With my man Tyler Black set to move on (and up) to World Wrestling Entertainment, it is perhaps time for me to try to make my peace with Vince McMahon and his indestructible monster. Frankly, with every indy wrestler I like gunning for a slot in the big time and for the big bucks, I can't afford to ignore the elephant in the room any longer anyway. Whatever problems I have--still do have--with McMahon's vision of what pro wrestling on TV should be--a collision of Super Bowl and Chippendales and PT Barnum and Days of Our Lives, and precious little wrestling--I have to pay grudging respect for what is, after all, the only game in town as far as most wrestlers and wrestling fans are concerned. For all its cheesy spectacle, WWE is quite an impressive accomplishment. I am a Ring of Honor man through and through, but I now have to accept that, with Black's move, McMahon is about to become a member of the family, if only an in-law, and I must make my peace.
Consider this blog an effort at making that peace. I have to admit that WWE has a pretty damn fine roster, not all of it scavenged off the shanks of crippled and dying indies. And though even the hottest WWE wrestlers have a vinyl-doll perfection that makes it next to impossible for me to fit them into my gritty, seedy eroto-wrestling-kink fantasies, a number of them can take my breath away. The premise of this post--like the similar ones I did last year--is that our tastes in wrestlers are a kind of Rorschach test of who we really are.
Well, here I am, then. Feel free to psychoanalyze (and violently disagree--yeah, I know, no Cena, no Bourne, no Edge):
Randy Orton, 6'4", 245#, looks like an underground comix version of a superhero, RanXerox or somebody, and I mean that, of course, in a good way.