A couple of years ago the family went to a state fair. One of the exhibits was SEE THE WORLD’S SMALLEST WOMAN!!! Against all judgment, I paid the 50 cents to take a look. And there she sat—a tiny little short person on a bench, dressed in some stupid column. I’m not sure whether she was humiliated (or just numb to the horror), but I sure was. A truly low moment.

I bring this up because a few days ago someone I know asked whether I’d like to work the bell at an upcoming professional wrestling match at New Rochelle High School. The event is a fundraiser for the girls’ basketball team, which seems sorta noble. Hence, I agreed. Then I asked who was on the card …

“The big name is Super Fly Snuka,” I was told.

Super Fly Snuka? Isn’t he 100? Or dead?

Answers: No and no. He’s 60-something, and for $20 you can see fat, old, sad Jimmy leap from the top rope in a high school gymnasium.

In other words—where’s the little woman when I need her?