Bullcockey, bullcockey, bullcockey, bullcockey.
I’m not going to reply quote for quote, because even I can’t deal with this much bullcockey.
What, pray tell, is so all fired sacred about “real” sports. To attack wrestling because it is mocks a bunch of guys who get paid astronomical amounts of money to toss a ball around is the most ludicrous, assinine, fake, stupid, ugly, and just plain bullcockey argument I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. It takes the very notion of what we should value as a society, locks it in a Figure Four, and calls it “fatboy”. I respect the Rock a bazillion and a half more times than any “real” athlete, because he’s not simply paid for being good at as useless a task as throwing a ball through a hoop. He’s paid to convincingly (as possible) pretend like he’s hurting someone and being hurt without causing real injury. He’s paid to stir crowds. He’s paid to layeth the (admittedly fake) smacketh down on candy asses so we can all live vicariously through him. It’s called catharsis, look it up. And, unlike the random world of “real” sports, you go in knowing that someone has a plan. I don’t watch wrestling in spite of its fakeness, I watch it precisely because of its fakeness.
Wrestlers aren’t actors. Again, bullcocky. Actors are, by definition, people who make a living pretending to be someone they’re not. Since wrestling is fake, wrestlers are pretending to be something they’re not (real competitors), and making a living at it. Hence, they are actors. They’re not versatile actors, I admit, they’re all the ultimate in typecasting. They take one role and (if it’s successful) hold on to it for the rest of their career. But the best of them are excrutiatingly good at what they do. No one will ever capture the “angry redneck bent on destruction” archetype quite like Steve Austin. And while Triple H probably wouldn’t make a good Hamlet, he makes an incredible Triple H; a character who sometimes seems to have nearly as many nuances.
Wrestling is to blame when children idolize wrestlers and do stupid things. Bullcockey. If your child is idolizing the Undertaker and chokeslamming all his little schoolyard chums, then maybe its time to find him some alternative rolemodels. My heroes are Chuang Tzu, Shel Silverstien, Billy Corgan, and Sean Reiley (in about that order). Try one of them. To quote the sarcastic comment of one of the above (You figure out which. Hint: It isn’t Chuang Tzu.), “all children [should be] kept from influences in fire-retardant pillow cases until they’re eighteen.” Kids need to learn that it’s a big wide world out there. It’s not all Big Bird, and it’s not all the Rock.
Wrestling sucks because all the wrestlers are unsympathetic badasses. Not quite bullcocky, but at least bullco. That’s what made Mick Foley so durned special, he was just a fat guy not trying to be cool yet still hanging with the tough SOBs. But, you have to understand, the basic precept of pro graps (as it stands in 2001), is that the WWF is an extremely violent place. In order to survive, you have to be a little mean. In order to thrive, you have to be one mean bastard. But the best of them at least find their own internal morality and try to stick with it, despite the hardships. Steve Austin will never sell out, despite the fact that it would make his career so much easier. In a world as cutthroat as the one he exists in, this is enough to make him a hero; despite all the other questionable stuff he’s done to survive. He may not always win sympathy, but he always wins respect.
Wrestling glorifies violence and degrades women. Yep. It is therefore evil and should not be watched. Back to the bullcockey. Pretty much all of my coworkers are women. I love all of them, and would jump in front of a car for them, even for the ugly ones. Despite all the stupid things we do as a species, my heart sometimes swells to bursting with love for the human race, as a whole, and as individual parts. I’m continually amazed at how every person I’ve ever spoken with for any length of time has had a unique insight on life and the nature of the universe. On the other hand, there’s a dark little spot on my heart that begs to see Jeff Hardy jump off of high places and risk his life to hurt Edge, just because he hates him that damn much. Some immature adolescent living in my brainstem thanks whatever creator this reality has that a nice girl with big gonzas like Trish Stratus is willing to humiliate herself on a weekly basis in order to help alleviate my insecurities about the opposite sex. Something basic and evil in my soul screams bloody murder when Triple H stands nose to nose with Steve Austin, reads off the laundry list of offenses, assaults, and borderline attempted homicides he’s comitted against the Rattlesnake; then begs Stone Cold to hit him. Maybe I just need therepy. But this is cheaper and more fun. And sometimes I wonder if we as a society aren’t doing ourselves more harm than good when we try to squash that sinister little voice, instead of giving it a harmless outlet like pro wrestling. No, on second thought, I’m sure of it. Every self righteous, holier than though, crusader for morality/political correctness/the children/whatever needs to sit down and watch the Undertaker throw Mankind off of a cage a few times, then maybe they’ll have let off a little of the steam they insist on venting on my poor little pseudosport.
So, to conclude, bullcocky.
Bullcocky.
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