There is no ballet of War, no pre-meditated art of pornographic excess
without Professional Wrestling
Puppies, Christmas, and Sunshine
are not wholesome.
Professional Wrestling is not wholesome.
Soap Operas are quite subdued.
Professional Wrestling is melodramatic.
American Culture is an ass. Professional Wrestling is the crack.
A group of homosexuals went shopping for purses. Then they went to the gay bar and watched professional wrestling.
Hulk Hogan, Andre The Giant, Bret Hart, and Shawn Michaels were all fake.
Kunta Kinte, Tyler Durden, Neo, and Charles Foster Kane were all fake.
Wrestlemania, Survivor Series, Summer Slam, and Royal Rumble are fake.
The Field Of Dreams, Atlantis, Heaven, and Funkytown are fake.
It’s Monday again. At least we can watch Professional Wrestling tonight.
Friday at last! And as if that weren’t enough,
we can watch Professional Wrestling tonight!
After I become an astronaut, a cowboy, The President, and a rockstar,
I will be a Professional Wrestler.
If we don’t watch Professional Wrestling, The Terrorists will have won.
The good die young.
On her 100th Birthday, she attributed her longevity to
“watching lots and lots of professional wrestling.”