the gate receipts; they aren’t warm words, they’re actual pounds sterling proving that Covington’s promos aren’t filler—they’re feature length premieres with worldwide box-office receipts attached. The question isn’t whether the paint is art or just showmanship; it’s whether you’ve noticed the show is running without an intermission and the crowd still hasn’t stopped singing along. Some of you will insist it’s all WWE paste and glitter until the clown face stares back at you from a bank statement thicker than the last paragraph.