Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Wrestling Fan Anonymous

My name is Terry Nash and I’m a wrestling addict.

I simply can’t help it. I know that I have a serious problem. They say that the first step to healing is in admitting that you have a problem - well, I got me a HUGE fucking problem! It all started innocently enough, against my better judgment of course, but before I knew what evil had actually taken over me I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was drawn to this mammoth train wreck like a fly to horseshit.

It was love at first suplex.

I remember a long time ago as a younger, simpler man I liked to go down to the local dive bar*, throw a zillion chicken wings down my throat, get hopelessly legless on draught beer, and cheer on the Randy "Macho Man" Savage as he sailed off the top rope onto the chest of his poor lifeless opponent. Wrestlemania was strangely therapeutic and it was the most fun I’d ever had without lubricant. But somewhere down the road I decided to read a book and suddenly wrestling was beneath my superior intellect. I also wasn't getting laid much then either.

You know how it goes…

My original intent this time around for tuning into another similar broadcast of the ever-popular ‘Monday Night RAW’ wrestling extravaganza was an attempt at finding witty and insightful subject matter to sound off shamelessly about for you dear readers. Surely if there was anything worth mocking on this planet it would reveal itself in two men in sparkly lame man panties grappling with one another. There are only three things that at this point I believe to be true about this universe: the earth is round, outer space is infinite, and only fags watch wrestling.

To me, wrestling represented the ultimate paradox: if a two grown sweaty men in spandex body slam one another inside a squared circle and there are no toothless rednecks to hold up “John 3:16” – would it still be fixed? My world unraveled quicker than Tutankhamun in a wind tunnel. Everything I had faithfully accepted as truth in this life had been turned askew and raped of all meaning. On top of that...well, lets put it this way...if I ever find myself sporting a chubby after Ricky Martin comes on the radio – I’ll know what to blame. Well, that, and my queerbait landlord.

I was right in the fact that it provided me with an endless source of testosterone charged comedic material. So much so that it would take eons to voice it all here in type for you. But what I hadn’t planned on at the time was in becoming hooked to it's deliciously uber-cheesy plotlines.

Previously I had mocked these types of simpletons. They were supposed to be the absolute ass end of the evolutionary chain. You know, guys who genuinely thought that Steve Guttenberg was honestly Academy Award worthy for his work in the Police Academy series - guys whom you’d think nothing of unplugging from their life-support systems just to make popcorn. These are beings that crave and idolize unfounded violence and all other measures of moronic behavior in general. And nowhere is this fact more in evidence by the recent staggering success of ‘Jackass: The Movie’ and with the sudden rise in shopping buggy-related injuries. The whole world has gone fucking mad.

Or so I thought!

Vince McMahon, illustrious owner and general manager of WWE realized this basic intrinsic need in life’s lowest-common-denominators and catered his own particular mixture of ridiculousness and senseless mayhem to this basic male need. He offers this unique brand of “sporting entertainment” to the lowest rungs of society** and thus fulfilled an as of yet unclaimed bastion of television culture. We men are drawn to senseless violence like we’re drawn to spread-eagled blonds on the hoods of convertible sports cars. And considering society still frowns on monkey knife fighting in International waters and pregnant women on water-skies tend to make people nervous – I’d say that that leaves little else on television to satisfy our male needs***. We’re hypnotically drawn to it. The sound of a harsh, rough and tumble moolyak with a forehead you could show home movies on harping endlessly about ass-whoopings he promises on doling out on his opponent calls to us through the television screen like Siren songs.

Just when you realize that your very intelligence is being sucked from your brain and just when you think you can muster up enough strength of will to turn the channel or, heavens forbid, get up from the couch, they announce an 'Over-the-Top-Rope Bikini Battle Royale' and your pathetic ass isn’t going anywhere. Your attention locks back onto that television screen like it was magnetized and your brain continues to liquefy from between your ears until you couldn’t beat a chicken in a game of checkers.

I was transfixed. I haven’t been that strangely aroused since the bitch fight at the end of ‘Single White Female’. I also realize that I’m one step closer to salmon drapes but I don’t care. And so it goes until my intelligence is on par with that of a box of animal crackers. Am I really this easily amused or am I just suffering from a serious bout of dementia brought on after having brain spiders lay eggs in my ear?

* Thats us fella's!

** Any dive with a satellite dish on the roof and with the proper number of red neon X’s blinking in the window would suffice nicely.

*** 'Everyone Loves Raymond' simply doesn't cut it and will only drive us to domestic violence.


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