WWF Smackdown
Frank Erwin Center, February 8
Krassmaster G (KG): The sweaty human drama that is the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) packed the Erwin Center to capacity with enthusiastic minions eager to have their hard-earned discretionary income stretched like spandex in the name of entertainment. What they got was a spectacular amalgam of arena rock, tabloid telegenics, cartoon violence, and boobs that cut a vicious swath of appeal from ages 6-60. UPN’s WWF SmackDown! is nothing less than a soap opera for guys, and this guy was riveted from the get-go.Da Pedagogg (DP): How can you watch in rapture as the WWF drops a big People’s Elbow in the midriff of Western civilization? While this soap opera on steroids rends its lowbrow claptrap upon our nation’s consciousness, folk singers can’t find an open mike, libraries are canceling children’s storytimes, and voting booths are being taken down.
KG: Though I share your concerns about sensitive artists not having a place to bray about their social impotence, where else can a rocket scientist sit next to a vacuum cleaner salesman and dip from the same bucket of nacho cheese in harmony? Who among us can’t relate to the sight of Dudley Boy Buh Buh Ray powerballing a buxom EMT named B.B. through a table as revenge for something I can’t remember right now? The WWF’s success is democracy in its purest form, and wussy-ass entertainment is losing in a landslide.
DP: Yes, we certainly learned valuable lessons in the art of negotiation and compromise when the WWF president’s daughter staged a corporate takeover by sending hulking hubby Triple H out to take down her enemies in the ring. I’ve seen more sophisticated displays of conflict resolution at a Motörhead concert. No wonder teenagers are practicing piledrivers on their friends instead of running for student council. And speaking of gender conflict, wrestling makes cock-rock look like an ERA convention.
KG: Your what-about-the-children bromide is typical, but WWF audiences are actually quite cognizant of the line between right and wrong. The audience booed Buh Buh Ray for putting B.B’s ass through that table but cheered when Kane executed a smackdown on his two-timing ex-girlfriend, Tori, just before she tried to swat him upside the head with a folding chair. I can’t think of a better universal lesson in the nuances of moral discretion than that.
DP: The man holding the “My wife has tasty pie!” placard sure exhibited some acute discretion. I submit to you that this teeming horde of dupes is shilling $20 to be extras in a farcical gag that’s better on TV anyway. At least Jerry Lawler’s high-pitched commentary adds comedic melodrama to this spectacle.
KG: Speaking of pies, and uh, gags, how about I gag your pie hole with my boot, professor?
DP: Put your shirt back on, you beer-bellied Neanderthal!
KG: You better check yourself before I layeth the smacketh down on your erudite ass!
DP: Bring it on, yokel!
KG: Raw is war, professor. Raw is war.
DP: Huh?
This article appears in February 25 • 2000.
