As if you couldn’t tell from my series of incredibly bitchy essays, professional wrestling has been frustrating me as of late. I don’t like the family friendly direction, or the scripted promos or the series of bland white guys they have been pushing down my throat. Hey you kids, get off my lawn.
Instead of plunking down $60 , I opted to watch WrestleMania from a sports bar this year. I couldn’t justify spending money on a product I don’t believe in, but I couldn’t miss WrestleMania. No matter how stupid the writing gets, it’s still the center of the wrestling geek’s calander.
The first two hours were a basic episode Raw. Then Rey and Punk came out. Although they were only given six minutes, I found myself getting drawn in. John Cena and Batista started slow, but had a damn good match. Then Taker and Shawn tore the roof off the place.
I guess I learned something. WrestleMania is like Cheap Trick, Seinfeld and Butch Walker live. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be cynical or critical of it. It’s brought me too much happiness over the years. I guess I didn’t lose my smile after all.
Awesome last line courtesy of Brendan Hilliard and Shawn Michaels’ addiction to Percodan