06:13PM PST (August 15, 2025) - S.S. C

TIJUANA, MEXICO — In the dimly lit, sweat-slicked arenas of the Mexican lucha libre circuit, one competitor has emerged as both a technical marvel and a genealogical inconvenience. Donny Bananas, 4 feet 2 inches tall with an 8-foot wingspan and opposable thumbs on his feet, has become a fixture in the sport—equal parts spectacle and scandal.

His anatomical anomaly allows him to grip ropes, opponents, and occasionally his own shame with unmatched precision. “He’s like a spider monkey with unresolved issues,” said one promoter, who requested anonymity and a tetanus shot.

Paternity: Alleged, Denied, Financed

According to documents obtained through a Freedom of Information Act request and a shoebox labeled “Banana Money,” Donny’s mother—a former primate rights activist now housed at the St. Augustine Zoo—claims her son was conceived during a brief encounter with a political tycoon known for his orange complexion and gravitationally defiant hair.

“He came for a photo op,” she said. “He left behind a legacy and a half-eaten banana.”

Despite monthly payments labeled “fruit subsidies,” the alleged father has publicly denied any connection. “Why can’t he join the WWE or even MMA?” he asked at a recent rally. “Instead, he fights illegals in Mexico who want to tear down my wall.”

The payments continue. So do the denials.

Training: Self-Loathing and Saturated Fats

Bananas attributes his success to a strict regimen of pork rinds, expired energy drinks, and generational resentment. “I train by watching old campaign speeches and doing push-ups until I cry,” he said. “Then I eat a stick of butter and scream into a pillow shaped like my father’s face.”

His signature move, The Wall Jumper, involves launching from the top rope, gripping his opponent with all four thumbs, and whispering “I am the dream deferred” before slamming them into the mat. It is both technically impressive and emotionally exhausting.

Symbolism: Unwanted, Unavoidable

In Mexico, Donny Bananas has become a reluctant icon. Children wear his mask. Adults chant his name. He is the embodiment of contradiction: short in stature, long in reach, and permanently stuck between denial and destiny.

Somewhere in a gilded tower, a man watches the footage and mutters, “That’s not my kid.”

But the belts don’t lie.

And neither do the thumbs. story. Updates will be made as “facts” come in.

This story has not been edited.