As a result of the overwhelming response throughout the Arabian Facebuster Nation to my reflections in this post, I would like to offer an updated account of how TNA Wrestling continues to touch my life:
1. Per the advice of Don West (the troglodyte pictured at left in the highly flammable shirt), I sold my Honus Wagner baseball card for $5.00 to a precocious 10 year old neighborhood boy. What a sucker...thanks DW!
2. I now refer to the Indian guy at my work as the "Original Playa from the Himalaya." It's far easier to pronounce (let alone remember) than Jawaharlal.
3. I no longer refer to my girlfriend's vagina as her "honey pot." It is henceforth nicknamed her "Impact Zone."
4. At my white trash cousin Brandy's wedding, I persuaded the band to supplant "Here Comes the Bride" with "Adrenaline Rush." Later that evening, I persuaded the disc jockey to spin some unreleased tracks from Ron "The Truth" Killings instead of "Celebration."
5. Like "The Professor" Mike Tenay, whenever I am confounded or disgusted by another person's thoughts, behaviors, or motivations, I accuse them of engaging in "sadistic mind games."
6. In order to help my married friend secure permission from the wife to go out for a night on the town (read: excessive drinking, followed by the defacing of historical landmarks, followed my more excessive drinking), I clamp the ankle lock submission on his unsuspecting significant other, threatening to "break her damn ankle" unless she capitulates to our plans. Not surprisingly, she taps out instantaneously.
7. In response to the on-screen taunts of the Latin American Exchange, I decided to enlist in the Minutemen Militia in order to combat the threat posed to our American values and way of life by illegal immigrants from the South. Instead of employing the more conventional method for keeping our borders secure -- shooting a suspected illegal in the face and asking questions later -- I give him/her a temporarily dehabilitating yet forever humiliating "Border Toss," then drape the stars and stripes over his/her limp body. Its called poetic justice, bitches.