Where life fails to provide you with fun, invent your own. No matter how insane it may be.

I don’t much care for professional wresting. I don’t have any particular beef with it, mind you, it’s just never had much appeal. I blame video games, mostly, because rare was the day that the Macho Man would pluck Mr. Perfect’s head from his shoulders, spinal column gently a’sway. But in spite of that, I find myself watching Botchamania. Like, kind of a lot. Like, almost to the level of an unhealthy obsession.

It’s a lot like hating skateboarding, but watching lots of bail videos. I kinda almost feel bad, viewing someone else’s passion through the lens of “gee, it’s really funny when they screw stuff up.” Although, I could chalk up at least some of my enjoyment to how slickly Maffew produces it, how cleverly he weaves his own bits of cheeky humor into these videos of big men falling down poorly. Mostly, though, it’s the big men falling down.

The joke, ultimately, is on me, however. For like some eldritch tome, its fell scribblings meant to be kept secret and safe from the prying eyes of curious mortals, long hours spent Botchamania have slowly revealed the world of the WWE to me. In laughing at it, I have learned of it, and in greedily seeking more laughter, I gain more knowledge. In time, I shall become what I hate. In time, pro wrestling will consume me, too. McMahon ftaghn.

You should still watch the videos, though. That shit’s hilarious.

Oh! Also! Here’s the link to this week’s comic edit! Okay, now you can go!