That shiny thing over my shoulder is the WWE World Heavyweight title belt. I’d love to tell you what’s on my bookshelf are among my most-prized possessions, but none of them compares to this ridiculous accoutrement. Perhaps I’m an idiot for liking pro wrestling, but let it be known I’m an idiot with a taste for bling.
As are many other men. People like this belt. People like this belt more than they do me. If this belt had a mouth, people would buy it drinks.
The WWE came to Orlando last night — the city will also host Wrestlemania next year — and I came out to see Dean Ambrose defend the title he actually earned, unlike me, against Seth Rollins.
You shouldn’t have to apologize to anyone for enjoying pro wrestling. When I take a girlfriend to a Broadway play, we’re well aware there really isn’t a phantom living in an opera house or giant singing cats. Same difference, only the WWE pyrotechnics are better.
Anyway, back to masculinity…
I’m pretty much peacocking around Amway Center and inevitably other men ask to have a photo with the belt. I get it. The belt is an icebreaker. I’d want a photo with it, too, if I didn’t have one.
Only they don’t realize this isn’t for kids — the toy one you get for 15 bucks in a Walmart. It’s made of leather and metal.
We should be afraid for the future of manhood when four of seven men who took pictures of the belt had extreme difficulty lifting the belt and even worse, complained.
Bro, you mean to tell me you have no problem letting a tweaker with a needle full of ink use your arm for a doodle pad, but that same arm can’t hoist that belt up without you curling into the fetal position and rubbing your AC joint? Even with two arms?
Is that what’s up, tough guy? Do you need a hydraulic jack to gently lower that over your shoulder or is that too much strain? Part of me started to think you had to fight me in a steel cage for the privilege of taking a photo with the thing.
Nobody’s asking you to be Henry Cavill and be so muscle bound that the Batmobile bounces off your legs and people are so overwhelmed by your physique that you no longer have to act. But if you can’t clean and jerk a leather strap with a hub cap taped to it over yourself, then you probably would weep over how to change a tire.
Which means ISIS is winning.
And I’m hitting the gym daily because if that’s the case, the apocalypse is nigh.