I have a confession to make, now that I've been caught, red-eyed....

You'd think that a sanctuary would have thicker walls, but then you'd be wrong. The place I retreat to for me-time, strange-movie-watching, and other necessary vices is encased by four Amy Wino-thin walls. The slightest dropped book echoes throughout the entire apartment, like some sort of cavernous pit being yelled into. Reverberating, bouncing from kitchen ceiling to 42-inch flatscreen tube in the living room.

Neglecting the reality of this, I slipped moments ago. Fumbled. Botched. My roommate mutes the living room's TV, then shouts to me in my room: "I know somebody who has a dirty little secret, and I'm telling." Gulp. I'm busted. "What are you talkin' 'bout, man?," I responded.

Creeping, approaching footsteps inching toward my door. The opposite of positive anticipation seeping into my frame. Should've lowered the fuckin' volume. Now I'm busted, stupid. "Somebody likes sneaking into his bedroom to watch WWE wrestling, doesn't he?"

Guilty as charged. Thanks, Clock Tower Apartments and your barely-there walls.



It's true: My name is Matthew Barone, and I'm a closet WWE Wrestling fan. Not that I aggressively follow every storyline, every match, every deception, every ridiculous attempt at humor. I don't have time for all that; way too much going in the cinema universe. I pick and choose my battles as wisely as possible. But, that doesn't mean that on Monday nights, for the past couple years, any time between 9pm and 11pm, I'm not slipping in and out of my bedroom, watching bits and pieces of that evening's WWE Raw broadcast, like a nicotine-fiend slinking out for quick puffs when people think he/she is in the bathroom.

When I was a wee lad, I was all about fake-as-Scientology wrestling. Super Fly Snuka was that dude, and the Ultimate Warrior ruled. I had three Wrestling Buddy stuffed dolls (Warrior, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage), each of which I'd grapple with in my living room. It's worth noting that, to this very day, I have an undefeated record. Those "buddies" were chumps, feather-stuffed sacks of puss that couldn't beat their meat and come out victorious.

The day that my WWF (it'll honestly always be WWF to me, not WWE...I'm old school like that) love affair snapped into pieces was somewhere within my 14th year of life. I tuned into my beloved weekly fix, ready to watch some mediocre-staged-and-acted sports entertainment, and bask in all the American cheese. About a half hour into the episode, though, some tall Spanish dude comes walking down the fighters'-runway, named El Gigante. And fuckin' dude was wearing a muscle-suit. As in, the kind of full-body get-up you'd wear on Halloween to trick-r-treat as "Muscle Man." These fuckers can't even work out or take steroids and fake it anymore?! Goddamn muscle suits? Fuck outta here, Vince McMahon. The bell dinged in brain, It's time to stop this, grow up, read a flippin' piece of literature.

Three or four years breezed by, with zero urges to change the channel to a WWE telecast, and I definitely knew when each was on. Just had no desire to devolve back to my adolescent, innocent, make-believe-fighting-adoring self.

Over the last two years, however, temptations have been stronger than ten roid-charged wrasslers. Not even sure why. Gone are the days of fantastical characters and imagination; elaborate costumes and goofy backstories are things of the past. Now it's just dudes using their government names, or at least fake-names that sound like government-recognized monikers. It's all bad acting, and little over-the-top fiction. Like The Hills infused with Tough Enough (yes, I shall take as many digs at LC and her mindless droogs as humanly possible).

But, possibly a key component in my newly-invigorated WWE guilty-pleasure-addiction, the federation has in recent years upped its number of female combatants, even calling them "Divas," and only allowing slammin', fit, sexy-cubed chicks. No more beefy, manly dames in spandex. Chyna, go benchpress 300 pounds, you beast. Now, it's ladies like this:


And this:


And, yes, even this:


Any guy who'd make fun of me for watching a television program featuring those bitties is suspect in my book-of-views.

Divas, unfairly so, only get about six minutes of screentime per episode, so they're not the only draw. It's totally not worth psycho-analyzing, though, because I know what it is: the kid in me still lives. Inside. Breathing. Thriving. Enjoying. Every vice and interest from those days remains, whether largely or miniscule. Making it difficult to fully curb the wrestling bug. I don't know why my better judgement doesn't tell me, Stop wasting your time, do something productive, turn this shit o-f-f. I know it's trash-tastic, and I can't help it. John Cena bumrushes Chris Jericho during a terribly-scripted backstage interview, and I'm intrigued. The Miz and John Morrison cheat their way to another unearned tag-team triumph, and I'm a bit salty, siding with the losers.

A little brainless fun for the eyes never hurt anybody. Look at me, I'm walking proof. Things are A-okay for me, and I watch a good hour or so of WWE a week.

So yes, Mr. Roommate, I tip-toe into my room on Monday nights and watch glue-soaked-eyed. Channel 38, between 9pm and 11pm. And you know something? I'm proud of it.

Worst case, haters of the world, just look at this:


I'm more-than-partial to my girl on the left, Layla El. A near-flawless female specimen, if I've ever seen one.

Try denying that, people. Sign me up for a no-disqualification match, 3-on-1. Submissions are allowed, though. Anything else would be uncivilized, and just plain wasteful.