I know I sure would. I would be moving all over the place, keeping the big glom off balance and winded. I would keep sticking jabs in his oversized face, stinging him and frustrating him. I would dance away from him as he throws his big, errant haymakers and roundhouses, only to come back in with a flurry of hooks and crosses, dazing and humiliating him and his big useless muscles. Then I would seal the deal with a big right and leave the punk writhing on the canvas, wondering what day it is.