Per-Per-View Cesspool
I had the unfortunately displeasure the other evening to find myself stuck partaking in and indulging in the typical male culture involving ‘Pay-Per-View Wrestling Extravaganza’s’: Light beer, Buffalo Wings, two grapplers in sparkly tights engaging in borderline homoerotic activities inside a squared ring, and ogling the waitresses ass as she gathers up empty bottles and baskets of discarded wing bones from the tables in between body slams and bear hugs.
Basically at it’s most simplified and fundamental level, wrestling is two sweaty men with foreheads that you could show home movies on, locked in combat. Take away the fancy lighting, the high-tech pyrotechnics, the costumes, the entrance music, and the in between match interviews, and essentially you have two Neolithic hominids fighting over a discarded Brontosaur bone. Wrestling is Darwinism in reverse. Any way you slice it, it’s still grown men in colorful tights doing things to one another that in any other social setting would be immediately deemed inappropriate. It would not be considered ‘Sports Entertainment’ if say, these same two sweaty Neanderthals were grappling, groping, and fondling one another at a dorm party would it? No. They would instead be considered prime candidates for ‘Campus Queen’s of the Year’.
Even wrestling fans are from the lowest rungs of the Evolutionary ladder, looking like they just crawled out of the swamp for an Oak Ridge Boys concert. They can often even make Ogre from ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ seem like Steven Hawking in comparison. I’ll wager that the average IQ level in a room full of wrestling fanatics during any one of the big ‘Pay-Per-View’ wrestling events would be equal to the average shoe size of the same roomful of fans. You can actually feel yourself slipping further down the Evolutionary Scale with every passing minute you spent in the near vicinity of these people until you’re “Woohoo-ing” like a horny Howler Monkey in the throws of monkey passion over the big ‘Evening Gown Match’ on the big screen TV without shame or apology.
It’s a Soap Opera for the mentally deficient retards. A quick synapses of the latest ‘Wrestlemania’ Mega-card includes such bizarre incidents and catch terms that only the most avid in-the-know wrestling fan like “Japanese Buzzsaw”, “Stink Face”, “Girls Shaving Girls”, and some dude in shiney red spandex wear that makes him look like some adult porno version of the Flash superhero. It all reads like uber-kinky menu options to rival any Amsterdam ‘Red Light District’ billboard of carnal delights; something that would definitely require a credit card anyways.
The real Freakshow is what goes on in the men’s bathroom between matches when the full brunt of suicide wings and draft beer rears it’s ugly head and instantly transforms the restroom into the ‘Ground Zero of Gassy Assholes’.
Basically at it’s most simplified and fundamental level, wrestling is two sweaty men with foreheads that you could show home movies on, locked in combat. Take away the fancy lighting, the high-tech pyrotechnics, the costumes, the entrance music, and the in between match interviews, and essentially you have two Neolithic hominids fighting over a discarded Brontosaur bone. Wrestling is Darwinism in reverse. Any way you slice it, it’s still grown men in colorful tights doing things to one another that in any other social setting would be immediately deemed inappropriate. It would not be considered ‘Sports Entertainment’ if say, these same two sweaty Neanderthals were grappling, groping, and fondling one another at a dorm party would it? No. They would instead be considered prime candidates for ‘Campus Queen’s of the Year’.
Even wrestling fans are from the lowest rungs of the Evolutionary ladder, looking like they just crawled out of the swamp for an Oak Ridge Boys concert. They can often even make Ogre from ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ seem like Steven Hawking in comparison. I’ll wager that the average IQ level in a room full of wrestling fanatics during any one of the big ‘Pay-Per-View’ wrestling events would be equal to the average shoe size of the same roomful of fans. You can actually feel yourself slipping further down the Evolutionary Scale with every passing minute you spent in the near vicinity of these people until you’re “Woohoo-ing” like a horny Howler Monkey in the throws of monkey passion over the big ‘Evening Gown Match’ on the big screen TV without shame or apology.
It’s a Soap Opera for the mentally deficient retards. A quick synapses of the latest ‘Wrestlemania’ Mega-card includes such bizarre incidents and catch terms that only the most avid in-the-know wrestling fan like “Japanese Buzzsaw”, “Stink Face”, “Girls Shaving Girls”, and some dude in shiney red spandex wear that makes him look like some adult porno version of the Flash superhero. It all reads like uber-kinky menu options to rival any Amsterdam ‘Red Light District’ billboard of carnal delights; something that would definitely require a credit card anyways.
The real Freakshow is what goes on in the men’s bathroom between matches when the full brunt of suicide wings and draft beer rears it’s ugly head and instantly transforms the restroom into the ‘Ground Zero of Gassy Assholes’.
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