Sun salutations, my spirit animals and metaphysical dilettantes! It’s your erstwhile wellness guru and glamping expert, Lonnie Standish.
I feel absolutely ebullient to be starting an auspicious tenure at Bunny Ears! After twelve long years penning “The Gay Gadabout” for Food & Wine Magazine, I feel I have a great deal of acumen to lend to the effort. And although, admittedly, the Bunny Ears editors have slightly altered my suggested concept for a column for myself, which was to be entitled “Traipsing Through Tuscany, a Panopticon in Eighteen Coquettish Installments,” I shall strive nevertheless to do my best service to the topic at hand, which I’m told is the World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc. corporation and its public-facing goings-on about town.
Confused? Never fret! So was I, your humble narrator, but after some deep cleansing breaths, a deep cleansing bath bomb, and a lime rickey, I was ready to crack open my Macbook Air and do some research. As I quickly learned, the WWE sponsors a regular series of plays, or artistic demonstrations, wherein sweaty beefcakes–behemoths of a sort–flop against one another competitively, in a colorful pageantry meant to hearken back to the nobility of Sumo combat, mating walruses, or perhaps the charged homeroticism of a Truman Capote book signing once the vermouth begins to flow.
This week we’re covering something called the “Tag Team Raw Championship,” featuring master fight-dancers Sheamus and Cesaro.
Many of the decent, common folk of this country enjoy wrestling, and between bouts of stomping the crap out of me, the WWE fans I deigned to interview outside my local Liq-Or-Stop lo, this Wednesday eve, have informed me that the Raw Championship is simply the fanciful name for one of their yearly matches, and not a raw foods cooking competition as you’d initially imagine. In related news of interest, a new season of The Great British Bake-Off has hit Netflix, and as always, Frasier’s entire 9-year run is readily available. At any rate, the Sheamus/Cesaro team, also known as collectively as “The Bar,” will really have to raise–themselves, one supposes–if they hope to concuss their many exuberant rivals more than they themselves are concussed. The sales of printed tees and custom underwear surely depend on same.
Yes, The Club, The Revival, Titus Worldwide, and even The Hardyz (which I am assured is not an unintentional misspelling but in fact “radical”) all hope to out-fake-fight these slabs of parental disappointment and ill-advised tattoos, that they might walk away as champions, wearing a belt but no pants, which is the sport’s highest honor I am told (my Yale fraternity worked the same way!). And of course, many fans will turn out hoping to see them perform their own special fighting moves, the colorful lexicon of names for which I have just begun to imbibe like a sweet port after dinner: The Figure Four Leg Lock, Elbow of the People, Aggressive Hooting, The Shortest of Shorts, The Cold that Could Stun the Very Stones, Taintsmell Inyoface, and a legendary move performed by a Man so Macho, his elbow could reportedly fly of its own volition.
Alas, though our time together draws now to a somber close, watch this space in the future for an ongoing and comprehensive run-down of all World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc. news, that will leave you utterly informed and without need to investigate the matter further. Should you feel, instead, that I have done less than sterling work in this reportage, I encourage you to reach out to Bunny Ears Editorial, and let them know I might be better suited to another subject. I am quite an accomplished horse-judge, and my depth of knowledge on Swarovski crystal is likewise formidable.
Until next time, gentlest of readers.
UPDATE: Bobby Roode will be out for three weeks as he perforated his colon falling onto the back of a folding chair.