textfiles/magazines/IBFT/ibft030.txt

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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#030------


                         Wheaties, Semen and Blood
                        Appreciated by Jason Farnon


From Answer Me!: Issue 4
Goad2Hell@aol.com

I think that if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.
                                -- Indiana Basketball Coach Bobby Knight

Its so addictive.  I often get scared.  Often, it's a matter of pushing the
limits.  If you're doing the same thing for years and years, you get used to
it and become accustomed to it, but me and my peers are always pushing the
limits, going higher, faster, longer, and that's what gives you the
excitement-- the fear factor.
                                -- Skateboarder Mark "Gator" Anthony,
                                   convicted of raping and killing girlfriend
                                   Jessica Bergsten, talking about the
                                   thrill of skateboarding

Don't fight it, I'm the champ.
                                -- Allegedly said by Mike Tyson to Desiree
                                   Washington while he was raping her.


The sexual metaphors should be transparent, even to a dopey jock: Balls.
Goals.  Penetration.  Scores.  The slam-dunk.  The touchdown.  The home run.
The soccer ball spurting on a projectile toward the yielding, womblike net.
Sports are filthy.

The superstar athlete's career follows a familiar linear pattern.  It begins
with training.  Then comes competition.  Championship.  Champagne.  Cocaine.
Titty bars.  Paternity suits.  Rehab.  Sneaker commercials.  Beer
commercials.  Cancer.  Toss in a little rape, and you're set.  Statistically,
jocks are four times more likely to rape than non-jocks.  On my college
campus, the jocks used to huddle together in the recreation areas.  They'd
grunt, nod, and occasionally point at things.  I'm sure that if I have them a
bag of rocks to play with, they would have spent hours beating the rocks
together and arranging them in small piles.  It didn't take much to keep them
amused.  That's because most of their brain matter resides in their pants,
much like Volkswagens store their engines in the trunk.

Not all jocks are dumb- famous strap-snappers such as Reggie Jackson and Bill
Bradley are equally at easy in the locker room or at Mensa Scrabble
tournaments- but most athletes tend to be less intelligent than the tobacco
juice they spit onto the Astroturf.  In the Land of the Jocks, though, brains
are more than counterbalanced with brawn.  Bone-snapping physical power is
the jock's tactical advantage in rape.  A smattering of cultural entitlement
may egg him on if he's a famous jock, but famous violinists and
world-renowned physicists don't pull up the rape stats like jocks do.  Rape
is a physical act.  The body is important.  You're seven-foot-two, she's
five-one.  You could rip her neck off like it's a beer-can tab.  Even with
consent, you couldn't get half your dick inside her before she'd howl in
agony.

You're very strong and very stupid.  You can't sign your own name.  You can't
read your driver's license.  You can't even spell the word "rape," but that
isn't necessary.  You're a jock.  You're the biggest jock on the block.  And
you have a cock.  Its a jock's cock, as hard as a rock.

Back in the caves and jungles, these big galoots were the warrior kings, the
ass-kickers and harem-owners whose physical prowess made them desirable
hubbies.  Good killers were good providers.  These were the guys who excelled
at slaughter.  Sure, they may work as bouncers for five bucks an hour now,
but back then they had status.

Of all modern athletes, no one has more Cro-Magnetism than the boxer, whose
ability to injure other males bespeaks a panty-staining level of virility.
And we've never seen a boxer quite like "Iron" Mike Tyson.  A pit bull with a
lisp.  Mike Tython.  His Gerber-baby, kewpie-doll peep of a voice.  And he
could pummel any man in the solar system into a small mound of shaving cream.
He was invincible, both superhuman and subhuman, Mighty Joe Young with a
high-top fade and a gold tooth.

Tyson hammered his way through an electrifyingly violent string of unbeaten
fights in the mid-eighties, his ferocity level more than of a spree killer
than an athlete.  It seemed only a matter of time before he murdered someone
in the ring.

Unfortunately, it never happened.  Mike's dick got in the way of his fists.
When a bald, overweight bulldog names Buster Douglas beat Tyson in Japan,
everyone knew Mike's heart wasn't in the fight.  It was somewhere elth.  He
wath having problemth with girtlh.

Mike Tyson had emerged from the shit-covered streets of Brownsville, New
York, where he'd been a member of a gang called the Jolly Stompers, to become
the world heavyweight champion.  A chocolate-coated troll doll named Don King
saw it as a typical American rags-to-riches saga: "Mike Tyson has come around
180 degrees, and that's the triangle of American life," said the world's
wealthiest murderer-cum-Buckwheat-impersonator.

Soon after Tyson became champ, King became his manager and witnessed his
circling the rest of the triangle.  And it was a model American success
story, complete with mansions, race cars, sexual harassment, and forced
intercourse.  Manifesting the jock rapist's inability to distinguish between
"scoring" in and out of the sports arena, Tyson rhapsodized about treating
his lovers as if they were boxing opponents: "I like to hurt women when I
make love to them," he said.  "I like to hear them scream... it gives me
pleasure." He also claimed that the best punch he ever threw was the one
which sent eyebrow-plucked actress and disposable wife Robin Givens into a
wall.

By 1991, Tyson had foisted his toothy fireplug bulk on so many unwilling
women, he'd earned a reputation as a "serial buttocks fondler." At the Miss
Black America pageant in Indianapolis, Mike was observed groping asses from
Alabama to Wyoming.  He focused his evil leer on Miss Rhode Island,
eighteen-year-old Desiree Washington.  At a hundred and five pounds, Desiree
weighted less than half as much as Iron Mike.  A Sunday-school teacher and
Big Sister volunteer, Desiree was apparently the only woman on earth naive
enough not to expect sex after being invited to Mike Tyson's hotel suite.  So
when Tyson's chitchat abruptly switched from community service and pet
pigeons to "You're turning me on," she was surprised.

Laughing, Tyson pinned her to the bed.  He forced his thick tongue down her
throat, giving her a taste of the champ's legendary halitosis.  She tried to
resist, "but it was like hitting a wall." Tyson kept coming.  "Don't fight
me, mommy," he told her.  When he finally penetrated her, the pain "was just
excruciating," Desiree recalled.  After popping off, Tyson asked, "Don't you
love me now?" She didn't.  She was sobbing.  "You're just a crybaby," Tyson
said.  "You're just crying because i'm big."

Yes, the triangle has come full circle since 1986, when Tyson knocked out
Trevor Berbick to become the youngest heavyweight champ ever.  He had gone
from criminal to hero, and back to Palookaville again.  Less than a month
after Tyson's conviction, his vanquished for Berbich received a four-year
sentence for raping a baby-sitter.  Boxers are so sexy.

But they don't own exclusive rights to the jock-rape fiefdom.  A slight sniff
of the sports pages will yield the piercing liniment smell of rapist
linebackers.  And rapist point guards.  And rapist shortstops.  In fact, most
rapist jocks tend to participate in team sports.  Solo practitioners of
nonviolent sports are statistically less likely to rape.  That isn't to say
you won't find the occasional track-star rapist.  Or rapist bowler.  Even
skateboarders can get caught up in the drive to win.

When Mark Rogowski decided his real name didn't have to the proper
competitive ring to it, he changed it to Mark "Gator" Anthony.  An alligator.
A predator.  He told reporters that skateboarding was "a real productive way
of venting some way-harsh aggressions.  Instead of breaking a bottle and
slashing somebody's face, you're throwing yourself at a wall with sweat
dripping in your eyes." It was the borderline-psychotic drive which propelled
Gator into skateboarding's elite, with the kneepad endorsements and eager
beach bunnies such status implies.

It was the same testosterone-sparked drive which led Gator to sneak behind
his girlfriend Jessica Bergsten and clunk her brutally in the skull with the
Club (tm) steering-wheel lock.  As the blood saturated Jessica's hair and
clothes, Gator cuffed her and hauled her up to his bedroom.  While Jessica
screamed, Gator handcuffed her to the bed, stripped her naked, and fucked her
for at least two hours.  Still, the bitch wouldn't admit defeat.  Gator
crammed her inside a surfboard cover and choked her to death with his hands.
A few hours later, he buried her nude body in the desert sand.  Having wasted
years scraping his kneecaps against empty swimming pools, Gator finally
pushed the limits.  The score: Gator-1, Jessica-0.

Women.  Money.  Power.  Rape.  The breakfast of champions.

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