Introduction to Popular Culture Studies


Posted by chiggywiggysupreme on November 2, 2016

Pro wrestling. O’ what a sport. What a jolly ole’ sport it is. The days I did spend watching this abomination are countless. O’ how I wasted my floppy, vanilla tendrils chasing channels to find the silliest, goofiest of the wrestlers to pleasure my irides on disgustingly humid summer Tuesdays. But then one day, I noticed something from the corner of my heart. The punches they were throwing all seemed to miss, barely hurt them at all, or didn’t look to hurt them as much as they should, as I would know since over the same summer I started my own fight club in one of the janitor’s closet at my elementary school. I was heartbroken. All of my fantasies of muscular men in tights pouring gushing, superfluous amounts of whoop-ass onto me while I squealed in horror, delight, and confusion were now gone and I realized that I would never even be able to tell my mother I loved her ever again. And then it hit me, just like Charles had with the 30 year-old vacuum cleaner during fight club earlier in the week. I saw blood. At this moment, I knew there was hope and I knew that I could start watching all my favorite wrestling spectacles like I had in the past. My love for the shows grew and grew, day after day, til I finally decided that I didn’t enjoy it anymore, so I started watching  public access programming to fill the void in my bloody, visceral valves.

I have nothing wrong with wrestling because I think that those guys have gotten entertainment down. Good job them.


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