Chairman, commissioners, and Referee Mario:
I have come before you today to contest the stripping of my WVBA World Circuit title. I admit, and my trainer, Doc Lewis, who has come with me today to provide moral support and constantly hit me in the shoulder, can attest, that I did indeed tap select during the round breaks to increase my health against Mister Sandman. I have no illusions about that, and it was wrong. I also will admit to you today that I have not yet joined the Nintendo Fun Club, even though Doc has implored that I do so on numerous occasions. And yes, I do know the pass key. 007-373-3454. It has been widely spread through most boxing circles.
However, despite these truths, I contend that I have done nothing worthy or deserving of the loss of my title. As proof, I will now list several attributes of boxers within your very organization who are doing things far more inappropriate.
Take for instance, this competitor, who goes by the name of Piston Honda. Ignoring the fact that he is almost exactly the same in name and boxing style as another boxer in a different circuit named Piston Hurricane with the only difference being ethnicity, I am sure you are aware that Mr. Honda, despite being roundly and decisively beaten in our first match-up for the Minor Circuit title -- Referee Mario, you can vouch for me on this -- returned to fight me again on the World Circuit. I assure you, gentlemen, he did not go through the appropriate circuit transfer process, as he fought me only some fifteen minutes after our first bout.
Likewise, a Mr. Don Flamenco, who I must say was the most ineffectual boxer who I have ever faced in my career in our first match-up, came back to fight me on the World Circuit as well, with some sort of grossly overdeveloped new set of skills. I can only assume this is due to drug use or the fact that he was told by promoters to throw the first fight. Either way, the guy's dancing should be outlawed.
As the commissioners of a boxing association, I am more than sure that all of you are familiar with the concept of weight classes. Which is why I am more than baffled that you even allowed me, a 107-pound boxer who is barely five feet tall, to take on the 284-lb. Mr. Sandman, and, even worse, this man, King Hippo, whose weight is apparently not even known, but must be somewhere in the area of 600 pounds.
For all I know, this man is not even human, and yet he is allowed to box in your ring. What's next? Will I have to fight a beached whale? Some squirrels that have been stapled together, perhaps?
Or maybe it'll just be this guy, Great Tiger, who you, Referee Mario, allowed to teleport around the ring.
I'm sorry, but there's only one word for that, and that's bullshit.
And how about Soda Popinski? Are we really supposed to believe that what he is drinking is harmless soda? Clearly, the man has a problem. And you're just enabling him. I'm not really complaining about the match here per se, as much as I'm saying this man needs help.
And finally, I come to this man, Super Macho Man, whose pectoral flexing not only completely humiliated me as I tried to get up, but also has caused all the female members of my family to no longer wish to attend any more of my matches.
I believe I have made my point. As such, I implore you to re-instate my title.
You'll notice that I have not made any formal complaint against champion Mike Tyson. I do this because there is no need; I needed only mention his name to remind you that he is Mike Tyson.
I bid you good day, gentlemen.
