But you know in your hearts only one man deserves the red trunks. That would be curly-haired crowd pleaser Johnny Rich working over jobber Mike Starbuck, looking like he was pulled out here between Beer #8 and Beer #9 just to get his butt kicked by the guy who has dampened the panties of every squealing, bleached-blonde, chimp-mouthed Waffle House waitress in the crowd. Both boys own some serious bellies, big pillowy guts looking for fists to bump up against. Starbuck's my man, though, sleepy-looking brute with a shaggy beard, who's seen it all and earns his Schlitz and trailer payments one bump and paycheck at a time. His whole routine is to look big and bad and take whatever kind of pounding Mister Up-and-Coming Popularity sees fit to give him tonight.
Listening to Gordon Solie--the only wrestling commentator who actually added value to the matches he called, in my opinion, anyway--I used to picture myself in a plaid polyester suit sitting next to him, blending my colorful homo commentary with his purple prose--or else I'd be in a sequined dinner jacket and a turban complaining to the ref as a distraction while my man reached into his tights for a foreign object to smash into the eye socket of the handsome babyface. Such was never to be, and I became a state-employed English instructor instead, and I feel no shame in admitting that fact.
Gentlemen, I am no chubby chaser, but I've got a soft spot in my heart for the roly-poly days of pro wrestling, where both men in the ring smelled of cheeseburgers and mustard fries and almost caught sunburns off the hot studio lights. Then they'd hop in the van and drive all night back to Tampa, talking about the pussy they might have had if they'd only stayed the night at the seedy motel around the corner from the Sportatorium.
I don't know who jellybeans178 is, but I thank him for posting this and videos like this, reminding me of the old days, not necessarily all good, not by a long shot, by golly, and I sense in him, faceless though he be, a kindred spirit, pining for the funky smells of canvas and Lysol, if not perhaps fortunate enough to be a brother kinkster.