I watch lots of wrestling. I read. I also lift tons and tons of weights and am the biggest baseball fan you'll ever have the privilege of meeting. Go Phillies.

The Wrestler

I've read virtually every wrestling autobiography there is, and most of the other informed, non-fiction written. Bret Hart, Chris Jericho, and Mick Foley's first two books all stand out to me. Scott Keith will always be a favorite of mine. "Sex, Lies and Headlocks" by Mike Mooneyham and Shawn Assael is a must-read for anyone interested in the backstage juice.

Ultimate Warrior, Mr. Perfect, Shawn Michaels, Marty Jannetty, Ric Flair, Dean Malenko, Shane Douglas, Owen Hart, tassles on boots, neon-colored tights, a nice lead-in on an entrance song, Sensational Sherri's version of "Sexy Boy," cutting off the face-in-peril, Bobby Heenan commentary, Beer Money, overanalyziation of the product, Dave Meltzer podcasts, sentimentality in regards to wrestling's past,WWE-produced nostalgia videos, the ECW Arena, entrance robes and long jackets and of course, any time Vince dances.

I'm pretty much the man. No, really. You may refer to me as the god of good looks, the wizard of sideburns and the man who makes your toes curl. I hate football. I hope the NFL implodes. A real wrestling fan spends his Sundays preparing for wrestling pay-per-views, not watching that gridiron drivel.