I spent part of my copious free time during 2020 working on a project where I would talk about my favorite professional wrestlers in a paragraph.
A charmingly disheveled everyman who played multiple characters but never achieved success until he just started being himself. Famously unathletic, but gifted with schlubby charisma and a willingness to do just about anything to entertain the fans. To that end, he’d fall off rooftops, set himself on fire, cut himself with barbed wire, and rack up a sickening number of concussions and grievous injuries. He somehow sold himself as a cuddly geek combined with an unrepentant masochistic killer. Imagine a version of Patton Oswald willing to throw himself onto broken glass to sell the punchline. His wrestling style was such that you’d wear yourself out beating his ass, and he’d still be alive to capitalize once you’d run out of things to do to him. His willingness to break his body for applause veered into a legitimately uncomfortable pathology as the years rolled by and he published his autobiography. After you learned the names of his wife and kids, It was no longer funny to watch the clown fall down. No matter how much we begged him to stop, he refused to believe that we didn’t want to watch him suffer and bleed.
No comments:
Post a Comment