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God moves in mysterious ways, and so do professional athletes.
Take Renee Richards. Karl Marx thought you needed a hammer and sickle to work material changes on "objective conditions," but Renee has proven that a less than lethal dosage of gonadotrophins and a stainless steel blade can do the trick just as nicely. With a single stroke, she revolutionized tennis. Which only goes to show that professional wrestling is the greatest sport on earth.
Remember: when Renee was amateur proctologist Richard Raskind, her only claim to fame was being voted America's eleventh least masculine man by the Department of Defense. Who ever heard of her? Then she gets the old switcheroo, and vwallah! She becomes an overnight bombshell--famous the world over for her rowdy racqueteering. She really took the ballboys by storm. She was voted America's most famous and respected female athlete by Ladies Home Journal--and she'd only been a woman for 24 days!
The lesson to anyone with enough brains to pose for Nipsy Russell's scrapbook, my friends, is appallingly obvious.
Clearly, any ad executive or diminutive South American who couldn't shoplift his way out of a rest room smoking rap could become one of the smartest and best stacked female athletes in the Universe. Take Abdullah the Butcher, known to the fans as Allah's Gentle Persuader.
Formerly, Abdullah smoked nine packs of Gaullois a day, and had a "driving under the influence" record with the friendly men-in-blue rivaled only by vice-presidential hopeful Tom Eagleton. But--and this will be the biggest moolah to come down the old ivory tube since our last ish--he's taken the fatal step and pulled a fast one, so look out, world!
He is now ABBY BUTCHER, she-golem of Iran, and only smokes half a pack of Larks a day.
Abby Butcher--imagine that!!!
O.K. buddies, you haven't seen stats till you've taken the fat boys and eschewed them into the golden mean we see today. Abdullah:
Education 6th grade
as compared with Abby:
Education Ph.D from Harvard. Yale and Dartmouth
A human monster in disguise!
And here's something more for the perusal of the elite: since then she's not lost a single, solitary bout--chain match and all! How free flowed the blood, how free, how free ....
And that's not all. Now every pro wrestler worth his salt in Barbados cheese is hopping like mad on the merry bandwagon bound for stars and Dallas.
Bruno, that bundling bastion of gentlemanly grappling, revealed in a candid expose in Ft. Worth last Tuesday that when he finally throws in the crown and hangs up his multidimensional belt of heroes (for you newlyweds, his men's Worldwide Heavyweight title (he too will take the plunge, scalpelwise ...
Already he shatters the blue-eyed common senses right in the old beano as far as pure, good-hearted superiority goes. A little known fact about the Mammoth Samaritan is that in a recent backroom, unofficial test flight of a proposed new branch of the Sports of the Nation and the World, Bruno beat hands down and reduced to less of an inexorable mishmosh of spare parts and erector set oil than he recently did to Stan Hansen, that Octopoid Bell-boy, JOHN KENNETH GALBRAITH had to be picked off the floor with Brillo and a sponge. And Bruno just used words!! (More about this next ish.)
Stan Hansen, a sea creature (called cul-de-sac-of-pus by his friends) so guileless and cunning that he shouldn't even be allowed to make neurological decongestant ads or even be on welfare, one-two-threed his way into a state of protoplasmic regret when Bruno finished dicing him through the Great Steel Cage. He actually ripped Hanson's face off--yanked the pulpy flesh right off his doggone skull. Ex-transvestite. Hansen, whose eyes had long since disappeared to leave only streams of orange blood, mistook a kindly referree for his phantom foe. But he didn't even have the strength left to beat 165-er ref Bob Morgan. A happy day for justice, fans.
Hansen's doctors say that if he ever wants to play the violin again he'll either have to develop muscular chest hair or be prepared to bow with steel hooks. Ha ha!
So anyway, Bruno has raised the purple hem, revealing that when he tires of the Men's Worldwide Heavyweight Title, he's going for the Women's! Woo woo!
The gals in Bluefield, West Virginia can rest easy tonight. Fired on by the wrath of the small jade idol he occasionally worships, loveable wrestling scientist and general all around lady's man Bobo Brazil beat the scurrilous and deceitful Man Mountain Mike in the sport's first loser-loses-sex match.
Both humongous titans had a lot to lose (Bobo being a reference standard for the Sexual Consultation Group's virility experiments, and Man Mountain being a Mormon), but however much the multiligimented meatball curmudgeoned his swaying flesh to do his dark desires, it was all for naught. Supple young Brazil whupped him to bacon fat. Bobo truly sent the Mountain to Mohammed!
But the Man Mountain is among the few not to find switching sides a tempting treat. He plans to use the year of grace provided by the sympathetic winner to decide if he wouldn't rather just quit. He already has a host of legal wizards and kin poring over the challenge document, looking for a loophole big enough for the bulbous Mike.
Sure, sex changes are trendy. But the big question is : are these mighty Moes as happy as Digger the Dog? Well, joyous readers and Lebanese alike have reason to put on the glad bag feeding mask, for in general the overwhelming majority unanimously cries out in pearly wontons: "Si, si, senior!" The thousand-year-old egg reads like this: Bulldog Brower says, "I've never been happier. You can't imagine what the story is until you give her a go."
Milwaukee's Nevada Skuzzbomb puts it differently: "It's the best thing that ever happened to me."
Rosalyn Carter, newlywed to former Governor James Carter, chirps, "I would never have found love but for this."
Terrible Ted, the shaggy dog story of wrestling, said, "I haven't tried it myself, but lots of my friends have, and say it's great."
Billy Whitecloud, of Chief Jay Strongbow sidekick fame, offers, "I have finally come to terms with myself. I have an identity now, I'm my own woman. I think EVERYONE should do it."
Think of that. It's enough to blow the wazoo right out of Peter Pan's Almanac. Tarnation Vides, what a line. If the Reverend Billy Whitecloud says "EVERYONE should do it," then this reporter is impressed.
But, heck! Why not? Speculate this one through the old wisdom machine: God's chosen nation of towering indestructible infernoes blazing to the sky. The land of Milk and Honey and Twelve Foot Citizens. It could never happen in China or the Soviet Union, or any of these other knee-high, submongoloid, blankety-blank satrapies. But only in America. Subway to Freedom. Inventor of Intelligence. Home of Thomas Edison, Rutherford Hays, Popeye The Sailor Manson, Telly Sevalis, Gene Kelly, Huey Long, Richard Ward Day, George C. Patton, James Joyce, Martin Kilson, Endicott Peabody, F.W. Woolworth, and Paul Revere, just to name a few.
America, America. And with that noble sentiment, my friends, words fail me.
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