If being a film major and reading comic books for pleasure don’t make me a colossal nerd, then surely my obsession with professional wrestling will. This fascination can be traced back to sixth grade when I was first introduced to World Championship Wrestling’s weekly program, “Monday Nitro.”
At this point in my life, girls didn’t matter and guys got along based on their love for the fantastical, whether video games, sports or men in tights pretending to fight.
Westling was my way of expressing myself. Witnessing the gallant athletics of mat technicians like Bret “The Hitman” Hart and Sting was far more exciting than any prepubescent female fantasy I could conjure up.
Then, in the spring of 1997, I got my first real boner.
It was either during a late-night viewing of “Bikini Drive-In” on Skinemax or while perusing my father’s endless stash of Playboys. Now, I don’t wish to turn this article into an innocent tale of personal discovery or an excerpt from a Judy Blume book, but it is important to note that this switch occurred around when I turned my back on WCW and began watching World Wrestling Federation’s Monday-night program, “Monday Night Raw.”
The title alone indicates an edgier image than its competitor. Whereas WCW’s roster was full of washed-up old wrestlers, WWF’s was full of fierce, young fighters who weren’t afraid to swig a beer on national TV.
Wrestlers with names like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and The Rock dominated the late-’90s heyday of the WWF, causing a dramatic surge in ratings and desperate attempts by WCW to remain relevant.
But it wasn’t necessarily the attitude or extreme violence that made the WWF a pioneer in the world of sports entertainment. It was the hot chicks.
The “Divas” of the WWF did wonders to sell the brand to perverted rednecks and pubescent boys alike, as voluptuous women like Sable, Torrie Wilson and Trish Stratus turned wrestling from a big joke into a big joke with titties.
This licentious portrayal of females complemented my frequent trysts with late-night porn. You see, “Monday Night Raw” would end slightly after 11 p.m., which was past my parents’ bedtime. While my parents understood that I was a huge loser and that I needed to watch wrestling on Monday nights, they expected that I would go to bed immediately following “Raw.” Little did they know the shenanigans that would ensue past 11.
This hodgepodge of porn and wrestling defined me up until eighth grade – the year I overcame awkwardness and finally managed to hook up with a girl.
I won’t get into details except that my experience in the dingy basement of my friend’s house left me wanting more than anything the WWF or late-night cable TV could offer. It was at this point that I got into Extreme Championship Wrestling.
ECW was the hardcore porn of wrestling. Not only were the wrestlers’ gimmicks more intense, but the matches were downright brutal, with barbed wire and chair shots.
Coincidentally or not, my parents got DirectTV around this time, complete with adult entertainment channels ranging from Vivid Videos to The Spice Channel. Trying to go back to Skinemax after watching hardcore porn is like riding a bicycle without the seat attached. Naturally, I proceeded to ditch WWF in favor of ECW and my love life reached its peak.
As I began to wrestle with the opposite sex, my obsession with professional wrestling dwindled until it was nothing more than an embarrassing stage that would prevent me from getting ass if my girlfriend found out.
Looking back, however, I owe a lot to professional wrestling. From my na’ve days with WCW to my coming-of-age with the WWF and concluding with the lust-filled prowess of my ECW stage, I have learned what it takes to get a girl: always be fake, get as buff as humanly possible and never be afraid to use a wrestling move or two.
Milbrand is a member ofthe class of 2008.
