People will mock your fandom of professional wrestling. We will cover this imminently. We need a little time to steel ourselves before opening up old wounds.
Some grow out of pro wrestling before adolescence, and if you remain under its spell, you must hide your love away in order to avoid ridicule. This secrecy lives on longer than Kane’s entire f*cking run, for the older you get, the more embarrassing it is to remain a fan of professional wrestling.
Youth is the aspiration to adulthood, and this invites comically earnest folly. Readers of a certain age wore baggy pants and hooded jumpers and thought Fred Durst spoke to you, you know? He understood. He understood that your “ass” and her “perfume” “make temptation hard to refuse”.
“The Chocolate Starfish is my man Fed Durst,” Fred Durst sang on Livin’ It Up, which isn’t quite up there with “The Walrus is Paul” in terms of grand rock n’ roll mythology.
This angsty douchebag was still cooler than you at school, because you liked pro wrestling, and with this lesson learned, you hide your hobby away from potential love interests. You panic when they come over, because you left the December To Dismember DVD on your bookshelf. You hurriedly fling it into a drawer, at which point they’re thinking What kind of sick porn are they into?
Wrestling is considered analogous to shameful pornography by wider society.