Michele and Wayne: The True StoryAs some of you may know, Michele Agnew is known far and wide as the Arm Wrestling Champion, Las Vegas, 1997. She captured her title by beating legendary crooner, Wayne Newton -- impressive to say the least.
What you may not know, however, is that Ms. Agnew also had a torrid affair with Mr. Newton. I know this to be the truth because I was there. And it wasn't pretty.
It all started with Michele calling me up one day complaining that she was bored...
MICHELE: Let's do something wacky, Lori. Something totally nuts and terribly frivolous!
ME: Okay? Like?
MICHELE: Hang on, hon -- I dropped my snapping turtle.
ME: Micheeeeele! [said with frustration] I thought you said you were putting that thing back in the creek.
MICHELE: Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was thinking, why not go to Vegas? I mean, I've never been. Have you?
scritchy, snappy, yawning sounds
ME: Michele, put the turtle down. And no, I haven't been. I heard it smells like pee.
MICHELE: Come on! It'll be fun! We could get really drunk and pelt the Boobs on Ice girls with Raisinettes!
ME: Well, now that you put it that way...Sure! Las Vegas, here we come!
And so it began. Michele and I arrived that night in Las Vegas, Nevada; we were hungry, tired, and PMSing like hell. We needed to drink. We needed two burly cowboys in sequined thongs. So after we unpacked, put on our whoriest outfits (she in a gold lame' mini, me in a black lace bustier and clear platform shoes), we hit the Strip.
What a sight! What beauty and horror we beheld! It was almost overwhelming, but after a few shots of Jose Cuervo and a couple of Corona each, we began to feel right at home. We were shit-faced beyond what is feminine, especially Michele. And I think that's what appealed to the proprietor of Howdy Dude's Bar & Arm-Wrestling Extravaganza. Apparently, he scouts out attractive, shit-faced women in the hopes that they will participate in his bi-weekly arm-wrestling tournaments. He saw Michele and had to have her.
She, of course, agreed to his meager offering of free booze and, should she win, the sixty-seven dollar purse.
She murdered her first opponent right off the bat -- brought his arm down in two minutes flat. The fact that the unfortunate man had no fingers is irrelevant.
Her second foe, a three hundred pound beast named Dinky, was a bit more challenging. Michele almost lost it there, but she pulled out her secret weapon, her lip gloss, and applied it so heavily, the brutish Dinky became blinded by her glowing, laser-like mouth.
Her third and final opponent was a complete surprise to all involved -- Wayne Newton himself strolled up to the table and sat down opposite Michele. We just about died. The strobe lights swirled, the bee-hived ladies squealed, and the D.J. spun the great Newton classic Danke Shoen. It was magical.
But it didn't sway Michele, not in the least. She fought like a tigress hungry for gazelle cake, she humbled that black-haired messiah and made him whimper. By the end of that bout, not only had Michele won the purse, she won Wayne Newton's heart.
To make a long and possibly pornographic story short, they didn't leave his hotel room for the rest of the weekend. I was forced to entertain myself by shooting pool with transvestites and stuffing dollar bills into vibrating, glittering packages made of gold and silver and ruby.
I slept with Mike Tyson, too, but that's a whole other ball of earwax.
Anyway, Michele and Wayne broke up on Sunday morning due to the fact that she was made ill by Wayne's hair dye -- poor girl not only broke out in giant hives, she hallucinated and sang show tunes. It was awful.
On the trip home, Michele swore me to secrecy, made me promise that I would never, ever tell a soul about our lost weekend in Vegas. I patted her bumpy head and crossed my heart. And I kept my promise for almost nine years, regardless of the tabloids offering thousands for my story, Dateline pounding on my door...I kept my promise. Till now.
Forgive me, Michele, but the world deserves to know.