The Circus Comes to Town
April 14, 2025
By The Ghost of HST
This isn’t a brag — it’s not exactly Shakespeare — but I know a thing or two about manufactured chaos. I spent over 20 years editing reality TV, and I worked with many fine people I still call friends — and a few villains I’d prefer not to call at all. One of them was Bill Pruitt, who helped unleash Donald J. Trump into America’s bloodstream via The Apprentice and once said to WBUR Boston:
“Trump said, […] but, would America buy — and used the N-word — winning?”
“We just swiftly moved past that… No one said anything. No one walked out of the room, which I think most of us wish we had.”
I didn’t think much of Bill when I knew him. That moment — and the way he remembers it — didn’t improve my opinion.
UFC 314. Miami.
On the fight card: Jean Silva v. Bryce Mitchell. Paddy “The Baddie” Pimblett v. Michael Chandler. And Alexander Volkanovski v. Diego Lopes for the featherweight title.
But the moment that crystallized the entire evening came before Trump entered the building.
A pregnant female correspondent was standing in the arena, mic in hand, full-throatedly saying whatever the hell she was saying — it was loud — when Jean Silva and his cotterie of cornermen, hangers-on, and paid thugs came barreling through a set of double doors like a precision-drilled SWAT unit. Silva moved like he was doing Tai Chi, showing how relaxed he was. And then, without a glance, a large security man from his entourage reached back and shoved the reporter aside — hand straight to the belly. She stumbled, half-vanished into the wake behind the gang, WTF on her face, still trying to keep the commentary going.
Yeah. It was that kind of night.
No pause. No apology. Just production.
And then — Trump.
He entered alone. He didn’t come in with Musk or Kid Rock. They were already seated, waiting for him, like vassals at court. Because he doesn’t share adulation. Not even with his own bootlickers. This wasn’t a campaign stop — it was a coronation walk.
He entered like an obese, spray-tanned warlord in an ill-fitting suit — and the crowd loved it.
“Are you not entertained?” his internal voice must have screamed (if he even has one), and the arena roared in response. Not for a fighter. Not for the sport. But for the mascot, the messiah, the WWE-turned-UFC god-king of grievance.
Later in the night, we were treated to cutaway shots of Nikki Haley, Marco Rubio, and Ted Cruz — a murder-suicide pact of relevance — and oddly, no boos. Just optics. Just heat lamp smiles. Just the death rattle of what used to be politics.
And Dana — thick-necked, grinning, dressed like a man who sells gym memberships out of his garage — beamed like a man who thinks fascism can be franchised.
This is the same guy who peddles Trump merch on company time, names him like a sponsor during fight nights, and treats violent spectacle like a new branch of government. Dana doesn’t just host the bloodsport. He sells front-row seats to the fall of Rome.
Which made what came next feel like a demo reel for everything he believes in.
Jean Silva’s fight with Bryce Mitchell wasn’t subtle — it was a live-action demonstration of the same energy that opened the night. Silva moved like a blunt instrument with a marketing budget, wild and surgical at once. Mitchell looked game until he didn’t. There was blood. There was a lot of yelling. By the end, Silva was practically frothing for his next viral moment, shirtless and defiant as the crowd lost its goddamn mind.
It was the kind of fight that looks amazing in a trailer, regardless of who wins.
And that’s when it hit me: this wasn’t a sporting event. It was a sizzle reel.
Trump doesn’t attend these things for the culture. He comes for the camera angles.
He understands drama, pacing, reaction shots. He’s not a candidate — he’s a showrunner, and the country is still stuck in Season 7 of whatever deranged reality series he’s been producing since The Apprentice turned him from bankruptcy-riddled clown into a mythological strongman.
Which made what came next feel perfectly scripted: Paddy “The Baddie” Pimblett squaring off against Michael Chandler.
Paddy was the underdog — fun, scrappy, a little too memeable to be taken seriously. Chandler came in looking like the favorite. That lasted until he caught Paddy with a full-force kick, straight in the balls. No hesitation. No pullback. Just a clean, unforgivable shot to the crown jewels.
Paddy groaned. The ref called timeout. The crowd sucked in its collective breath.
And then Paddy nodded.
He waved it off. Signaled he was ready. And what followed was…
Something else.
He didn’t just recover — he transformed. It was like a switch flipped somewhere behind his eyes. A faint glint of demonic possession. A darkness that didn’t belong in a cage with lights and logos. Paddy unleashed hell on Chandler. He dismantled him. Not with luck, or wild shots, or a miracle punch. He hunted.
Every blow landed like a revenge killing in a Sicilian blood oath.
Even Rogan couldn’t find the words. The crowd lost its mind. Paddy wasn’t just winning. He was ascending.
Say what you will about Paddy — but that night, he became a star.
“…when he kicked me in the balls… it was a force kick as well. Me d*ck and me balls were still hurting when I said let’s go. As I say, I knew he was tired, I could see he was tired, so I was like, ‘I’m not giving him this breather.’”
— Paddy Pimblett, post-fight interview
And all of this — the crowd, the cameras, the sudden cruelty, the orchestrated mythmaking — reminded me of something I’ve seen over and over again in reality TV: once chaos becomes your brand, you forget how to do anything else.
Trump is the executive producer of American decay.
He doesn’t have a strategy — he has editing instincts.
He tests the crowd. He drops a heel turn.
And just like bad TV, the goal isn’t resolution. It’s escalation.
Which brings us, finally, to the main event.
Alexander Volkanovski and Diego Lopes were set as the main card for the night.
Volkanovski wasn’t just another contender. He was the former champion — the man who’d ruled the division for years, defending the belt with machine-like precision until two brutal knockouts knocked him off the throne. At 36, he wasn’t supposed to still be here — not in the spotlight, not in the conversation, and certainly not in the cage fighting for that belt again.
But when the cage door closed, “The Great” reminded everyone why it was his name etched into the history of this division. He was clean, calm, methodical. He shut down Diego Lopes with veteran rhythm, outclassed him in the early rounds, and stayed just sharp enough to keep the rising star from taking over.
It wasn’t dominant, but it was undeniable.
The decision came back unanimous — 49–46, 49–46, 48–47 — and just like that, Volkanovski reclaimed the featherweight throne.
No knockout. No explosion. Just a man, weathered and scarred, reminding everyone he still knows how to win a fight.
Volkanovski’s win was the kind of thing that used to define greatness —
but now, in 2025, the cameras had already moved on and the crowd had largely left the building, as had Trump.
Dana was likely counting merch. Someone was probably already cutting the next sizzle reel.
Because in the world we live in now, winning the fight isn’t the point. Staying on screen is.
After all, it’s the attention economy, stupid.
Filed from: A busted ringside monitor, halfway between the Situation Room and the souvenir stand.
