Sure, you love wrestling. Nothing better than some hot, bulk-on-bulk action when you want to unwind! But today, wrestling has become so corporate, a parade of passionless college-football washouts in expensive snakeskin tights, so distant from what it once was. No worries, though - The PWO (Pro Wrestling Ohio) has you covered. Watch (assuming you're in the greater Cleveland area) "professional" idiots pretend-punch each other in the face, not for money or fame, but for the pride of wearing a belt that maybe two dozen people nationwide will give a shit about.
Actually, the PWO seems like a pretty successful organization, despite its local limitations, even managing to pull "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan out of retirement, a move that was probably equal parts "not enough money" and "too many concussions." They have their shit together enough to get broadcast on local TV about once a month, if I'm reading the capitalized red text correctly. I imagine this schedule slows down the progress of their soap-opera storylines, but I also imagine that's not really what the enlightened viewing community is interested in (I think it's the bleeding).
Looking at their "Star" roster, I'm seeing some great wrestling names, like Matthew Justice, Hobo Joe, Super Hentai, and Krimson, who is most definitely not Sting, who was most definitely not The Crow. The recaps make it sound like these guys are raking in the dough, too, especially considering that Raven (who I think also might have been in the WCW) is getting paid $100K to win a wrestling match. Which seems like a pretty nice bonus, given that I'd assume he'd want to win the match anyway.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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