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Recently, my white hot beam of rage has fallen upon a lone member of the WWE. Sputter and flicker it might, doused often by the tepid waters of apathy, but the loathing is legitimate. In fact, this new focus of my disdain has stirred a passion within me that of late, has been somewhat waterlogged and sluggish. Now, I will freely admit that on a lazy, gently stoned summer afternoon, I like little more than curling up in a comfy chair and watching frighteningly muscular, thoroughly hairless men pretend to beat the shit out of each other for my entertainment – I may be vastly misunderstanding my audience here, but I’ll inch out further on that limb and ask if anyone feels the same way? Or at least has some passing knowledge/interest in the hilarity of wrestling?

If I’m alone in my interest, as I fear I may be, this next bit will be lost on you – you can skip it if you want; I’m not here to judge.

While I cringe in embarrassment at the ridiculous depth of my hate, I’ll reveal my target shall I?

JTG

Formerly of the tag-team Cryme Tyme.

*deep cleansing breath*

Oh how I hate thee, let me count the ways.

His opening music plays – beginning with an achingly stereotypical rapped ‘Yo yo yo yo’ – and before he has even appeared, I begin to seethe. I could be accused of melodrama, but I am of the opinion that in a time where we as a human race are finally opening our minds enough to recognise gay marriages and elect a black president (FUCK. I’m not even American and I’m proud of us) JTG must be stopped.

Every black stereotype conceived in most racist of minds is embodied in this one odious individual. Black people are criminals, his character screams, black people are stupid, all black people listen to the same music, black people are all mostly illiterate and black people are violent. And the WWE encourage him, the audience eat it up, the children love it, and my skin crawls in disgust.

I will also freely admit that my knowledge of recent black history is limited – but I am willing to make the intellectual leap that this was PROBABLY not what black revolutionaries had in mind as they strove for equality. I reckon when Martin Luther King had a dream, it probably didn’t involve a young black man with a prime opportunity to set a positive example shitting all over it.

Argh.

*deep cleansing breath*

Other than that, it’s like I said – waterlogged and sluggish. My yo-yo has swung down again and taken my mood with it. There is no longer any thrill in restricting – the empty growl of my stomach does not fill with me with a sense of satisfaction and purity. I wonder/worry that what this is what awaits me after recovery. I look down at the scales and now I feel nothing, sure I no longer expect the heart squeezing feeling of a gain, but gone too is the euphoria of a good solid loss. Is this what not being ruled by your scales is?

It is turning my brain to mulch. Beige, uninteresting tapioca-like mulch. Uninspired, passionless goop.

Tapioca is disgusting.

In my more vivid wandering thoughts, I picture it dribbling sluggishly out of my ears and soaking my clothing, it collects on my shoulders then lands with a wet plop into my lap. I am unmoved, I continue to smoke and stare, hollow eyed, at the television before me as my brain drips away. I imagine it puddling around me, flowing until I am empty - a crunchy shell missing my creamy filling, the hole of a ring doughnut.

FUCK I wish I could stop thinking about food.

I’m off to bang my head against the toilet now.