Joe Six Pack, Why Can’t I Quit You?

I was at the gym tonight, and one of the plasma displays encircling the weight area was showing the evenings WWE Pro Wrestling event. It was one of the gayest things I’ve ever seen, featuring a man wearing a small bikini bottom, ass cheeks completely exposed, getting “attacked” by a much bigger, masked man complete with dramatic, traumatizing lighting and smoke effects, and finally, in the aftermath, the bikini-bottomed guy stood up, with various trails of dirt streaking his face and body, looking used. The mullet kids behind him cheered wildly.

Jesus. I’m starting to think the WWE is the biggest practical joke ever pulled on the nation’s white trash. I wonder how many of them saw last week’s South Park, which depicted several graphic scenes of gay rape, and they STILL didn’t get that?

Then again, last week I was in the gym at the same time, and looked over to the same monitor in time to see a woman from the audience, whose fleshy folds were hanging over her giant pink pantsuit and whose chin thoroughly dissolved into a glob of flesh that later became her torso, get to come on stage and get to touch the greased up flesh of her 8-foot-tall idol. Despite the woman no longer clearly having a discernible gender of any kind, that was comparatively hetero.

Ahh, America.

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