When Testosterone Ages...

Today's blog entry should come with orange cones and a detour sign, because with the possible exception of Eric the Midget and my brother very few of you are going to care about it (Feel free to skip it if you'd like.  I don't give a shit.) but today I took a wheelchair ride down memory lane.  As a kid, my brother was very into wrestling, and would spend Saturday mornings on a Cocoa Krispie high jumping off the back of the couch like a spider monkey, imitating Jimmy 'Superfly' Snuka or whoever was tucking their roid rod into some sexy neon lycra tights that particular day (because that's not gay or anything).  It really was a hideous couch, all white and orange and brown with a woodsy covered bridge motif, but it was comfortable, with a high back that was perfect for jumping off of until the sugar high wore off or my mother finally had enough and shouted 'Todd, stop jumping off the couch!' from the kitchen while she made her grocery list, and I could finally watch Saved By The Bell in relative peace.  It seems like just yesterday we were eating pizza and chicken wings at my friend Sandy's house, watching Wendy Richter wrestle The Fabulous Moolah in the original Wrestlemania, my brother trying to convince us it was all real and me wondering how Cyndi Lauper got caught up in this mess in the first place.

Fast forward 30 years (I know!), and here's the battle scarred (and Stern Show regular) The Iron Sheik being wheeled out of Sirius in midtown Manhattan.  Kids, let this be a warning to you....stop jumping off the damn couch now!

 And if that's not enough, here's crispy walrus Hulk Hogan in Times Square promoting Wrestlemania Infinity or some shit like that, because a midlife crisis looks like steroids, peroxide and worn leather these days but that bandana never gets old.

I'm going to have to be super gay in my next blog post to make up for this.