Wrestling fandom is rife with kneejerk reactionaries and the hypersensitive, both of whom tend to make unfounded assumptions and far-flung predictions based on the false notion they understand the business. In turn, these supposed “fans” incessantly complain and sulk when their giddy armchair booking demands aren’t immediately obeyed by promoters.
Promoters who have generated millions of dollars in revenue and quite often were in their position before said critics ever witnessed a match.
However, as Wrestling’s Most Reasonable Columnist, I am of the belief you people are not entirely to blame for The Fan Problem we insiders regularly discuss. And I’ve generously consented to forgive most of you. After all…
* It’s not your fault…Unlike myself, you didn’t go to what that hillbilly Dusty Rhodes called “the pay winda” for 29 uninterrupted years—longer than The Undertaker, Ric Flair, Jim Ross and Bret Hart, to name just a few fellow legends—haven’t been comped to every show since the early Nineties and don’t routinely chit-chat with Hall Of Famers such as Jerry Lawler and Kurt Angle.
It’s also not your fault that, when Eric Bischoff took over the reins at WCW, he phoned me and not you. Or that ideas of mine and not yours have been used on Raw, Smackdown, Nitro, Wrestlemania, etc.
As such, since you are devoid of significance in any aspect of wrestling (and life in general), OF COURSE you have no option beyond harebrained pontification and baseless allegations. Just because you can’t put a coherent sentence together, it doesn’t mean you should quit proving it. By golly, the Constitution guarantees your unalienable right to express yourself no matter how idiotic you happen to be. U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A.
* It’s not your fault…Your cognitive capacity is severely limited due to genetic aberrations attributed to your paternal bloodline containing bovine and marsupial deoxyribonucleic acid, and your maternal unit continuing to ingest large quantities of inebriants throughout the gestation period.
You most certainly are not to blame for your odd-numbered chromosomal tally and the resultant prohibition of cerebral functions.
Hey, who cares if standardized tests indicate you are best suited for a career as a night watchman at an aquarium or joining your mother in the horizontal entertainment industry? Personally, I consider wrestling fans the brightest cretins in the whole world!
* It’s not your fault…Your alleged “friends” are enablers who, sharing your excremental outlook and rugged equine features, encourage you to remain in a fantasy world where you address each other as “brother” (while privately badmouthing them in DMs), claim to be straight edge while drunk, and brag about regularly “banging two twenty-year-old chicks” even though you post selfies daily yet none contains an image of even one woman—with the exception of uncomfortable-looking female wrestlers from indie cards.
Still, I’m sure it is very therapeutic, after a long day of performing tasks any other baboon with 20 minutes of training could do with equal aplomb, to hop online because no one nearby has the slightest desire to interact with you, and make all-knowing comments about “the rat scene in Mempho in ’87,” and boast about the wrestlers who really dug you (buying them drinks) when you were “hanging with the boys after the PPV.” After all, these fictional scenarios could have transpired and some of them did—at least until the alarm clock jolted you awake.
I say “You be you,” brother—well, the pathological fraudulent version your narcissism has fabricated to alleviate the self-loathing that manifests upon the realization one is a failure at every level.
* It’s not your fault…Every single man, woman, child, plant and animal in the galaxy fails to recognize your genius. (As well as your very existence, in most cases.)
The reason you are universally detested by everyone who has ever spent two minutes in your presence is not just because, if obnoxiousness sold for a penny a ton, you could afford to sponsor the next 27 NASA missions and buy each Super Bowl viewer a Bentley; it’s because you are a misunderstood rebel rallying against the status quo. Right on, man!
Sure, to the unenlightened, you come off like a racist, homophobic misogynistic colonic-opening, but in fact you are totally pusillanimous—and darn proud of it!!!
There you are, a recreant nematode among men, assisting the public by informing them their taste “sucks” unless they agree with your ignorant proclamations, and by butting into Twitter conversations to name-call complete strangers. Yet, with all these services you provide and the scrofulous lifestyle you lead daily, the masses refuse to fall at your feet in adoration of your vapid presence. No wonder you’re a bitter simian!
Worst of all, when it comes to the King Of Sports, the unwashed masses refuse to acknowledge your notional position as a wrestling savant (even though you disappear from any discussion involving events that were not televised within the past two years.) Damn it, you haven’t spent a lifetime dedicated to avoiding any semblance of sartorial panache and triggering an olfactory response reminiscent of a Mephitis mephitis merely to be ignored by people who actually know what they’re talking about!!!
You perform your duty with high deficiency and a very amoral stance, bereft of great wisdom, and the nadir of wit. Though no one of note has ever heard of you, every single promoter, booker and wrestler should be lined up at your door, seeking approval and advice. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is, a total disgrace. But keep telling yourself it’s not your fault. Someday someone else may actually believe it. Brother.