Word: wrestlers
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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Kurt Angle, a 1996 Olympic gold medalist (Who says professional wrestlers have no talent?), and his partner face the Dudley Boyz, Buh Buh Ray and D-von, next. The Boyz, using many complex moves that target their opponent's groin, beat Angle and partner, demonstrating (almost unnecessarily) the superiority of pro-wrestling over that other two-points-for-a-takedown crap. Gleeful, I tell Christina that Kurt Angle was an Olympic champion. She's doubtful, and certainly not impressed. Another invigorating fight matches The Godfather, wrestler and part-time pimp, against some no-name pretty boy. Smoothness personified, The Godfather...
Finally, it's time for Mankind--an ugly, animal-like wrestler, whose face hides behind a leather mask. Almost neolithic, he proves that instinct is more important than intelligence. During the fight with his former best friend Al Snow, Mankind is reluctant. At one point, when he's about to perform his most effective and deadly move--where he pulls a dirty sock puppet out of his pants and crams it down his victim's throat--Mankind hesitates. He decides against it, tucking Mr. Socko (the filthy stocking's official name) back down into his crotch. Like some stupid animal...
...What they had paid to for, it became increasingly clear, was not entertainment--repeated 20 minute gaps between the wrestler's performances is not terribly professional, and prompts one to wonder just what they were doing back stage. (Not stretching, surely?) Rather, they had paid for admittance into a culture where vulgarity is celebrated, violence championed, and morals are checked at the door. When, in a heavily scripted fight, a team of American wrestlers repeatedly punched a nauseatingly stereotyped Japanese wrestler, a man behind me yelled "That's for Pearl Harbor, right there!" I looked back in horror, mouth gaping...
...popcorn man stopped his rounds to rhapsodize, "that's somethin', huh?" I was vaguely reassured when I saw a sign being held up saying "John 3:16," thinking that at least religion was still paramount. Nate quickly explained that it was a twisted sexual reference to a certain female wrestler who had announced the week before that she does not wear underwear. I debated walking out. Instead, I asked the hawker tossing out peanuts if he had a Perrier on the premises...
...belief that WWF is undeniably horrible as an institution was only been confirmed by my ring side seat. The morals, gender codes and so-called patriotism it condones make my stomach queasy. The wrestlers are over-paid to do nothing (they don't even look particularly good in those spandex things), and, as performers, could use some work. Wrestling lessons would be at the top of my list, with a few lessons on acting as a close second and haircuts a definite third. As I watched yet another wrestler gesture at his groin, I realized that my mace was futile...