Hee hee! I was considering the possibility of studying while sitting in the trailer park commons room, my book all set out before my like some holy scripture but unopened, like I was gonna use it as a talisman and call the knowledge from the surrounding air into my brain directly, when two folks came in and turned on MONDAY NIGHT WRESTLING.
Now that was a trip. Big giant huge meaty massive titanic guys, who were also sort of large, and conspicuously missing body-hair in some cases, lumbered out into the middle of this arena ringed by billions of incoherent shouting post-teenage pre-reality college "students" wasting their spring break. Hollywood Hulk Hogan led the charge with a rant on the microphone, the most erudite discourse of the evening, made mostly of veiled threats and phrases threatening to resemble puns. Usually conversation was between the three sportscasters, who would aptly be named Factoid, Lowbrow, and Bored. Everywhere that wasn't paneled in fake plastic rivets was obscured by billboards advertising CinnaBurst chewing gum, just in case the frequent commercials didn't clue you in. Matches were obsequious and sudden, lasting half as long as their introductions, and every so often the big brute who won would shamble up to some cameraman trapped at the corner of the ring and deliver an acceptance speech. Here's a transcript: "GYAAH! GarbunGEEGLE on his behind, he BETTER WATCH OUT CAUSE NARGH GRONK SPLAH!! ARGH GROK NOW!! Who's the FRAAAAHH? RAAAHH?? whUH YEEEeeeaaAAAAAAAAAAaaahh!!" They couldn't use that camera for a while afterwards 'cause the lens always got spackled with whatever spouge flew off the Incredible Hulk, or Randy Savage, or the Big Green Potato, or Smooch Boots, or whoever the script called for as the victor.
The two guys who turned this on knew all the lingo, and they followed the mock arguments and power struggles like it was any other daytime soap-opera. They practiced yelling "aauuh YEEEEEEEEEEEEahhh!!", and discussed which of the wrestlers was "payin' visits to the pharmacy." That is, on steroids or what have you. Every time an acceptance speech occured they would get up and yell along with the guy, mocking him, going "funGAZAAAH! ZOCK SKAGG mess with HAAAAHH!! You KNOW I'm OOGLEY-BOOG, whooOOOO!!" Thankfully, they didn't spit as much. They knew the names of all the moves, and were privy to who was supposed to loathe whom and for what reason. They took the drama and the flashiness of the moves much more seriously than the idea that competition was somehow happening. I suppose any veteran Wrestlemania fan has to accept the scripting of the matches, the way the games are doctored, and follow the 'sport' just for the spectacle of it.
But sheeeeezz. Stand back from the whole thing and look at it for a good minute or two. What a pile! I was looking, I mean I was really looking, for some kind of redeeming element to the whole organization, somewhere. Nope. How can people live with themselves, getting so attached to it, getting caught up in it - don't any of them have anything BETTER TO DO for spring break?! Somewhere along the line they have to stop in their tracks and go, hold on, stop the presses, this is just bullshit here!
Well, following basic tenets of psychology, any argument such as this one can be turned right around at it's maker and be used to gain other insights. I do this and discover that I mostly don't like wrestlemania for the same reasons I dislike all spectator sports. If you're a spectator you're wasting your time. You could be somewhere playing, doing something with your own will and your own body, instead of sitting there like a lump watching. Pull your attention back from the field, back into your own head, and look down at yourself! Whoah, hey, you have a body of your own! Hot damn, put that sucker to work! The rewards are always, with NO exception, better. Just got to take a while and find this out. I would add more but it's already degenerated into a moralistic rant.