FJSLikesTickling
Registered User
- Joined
- May 3, 2005
- Messages
- 49
- Points
- 8
I can’t say I’ve ever been a die-hard fan of professional wrestling — but as a kid in the 1980s, Hulkamania was very real to me. It pulsed through playgrounds and Saturday mornings with the same mythic force as The Force, or the 1.21 gigawatts needed to send a DeLorean hurtling Back to the Future.
When Hulk Hogan wrestled, the formula was simple. He’d get the ever-loving shit kicked out of him by some mythic figure: Andre the Giant. King Kong Bundy. The Loch Ness Monster. Donald Trump. His glistening body would lie slack, as if he were moments from death. It was the same sinking feeling you got when James “Buster” Douglas knocked out Mike Tyson.
But then — something would happen.
Hogan would begin to twitch. Convulse. As if he’d jammed a finger into an electrical socket. Slowly, impossibly, he’d rise to his feet. His opponent would keep wailing on him, fists flying — but Hogan would shake his head no, wag his finger, and absorb the blows like a sun god returned from the underworld. In this state, he was invulnerable — powered by the cheers of Hulkamaniacs in the arena and across the world.
He’d toss his opponent into the ropes. They’d bounce back toward him — only to meet the dreaded big boot. Hogan would sling his massive frame against the ropes, leap into the air, and drop the hammer: the leg drop. And then it would be over. A quick pin. A victory that echoed in eternity.
God bless you, Hulk Hogan. I know you weren’t perfect in real life. But I long for the surge of 10,000 Hulkamaniacs coursing through my veins. I don’t have 24-inch pythons, but if I did, I’d wrap them around the world and squeeze it into submission.
I’d feel electric.
I’d feel alive.
I’d feel peace.
When Hulk Hogan wrestled, the formula was simple. He’d get the ever-loving shit kicked out of him by some mythic figure: Andre the Giant. King Kong Bundy. The Loch Ness Monster. Donald Trump. His glistening body would lie slack, as if he were moments from death. It was the same sinking feeling you got when James “Buster” Douglas knocked out Mike Tyson.
But then — something would happen.
Hogan would begin to twitch. Convulse. As if he’d jammed a finger into an electrical socket. Slowly, impossibly, he’d rise to his feet. His opponent would keep wailing on him, fists flying — but Hogan would shake his head no, wag his finger, and absorb the blows like a sun god returned from the underworld. In this state, he was invulnerable — powered by the cheers of Hulkamaniacs in the arena and across the world.
He’d toss his opponent into the ropes. They’d bounce back toward him — only to meet the dreaded big boot. Hogan would sling his massive frame against the ropes, leap into the air, and drop the hammer: the leg drop. And then it would be over. A quick pin. A victory that echoed in eternity.
God bless you, Hulk Hogan. I know you weren’t perfect in real life. But I long for the surge of 10,000 Hulkamaniacs coursing through my veins. I don’t have 24-inch pythons, but if I did, I’d wrap them around the world and squeeze it into submission.
I’d feel electric.
I’d feel alive.
I’d feel peace.
