Hey there, ‘Merica. It’s me, the ’Merican Dream, Dusty Rhodes, and I think I got a way to fix this here oil spill down there in the Gulf.
First, for the record, I wanna say that the ‘Merican Dream had nuthin’ to do with that thing there. Now, it’s true that the other night, me and Sweet Sapphire got good and ripped on gin and Tang after celebratin’ my son Dustin’s graduation from The Learning Annex (talk about a Rhodes Scholar). And, like we do, Saph and I started making sure all my shotguns worked. We just were firing all over the place, trying to take out my target bats. When we’s run out of bullets, we turn on the light box, and sure ‘nuff, Ol’ Mean Gene Wolf Blitzer sayin’ some oil rig in da Gulf done lit up like one of ‘dem fine cigars I seen Rick Flair smokin’ after he and Tully Blanchard bashed in my leg in ‘86! At first, I done worried Sapphire and me done hit the damn thang with our shootin’, but by morning I had realized no bullet can travel from Carbondale, IL all the way a hundred miles into the Gulf of Mexico. Least not the kind they sells me at Big Lots.
But just ‘cause the ’Merican Dream Dusty Rhodes is free and clear of this thang don’t mean he don’t wanna help. So here’s what I propose. ‘Merica, you gonna need to scrape together bout $2100. Somebody saying, "Hey, D-Rhodes. Ain’t that the price of that sweet ass T-Top Chevette your cousin Larry’s selling, plus a grand for new tires and Yosemite Sam mud flaps, and I say, “You betcha, brother!” The ‘Merican Dream gonna be stylin’ AND pro-filin’ in Larry’s custom Chevy Chevette. APR Gar-ron-tee, baby! Auto Panty Remover! Oh brother, you give me that, plus bus fare down to Oopaloosa, a per diem of five or six hamburgers, and a triple-XL yellow polka dot singlet, and the three-time NWA World Wrastlin’ Champ gonna be all over that slick SON-OF-A-BITCH!
Here’s my plan: I been savin’ bottle corks since me and Magnum TA christened the openin’ up of our first unfinished furniture store in Charlotte, NC, and now, I got a whole mess of ‘em. I mean the garage is full of them corks. Sweet Saphire always complain’ ‘bout it, saying she ain’t got nowhere to park her big, black Cady-lac. I says, "You mean the one the Million Dollar Man Ted Dibiasi gave ya for switchin’ sides on me at SummerSlam? I says, “Baby, you had a price, and now you gotta pay… by parking in the cul-de-sac.” Being left by your lady for a man with enough money that he can afford to get dollar signs bedazzled on the lapel of his suit! That’s HARD TIMES, daddy! Now, once the bus done dropped me off at the Gulf shore, what I’m gonna do is put on my snorkel gear, take one mess of a deep breath, and swim on down with my corks. When I’m deep down, I’m just gonna start stuffin.’ Crazy like, you know. Just crammin’ that hole with all them corks till the unleaded stop flowin’. ‘Member how George the Animal Steele used to be on them turn-buckles? Well that’s gonna be me and the corks, and eventually, with ‘nuff corks, that damn thang gonna have to stop. Hey, its physics, daddy! And when it do, ol ’Merican Dream gonna swam back up, give Sweet Sapphire a big ol’ wet kiss with all that oil on me, then head on over to BP so I can drop a big ol’ ’Merican-made Bionic Elbow courtesy of Uncle Sam on them oil executives, so they know better than to do this again!
So balls in your court, United States. If you ready to stop screwin’ round with droppin’ down these tin shack lookin’ things… all these… robot arms, if you want to fix this oil thang before it’s too late, before all them perty lil’ birds can’t swim cause they covered in petrol, just give ol Dusty Rhodes a call. If you can’t reach me at home, try my pager, and if that don’t work, try the Greases Pieces All You Can Eat Country Buffet on Highway 41. Give ’em a ring baby, and ask for The ’Merican Dream!