Is Rachel Twelve Inches...Around?

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Rachel Alexandra. The Wonder Woman of the horse racing world. The girl running with the boys. Kentucky Oaks and Preakness winner.

This filly has captured the sports world with her domination of the Kentucky Oaks and recent win at the Preakness. But what if this Wonder “Woman” isn’t a woman after all, but a post-operation transvestite.

“Rachel Alexandra was originally named Robert Allen, but said ‘she’ always felt like ‘she’ should have been born a woman” says a source who wishes to remain anonymous, “who knew that being a girl would help ‘her’ out so much.”

If the rumors are true, this would mean that “Rachel” would have to forfeit her Kentucky Oaks title, as well as deal with the stares and whispers from others in the racing business.

Potential mate Curlin offered his take on the matter, “ So here I am, ready to get my groove on with this broad, and she turns out to be a fuckin’ (sic) shemale (sic). How the hell am I suppose to get up on that? I might as well keep on bustin’ (sic) my nut in Mr. Hands. Or just fuck around with Eight Belles’ corpse a little bit more, wait don’t write that…”.

There are no rules against post-operational transvestites racing with opposite members of their original sex. This does bring up a hot debate throughout the horse racing industry, and there are rumors that trainers across the country have been asking their horses how they feel about getting in touch with their feminine side. The American Horse Racing Association could not be reached for comment.

Rachel Alexandra. Cheater?

…Or pioneer?

The NFL is in talks to bring two regular-season games to London in 2010. After arriving in London for my weekly trip, I asked two British folk what they thought. Here was their back-and-forth:

Harry: Eh Mick, ya hear bout them Yankees fucks bringing der Rugby-bastard game over here for ‘nother go?
Mickey: Fuck wanna do that fo?
Harry: Dunno, think their commish want to make some money cause they think we nuts bout their game.
Mickey: Shit, I just went to them games to get fucked up.
Harry: Ya cheeky bastard, why dinnya tell me that?
Mickey: You was passed out from the footy match the night before.
Harry: Ah, ya Man U pulled their knickers up on that one.
Mickey: Why in fuck’s name they bringing this shit here? They know we only went last time to see what the fuck them Yanks get all riled up for.
Harry: Fan’s must be fuckin’ pissed ov’r losin’ a home game.
Mickey: Aye.
Harry: Fuckin’ lose a chance to get piss-drunk wit his mateys.
Mickey: Ayyyee
Harry: Shit man, they think’ bout doin’ two games next year.
Mickey: Why don’ they just bring the ho’ fuckin’ league ov’r here?
Harry: Who would wanna watch some Rugger wannabe’s wearin’ armour fuck each other up for 4 hours?
Mickey: Aye, as lon’ the cunts got some alcohol available.
Harry: Das what we got footy for.
Mickey: Fuck it, bring this bastard sport o’er here. We can just get fuckin’ drunk if we don’ like the bloody shit.
Harry: Cheeky, cheeky bastard.

Cheerio, everyone. My name is Cornelius Bagley the Third. Let me indulge all of you with the fanciful tale of “CB-3″. I had a privileged childhood, culminating with a legacy entrance into Oxford University. I earned my degree in 4 months, the result of superior secondary schooling. I immigrated to America 22 years ago to work as a stockbroker. Possessing a vast knowledge of the inner workings of international finance, I quickly ascended the Wall Street ladder. I unfortunately could not overcome my addiction to what the proletariat refers to as “the common street whore”. I contracted a rare strain of herpes known only as “Simplex X”. It left me with ghastly sores all over my body and face. I was subsequently blackballed from Wall Street, and forced to find a lesser occupation.

That occupation I found was managing a phone sex company. I will now share with you the transcript of a call from a professional athlete by the name of Ron Artest. The thespian is a gorgeous bird that goes by the nom de phone sex of “Alexxxa”.

Alexxxa: Hey big daddy

Ron Artest: Sup.

Alexxxa: How you doin tonight, stud. You gonna tear me apart or what?

Ron Artest: What did you say? I got bad reception.

Alexxxa: I just wanted to know if you felt “UP” for a good time.

Ron Artest: Yeah, I guess I feel up for a good time. I know someone else who was always up for a good time. His name was Shawn. I played ball with him back in Queens. He got in a fight with some guy in the stands during one game. Motherfucker came out of the stands and shot Shawn in the face, right on the court. I got to the shoot the free throws for him, though, and we won state that night. I’ll never forget that shit.

Alexxxa: Ohhhh…Wow..Ok? Well you know what? I’m just lying in my bed right now, wearing a black lace teddy…..mmmmm..with a little black g-string. Where are you, baby?

Ron Artest: I can’t hear you too well. Like I said, we got no reception in here. I’m in the locker room. I got ejected in the second quarter. Punk ass towel boy stepped up to me during a timeout, saying some shit like “Hey, Ron, you need a towel, you look like you’re sweating a lot.”

I said to that lil’ bitch ass towel boy, “Sweatin’? Why the fuck would I be sweatin? You sayin I’m scared? Scared of what? Of you?” Then I picked his ass up and threw him over the bench, and that old bald ass Joey Crawford told me I was ejected. And for what? Some BULL-SHIT, that’s what.

Alexxxa: Oh……yeah? Well I’m sorry, baby. I just wanna make you feel better. How can Alexxxa make you feel better? Maybe I could take my hand, and slide it underneath those boxers

Ron Artest: Did you say boxers? I remember one time we were playin a pick up game against these amateur boxers in Rucker Park, and my boy Tony threw it down on this one brother’s head to win the game and smiled at him. Boxer dude ain’t like it. He punched Tony in the head so hard, both his eyeballs fell out. They was just ROLLIN AROUND on the concrete. I held him in my arms, and looked him right in his eye-sockets. I told him he was gonna be ok. Tony died like a minute later. Coroner said some shit about blunt force trauma killin him. Ain’t that about a bitch?

Alexxxa: Oh my god. I don’t even know what to say. Instead, I’m not gonna say anything. I’m just gonna take off my soaking wet panties…

Ron Artest: Oh yeah? Yeah, do that

Alexxxa: Yeah, then I’m gonna wrap my legs around your head, and-

Ron Artest: Funny you should say that, because one time my AAU team toured Japan and played all the best Chinese squads. They were some short motherfuckers, but they was quick. My boy Rayshon was D’ing up this little Chinese dude pretty hard, and one play he even stuffed him, and Rayshon was “ohhhhhh SHIT I just SAMURAI’D ya dumbass!”. Japanese dude just stood there and said some shit like “You have besmirched every member of the noble Yakitori family” or some shit, and then started flying around the gym and karate kicking everyone! The fans, the coaches! Then he got to Rayshon, did some crazy ass flips and shit, and the Chinese dude wrapped his Japanese legs around Lil Ray Ray’s head, and snapped his fuckin neck. It’s just part of the game, thoOOOOHHHHH SHIT! SHIT! RON RON CUMMIN! Oh daaaaaaaaaaamn.

Alexxxa: Yeah, that’s it, Ron-Ron. Let it all out for me.

Ron Artest: Got DAMN, that was good.

Alexxxa: Oh did you like that?

Ron Artest: Yeah, you know what, I haven’t—Oh shit, the game ended. Coach Adelman’s coming. He said if he caught me doing this in the locker room again, I’d have to do to extra suicides at practice next week. Damn, reminds me of this one cat that committed suicide during halftime back in Jamaica Plains….