I should add a disclaimer here, lest my rapidly fading brain spews out impulsive loathing in a cranky fit of total exhaustion: I had, in the main, a fun old time at WrestleMania.
Even the aspects of the card I didn't enjoy, I didn't enjoy actively. I shouted at Triple H for doing his bullsh*t again, against a guy who didn't have enough gas in the tank to get in the ring without botching, but it was cathartic, because I'm too much like George Costanza than is healthy.
But I'm running on fumes here, and even the word fumes triggers an association of Triple H and his dumb motorcycles and his narcissistic 25 minute matches.
I had fun! It was WrestleMania!
It looked preposterously expensive and epic, and the immense production cloaked even the weaker matches with a sense of gravitas.
I watched the heat-obsessed WWE crown three organically popular babyfaces, that did not meet the usual specifications, as top-tier Champions.
I watched one of the all-time great WWE matches - one so rich and emotive and well-worked that I'm prioritising it ahead of everything else for the re-watch when I get home.
I also watched Triple H spend 15 minutes of 24 lying around.