Woofas and Playas
Hot mercy, Martha. When was the last time we actually had a real Money
Match around here? Reisman vs. Butler II, like about five years ago?
Larry Hodges vs. any U-2000 clipboard-killer wannabee for 20 bucks a
pop? Is that all there is, mah freeiiinnnd? Then let's be happy:
let's break out the booze, have a ball, all get drunk and screw.
Seems like, sure as sunspots, meteor showers and Elvis and Saddam
Hussein sightings, we've had a lotta money woofin' from spuds like Rick
Anderson, 97.8% of whose posts are Hitler this and Jewboy that. Hardly
your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, and a player with Baghdad Bob
smack and a Comical Ali forehand to boot.
S-Jan and his hydraheaded reincarnations have been crawling out from
under da rocks lately, as they are wont to do from time to time.
Dude's been in self-imposed retirement for about a half-decade, and
unlike Anderson may actually once have had sumpin' resembling a game,
but trashin' like he could take out Reisman after a year's hardbat
practice? I could take out Iron Mike Tyson after a year's boxing
lessions from Andrew Gooding, too.
These murphs are woofas, not playas. You don't have to have to show
game to be a woofa; all you gotta have is a double-digit IQ's worth of
smack and 8 mm. cojones with which to back it up. Being a legend in
one's own mind is not to be confused with being the real thing. Any
mope can be a 2500 level playa in cyberpong.
You gotta play to be a playa. These Raggedy Andys ain't no combat men,
all they do is go around woofin' for a fight.
Hulk Hooligan
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