I’ve had a few money-making harebrained schemes in my day, but you good people know it’s not my usual style. I’m not about making a quick buck, I’m about doing irrational things with little or no prep time. Still, if I can make a few dollars with a harebrained scheme I was going to do anyway, that’s the gravy on the ice cream.

I initially suggested Lee and Camembert’s girlfriend, Girl Elvis, work out their troubles in the boxing ring just because I wanted to see some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Ginger Baker, my beloved and betrothed, once I finalize my divorce to my current harpy of a wife, is the one who thought it would make a terrific spectacle. Apparently there’s a huge audience out there for a man fighting a woman, and as soon as she said that I remembered Girl Elvis was a woman. You can hardly blame me, her rendition of “Love Me Tender” sounds just like the man himself. It’s like you’re transported in time back to 1963, sitting on the grassy knoll and listening to the radio right before you shoot JFK.

But enough of my time-traveling fantasies, like the world needs a 36th column of me writing about shooting Kennedy. This is about the long-awaited match between man and she-man. To see the sweet explosions and fury when the sheer muscle of womanhood collides with the elegant musical talent of mandom. Who will win? No one can say, although Vegas odds have Lee going down before the sweat has a chance to accumulate on his forehead.

Camembert, lovable little red pacifist that he is, still hopes for a peaceful resolution to the problems. I say all the names in the barrel have been hurled and they still want blood. The only way to settle this is with a highly-profitable sporting event hosted on Pay-Per-View, with HBO getting first crack at the second airing. And not just for me, who has mortgaged the house three times over to promote this event, and not just Ginger Baker, sinking heavily into debt to rent the arena and hire celebrity judges. No, this has to be settled in a 12-round match, by decision or knockout, so we’ll know once and for all who is the king of the sexes. That doesn’t just mean for men—there have been women kings, too.

I plan on airing a 45-minute video, professionally made by myself and my old indie film buddy Piglet, explaining to all audiences exactly how this match came to be. Not all the boring financial stuff. But how Lee kept practicing his bass whenever Girl Elvis was trying to watch AMC’s Elvis-All-Weekend marathon, which became their first match-up. I had just enough time to film the last part of the argument and the first sucker punch, and that itself is worth the price of admission, good people. Yes, I can charge admission to a video tape. I asked my lawyer, Jerry Nascar.

It had all started before that, of course, with Lee’s merciless slaughtering of the entire Elvis catalogue in his Christian band, Up With Prophets. Girl Elvis told him she’d rather be crucified than hear him ruin another classic, and that fretted Lee quite a bit, starting him speaking in tongues and everything, though it might have been the epilepsy. He’s had bouts of it ever since the car accident.

Just between you and me, faithful and singular commune reader, Lee is still trying to weasel out of it, and if I saw the Vegas odds, I would, too. He claims Jesus wouldn’t want him to fight, and I’ve been trying to get this Jesus fellow on the line, since he’s obviously hoping for a cut of the action to prod Lee forward. But trust me, if I have to toss him into the ring with the help of a few burly boys, I’ll do it. Hell, I might even throw Camembert in there, just to remind him who’s boss. He’s been getting awful cocky lately.

Of course, until the event actually happens, I won’t have a wide berth to talk about it, according to my lawyer. But I’ve still got plenty to offer in future columns. I wouldn’t mind sorting out this mess with my ratings once and for all. And I have yet to give a progress report on the X-M radio. Hardly everything I had hoped.