MIKE TYSON BOOED AS A $20 MILLION CON MAN IN LOSING A FAKE FIGHT TO … JAKE PAUL

Once a portrait of violence, Tyson landed only 18 punches Friday night in a grotesque Netflix defeat that reminded us of his fitting quote — “life is about pimping and hoeing” — as he goes away at 58

     He devoured a human ear, served three years in prison for rape, threw punches that destroyed others and ruined him, then almost died. He returned by attacking a goof who stole his pet tiger in “The Hangover.” He grew weed in the desert and told Eminem that “life is about pimping and hoeing” before showing up Friday night in Texas, where he was 58 and able to stare down Jake Paul.

     From that point on, when “Life After Death” or “Taps” should have played over the speakers, Mike Tyson did nothing but pimp and hoe the world. We did see his naked butt in a jockstrap, a sad sort of memory as he fades away.

     All we heard were boos from fans who devoted precious hours to see the pathetic, tanking end of his career. He took more than $20 million in a farcical Netflix scam and landed only 18 punches, to Paul’s 78, and threw only 97 punches to Paul’s 278. After the final round of a unanimous decision for a YouTuber with a beard and swarming tattoos — a 27-year-old who once ate spaghetti with a power drill attached to his fork — Tyson left in disgrace at AT&T Stadium.

     So much for one last rally that excited bro-dom. Dazed and disoriented in the ring, he said he wasn’t sure if his fighting days were over. Paul tried to honor him, calling him “a legend” and bowing to him. “The greatest to ever do it. He’s the goat. I look up to him. I’m inspired by him. The baddest man on the planet, obviously,” he said. Tyson was in a stupor, suggesting he might try to fight against Paul’s brother, Logan, who started to laugh and said, “Mother f—er, I kill you, Mike.”

     He wouldn’t be the only one. Tyson once struck men viciously but was left to pitter-patter cheaply in the home of the Dallas Cowboys. Knowing he was cashing in, for a final time, Tyson offered no apologies. “Absolutely happy, yes,” he said. “I came here to fight. I didn’t prove nothing to anybody, only to myself. I am not one of those guys that look to please the world.”

     Let the planet please him with megabucks. “Thank you, America,” said Paul, who is 11-1 and prepared to fight anyone giving him a better workout. “This is an era of truth. The truth is rising. I’m honored to be part of it.” The truth revealed Tyson as a con man, a brute with little to lose yet lost it anyway. If nothing else, he survived when he was supposed to crash decades ago in a deranged coil. He woke up for his first official fight since 2005, thanks to Netflix, which saw him as a raging lunatic and Paul as a social-media monster and globalized its live programming reach. More than 280 million subscribers could tune in, and according to Paul, 120 million watched. The NFL was interested in the production. Wrestling was interested. Why not use Tyson and Paul as streaming devices in an eight-round fight of two-minute rounds?

     Turns out Netflix also lost, with streaming and buffering problems throughout the production. This was one sports event worth missing. The “devil,” as Tyson called himself, never appeared. In our minds, he served whatever entertainment demand was needed by Generation Z and Generation Alpha. Those in their 30s and 20s thought they were watching sports. They were watching schlock.

     “We crashed the site,” Paul said.

     Actually, they crashed themselves.

     Tyson adopted a new play zone and bit on the word “legacy.” Did he not know he was leaving his behind as he got high on Tyson 2.0 buds? “I don’t believe in the word legacy. I just think it’s another word for ego,’’ he said. “Legacy doesn’t mean nothing. That’s just some word everyone grabbed onto. … It means absolutely nothing to me. I’m just passing through. I’m gonna die and it’s going to be over. Who cares about legacy after that?  What a big ego. I want people to think I’m this, I’m great. No, I’m nothing. We’re just dead. We’re dust, we’re absolutely nothing.”

     There was more. “Can you really imagine somebody saying: ‘I really want my legacy to be this way when I’m — you’re dead?’ ’’ Tyson said. “You think someone really wants to think about you? Where’s the audacity — I want people to think about me when I’m gone. Who the f—k cares about me when I’m gone?”

     No one cares about him now. It’s hard to believe so many viewers fell victim to technological advances. At one point, when Paul stepped on his foot during a weigh-in session, Tyson smacked him in the face and called him an “a—hole.” He wondered if Paul was suicidal, saying, “Picture me losing to him. Once he’s in that ring, he has to fight like his life is dependent on it. Because it will be.”

     Said Paul: “I fear no man. I want him to be that old savage Mike. He says he's going to kill me. I'm ready. I want that killer.”

     The killer was worn out. He dealt with prison, molestation, vile habits and $38 million of debt. The idea was to blast punches and knock out Paul, who was happy to play the bad-guy role. He didn’t mind being a villain, as if anyone could perceive Tyson as a human favorite. “I don't care about their opinions, because I've seen what people cheer for,” Paul said. “It is exactly what I wanted and brought into my career. I tell people I'm purposely pissing them off and then they still hate me, and some of them don't realize that they're feeding into my game. It's great, and I don't disagree with them. That's why this is such a big event. It's the ultimate hero and the ultimate heel.”

     He mocked the “hero.” Paul arrived in the ring in a green car while “In the Air Tonight” played — the Phil Collins tune sung by Tyson in “The Hangover.” The former heavyweight champion tried “Murdergram,” yet no one was petrified.

     “I was trying to hurt him a little bit,” Paul said. “I was scared he was going to hurt me. I was trying to hurt him. I did my best. I did my best.”

     When the scores were announced, Paul’s red hat fell off. Tyson extended his hand for a shake, but the winner was thrusting his index finger.

     That’s how it ends, a hand without an embrace, boos for a man who was “the baddest” in the worst way.

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     Jay Mariotti, called “without question the most impacting Chicago sportswriter of the past quarter-century,’’ writes general sports columns for Substack while appearing on some of the 1,678,498 podcasts and shows in production today. He is an accomplished columnist, TV panelist and talk/podcast host. Living in Los Angeles, he gravitated by osmosis to film projects.