Floyd Mayweather's $100,000 Chinchilla-fur coat was the worst part of Super Bowl LII

There's never a shortage of barrel-scraping human behavior on Super Bowl Sunday, but this year's annual Purge Night was unlike any other. Uber-bro Bradley Cooper went full Silver Linings, Kevin Hart blacked out on live TV, Tom Brady wouldn't shake anybody's hand, and Dodge tried to use MLK to sell pickup trucks...and that was all before Eagles fans descended on the streets of Philly to burn stuff and feast on horse dung. Still though, in this pantheon of literal and figurative shit, one man stood alone:

Floyd Mayweather, clad in a $100,000 Chinchilla-fur coat, head shoved so far up his own ass it was coming out of his neckhole.

It was bad enough when NBC panned over Pretty Boy's luxury box in their requisite Celebs-At-The-Big-Game rundown, momentarily absolving the domestic abuse allegations and homophobia and rampant asshollery because his necklace was shiny. On Monday afternoon, however, it got even worse when Mayweather, apparently unhappy with the quantity of attention-barf being spewed all over a guy who monetizes his belief that Duracell pajamas can conquer the aging process, took to Insta to clear up three things:

Floyd isn't a "pantomime villain." He's just a villain. He's actual fighting's Steven Seagal. He's America's Ivan Drago. He's Don King and Don Trump packed into one horrible little angry man and if you think this is all about the jacket, it's not. It's about what the jacket represents—celebratory, gleeful greed; a sickly thirst for attention in any form; an emphasis on self and image above all else. Also it's a little bit about the jacket, because look how f—king ugly that thing is.

But who knows. Maybe we've got this all wrong. Maybe a grown man bragging about how much he overpaid for the slaughter of a bunch harmless rodents just rubbed us the wrong way. Either way, the reality remains the same: A 40-year-old adult with the fame, influence, and off-shore bank accounts of Floyd "Money" Mayweather should be gloating about the charities he's donated to and the lives he's working to enrich. Instead, all we get is the empty of husk of a man on a private jet surrounded by stacks of cash in a coat made out of your pets talking about how much he just put on [insert NBA frontrunner] to win it all.