Cory Moren Wrastlin' Fans-A Different Breed Altogether Professional wrestling is the phoniest, queerest, and the most ludicrous sport on television. Wrestling, or wrastlin' as the uneducated fans pronounce it, is truly low class entertainment.
Wrastlin' is not a sport. It is a violent, sex-filled, soap opera that really disgusts me. These testosterone filled, steroid abusing, maniacal musclebound apes that run around in tights pretending that they are sportsman sickens me. It sickens me because they are not athletes, they are simply drug abusing actors. Secondly, these oily, slobbering creeps are so stupid that some of them have stayed up all night just to study for a urine test. It is so fake and boring.
I believe my biggest gripe is about the fans. Albeit, some fans are your typical, average Americans who enjoy the violence of slamming chairs into other wrastlers faces.
But most of the fans I have run across are easily stereotyped.
One quiet Sunday afternoon I was enjoying a professional football game at Heroes Sports Bar when I noticed a disturbing phenomena. As the football game was nearing completion I was overwhelmed by the stench of sweaty armpits, bad breath, and stale beer. Heroes was being invaded. No not by aliens or FBI agents, but wrastlin' fans who showed up to watch the monthly pay-per-view of Smackaround, Nitros, or something like that. This truly was one of the most pathetic bunch of losers I have ever witnessed. The Moren 2 general age was between eighteen and thirty. Most of these people were wearing overalls or Stone Cold teeshirts with more holes in them than a sieve. The majority of the people were missing at least half of their teeth if not all of them. It looked a bad episode of the Jerry Springer show. It was obvious to me that these people could not afford the $49.95 for the pay-per-view so they all abandoned their mobile homes for the evening, and drove their Pintos and pickups into the civilized world to wreak havoc on my evening. The closer it got to starting, the worse it got. They were everywhere, rednecks, hicks, and their offspring meandering around asking everybody seated already if they were staying. I even had a family of five try to sit at our table that only sat four in the first place. Oh well, I'm sure they probably could not count over five anyway. After ushering the rude, inbred family from Arkansas off, I decided to take a trip around the bar to view the carnival-like freak show. The stench worsened as I neared the clusters of welfare recipients and their underprivileged children. I gawked in amazement.
I could not believe that all of the stereotypes were true. But there they were, all huddled together trying to steal a seat.
My friends and I hung around awhile to watch the show. No, not the wrastlin' but the oddities that are named wrastlin' fans. I could only stand fifteen or so minutes but it was truly long enough to know that I will never associate with a true wrastlin' fan. They were loud, rude, and obnoxious. Oh and did I mention cheap as well? I witnessed one family use a two-for-one coupon intended for food items, on a $1.05 Pepsi. Talk about Moren 3 cheap. The ones I really felt sorry for were the servers that had to wait on this crowd of backwoods boobs. I spoke with some of the servers and they told me that when Heroes hosted the wrastlin' matches last month, several of them had their tables walk out without paying for a thing. Nice bunch of people huh? Finally we headed for the door in order to escape the burning sensation in our noses when we witnessed one last abnormality. Seated next to one of the televisions was a kindly looking elderly couple who were actually singing the words to "The Rock's" theme song. This was the last straw! I will never again glimpse at wrastlin'. I certainly will never watch it. As we headed into the parking lot we were greeted by cows, chickens, and recreational vehicles. Now I realize that not all wrastlin' fans are like this, but I sure am convinced that a majority of them are. Next time, remind me not to go to Heroes on the first Sunday of the month.