We're watching the Osaka Basho. Sumo, served up fresh in the daily digest, which distills ninety minutes of glowering (interspersed with maybe three minutes of actual sumo) down to twenty-five minutes. We kind of miss the glowering, but we don't have time to watch the regular broadcast.
I interpret choice bits of commentary for Oz. The announcers always make sure to tell us which wrestler is having a birthday, whose mom is in the audience that day, or who just got married. Their sports commentary is equally hard-hitting: "Now Takamisakari leaves the ring, making that crybaby face he always does when he loses." (Really, it sounds a little nicer in Japanese. But not much.)
Our commentary is similarly informed.
When Chiotaikai is propelled three rows deep into the audience: "Damn, do you think he killed any of the spectators?"
When one wrester is caught in a still shot after a win: "Is Roho the ugliest man in sumo?"
"No. But he's the ugliest white man. And there are only three of them. Kotooshu isn't bad looking and Kokkai really looks like a cartoon character."
"Yeah, like Bluto."
When Dejima appears on the dohyo after having been dropped on his shoulder the day before: "Is that a bruise? I thought he already had dirt on him."
"'If you don't like getting dirty, you'd better not fall so much!'"
"Wait, did he put something on it? It doesn't look really bruise-like."
"It's—scabby. Euw."
"If he gets dumped on the other shoulder, he'll have epaulets."