Let’s get something straight—if Rhonda Singh walked into your living room, she wouldn’t ask where the remote was. She’d take the chair, change the channel to New Japan, and dare you to say something. She was part locomotive, part battering ram, and all heart, wrapped in spandex and sharp-tongued grit. Before the wrestling world became an assembly line of gym selfies and baby oil, Rhonda—whether she was Monster Ripper, Bertha Faye, or just a Calgary girl with a dream—was out there earning every bump and bruise the hard way.
If you’re looking for pageantry, you won’t find it here. If you’re looking for power, presence, and a woman who was too damn good for the gimmicks they gave her, welcome to the strange, sad, and magnificent tale of Rhonda Singh.
From the Sandbox to Stampede
Growing up in Calgary, Rhonda didn’t just want to be a wrestler—she knew she would be one. While other little girls played dress-up, Rhonda was body-slamming the neighborhood kids into whatever wasn’t nailed down. Legend has it she beat up her kindergarten classmates, which—depending on your perspective—is either a sign of future greatness or a public school disciplinary hearing.
She begged the Hart family to train her, and in true wrestling fashion, they said no. Not because she wasn’t tough enough. Not because she wasn’t serious. But because, back then, the only thing tougher than Rhonda was the gender politics in wrestling. According to Bret Hart, it was a scheduling issue. According to reality, it was sexism.
So she found another way.
Monster Ripper in the Land of the Rising Elbow
Sing’s life changed during a trip to Hawaii in 1978, when she caught a broadcast of Japanese women’s wrestling. What she saw wasn’t a sideshow—it was war in a ring. Before long, she was training under the legendary Mildred Burke in California, and within weeks—yes, weeks—she was snatched up by All Japan Women’s Pro-Wrestling.
They called her Monster Ripper. And brother, she lived up to it.
She debuted in January 1979 and within months was headlining cards. This wasn’t a gimmick; it was the real deal. She beat Jackie Sato for the WWWA World Single Championship—a title that meant something in Japan. You didn’t get it for flashing a smile and doing a moonsault. You earned it with stiff elbows and 45-minute wars. Rhonda did that twice.
The Japanese locker room didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet. They hated losing to foreigners. Rhonda didn’t care. She earned their respect by taking their best shots and giving them back. She wasn’t fluent in the language yet, but she spoke suplex.
Back to the Stampede
In 1987, she returned to Canada and joined Stampede Wrestling. Bruce Hart, in a stroke of originality worthy of a cold shower, renamed her Rhonda Singh. There were plans to pair her with Gama Singh—yes, the old “same last name, must be related” wrestling logic—but that didn’t pan out. What did was Singh becoming the first Stampede Women’s Champion after defeating Wendi Richter. That wasn’t just a notch on the belt—it was a declaration of force.
Rhonda could work. Not “for a woman,” not “for her size.” She could work, period. That didn’t stop promoters from trying to shrink her into a gimmick, a box, or a punchline. And eventually, one would succeed.
WWF: Where Talent Goes to Die in Gimmicks
In 1995, Vince McMahon and his band of spray-tanned marketing interns had an idea: bring in Rhonda Singh and make her a joke. They slapped on a polka dot outfit, dubbed her “Bertha Faye,” and shoved her into a trailer park romance with Harvey Wippleman. It was like casting a linebacker in a rom-com. The problem wasn’t Rhonda—it was that no one in Titan Towers had a damn clue what to do with her.
She debuted by attacking Alundra Blayze, broke her nose (kayfabe), and eventually won the WWF Women’s Championship at SummerSlam. But she wasn’t allowed to work like she could. Vince reportedly told her not to use power moves that might “embarrass” the men. So instead of breaking backs, she was breaking hearts as a cartoon character with cleavage.
She hated it. Hated the outfit, the gimmick, the infantilizing of her talent. Once said she felt like a prostitute out there—flamboyant, exaggerated, and put on display for a laugh. She lasted a year before asking out. The WWF lost a wrestler; she lost a piece of herself.
Back to the Wild
After that fiasco, Rhonda returned to Mexico, working again in AAA as “La Monstra” and picking up where she left off—throwing women across the ring and not apologizing for it. She spoke fluent Spanish, which probably confused the hell out of promoters who expected her to be just muscle and not much else. Joke’s on them—Rhonda Singh was sharp. She could speak fluent Japanese too. She could also speak “armbar” and “leg drop,” in case you needed a translation.
WCW: Hope and Heartbreak
In 1999, World Championship Wrestling brought her in as part of a plan to jumpstart their women’s division. Of course, in WCW fashion, that plan had the consistency of a wet napkin. One week she was wrestling; the next she was dancing with the Nitro Girls in skits that made The Gong Show look like Shakespeare.
Still, she gave it a shot. Challenged for the Cruiserweight and Hardcore titles. Reprised her Monster Ripper persona. But like a lot of great talents in that era, she was caught in a system that didn’t know how to handle her. She quietly exited the spotlight soon after.
The Final Bell
Rhonda Singh died of a heart attack in 2001. She was only 40. Never married. No kids. But at her funeral were wrestling legends—Bret Hart, Stu Hart, Davey Boy Smith—because when you earn respect the hard way, people show up.
She spent her last days as a caregiver for the handicapped. Of course she did. That was Rhonda. A big heart hiding under all that bluster and bombast. Her brother said it best: she liked to look after people.
Legacy, Dammit
You won’t see Rhonda Singh in highlight reels or WWE retrospectives. You probably won’t see her name in top ten lists. But ask any wrestler worth their wrist tape, and they’ll tell you—Monster Ripper could go.
She was a pioneer. She was a powerhouse. She was a punchline in the eyes of promoters and a wrecking ball in the eyes of opponents.
Bertha Faye may have been the gimmick, but Rhonda Singh was the truth. And the wrestling world’s a little smaller without her.
