Throbbing, blooming major key synthesisers permeate the air.
A twinkling piano line, loaded with the pathos of endeavour and achievement, rises to a crescendo of pure, majestic triumph translated aurally. To the epic wonderment of 'Chariots of Fire' by Vangelis, your writer slo-mo sprints into the comments section, enthusiastically slapping hands with Hiromu Sneck and cupping an ear to each and every one of you who questioned the default negativity setting pre-loaded to the coverage of all things related to WWE television - without actually considering that the pay-per-view coverage is almost uniformlypositive. Gushing, even.
Jon Moxley just corroborated that negativity in a jaw-dropping Talk Is Jericho appearance, on which he incinerated the fundamentally rotten WWE creative process.
The talent isn't the issue. The talent, broadly, is exceptional. The talent that soars on a Sunday is also tethered to the whims of a puerile tyrant on Mondays and Tuesdays, and even on those pay-per-view attractions, WWE wants its Sports Entertainers to perform in a certain way. To talk in a certain way. To pose in a certain way. To eat in a certain way. To sh*t in a certain way - live on television, if a writer pitched it, complete with deafening, squelchy raspberry noises.