mancho

(reblogged from my tumblr, because I am totally fucking lazy and stuff's been crazy this week, and my sister's in town so I know I probably won't be able to write much, but I also don't want anyone who reads this to think that I've forgotten about you because I absolutely haven't. In fact, I'm knitting you a triangle top bikini now; I hope you like it.)



My dad is normally a pretty reasonable, intelligent, thoughtful human being, but throughout my childhood, he loved watching pro wrestling. He’d always invite my brother and I into the TV room to watch with him, I think because he felt better about having his children there as props/excuses.

“I swear, I don’t want to watch it! It’s all the kids’ fault!”

Anyway, I got kind of into it, too, back when it was about brightly colored costumes and pageantry and ridiculous characters rather than what it is today, which is a spectacle of juiced up men in neutral colors watched by closeted McCain voters who get really mad when anyone tries to take their guns away. People who probably still own “NO FEAR” shirts. People I grew up with in rural northern Wisconsin. I even had some action figures, and my brother and I would combine WWF Wrestlers, plastic zoo animal figurines, and Legos for the ultimate playtime experience.



There was this wrestler named Macho Man Randy Savage that had a violently neon colored outfit. For some reason, I was really, really afraid of him. I used to have nightmares that Macho Man Randy Savage was waiting in the woods across the street from my house and that he was going to run up to me after I got off the bus and piledrive me into my driveway. In one, Macho Man Randy Savage was my gym teacher, and the entire gym class was just me running away from him. I called him “Mancho Man.”

And now, he hawks Slim Jims.