Ah, Wrestlemania. Where champions are crowned! Or at least given gigantic belts. Last night Jon and Kanishka joined Charles and myself to take in the spectacle. Having not watched wrestling in a couple of years, I was expecting to be adrift among the new faces and nuanced plotlines, but with the help of Kanishka's encyclopedic wrestling knowledge, I was able to piece together the web of relationships: it turns out that if a wrestler dislikes girls, America or drinking beer, their activities may not be entirely on the up-and-up. Something to keep in mind.

If you're genuinely interested, wrestling columnist/dimwitted fascist Mr. Tito has got a full run-down of the show. For my part, I'll say that the HBK/Kurt Angle match didn't disappoint, and Randy Orton/Undertaker was every bit as entertaining as you'd expect a showdown between a pampered wrestling scion and an unstoppable undead juggernaut to be. And the ladder match was, as usual, a testament to the inspiring human capacity for inventing new ways to hit each other with ladders.

But the evening's most offensive -- and therefore most entertaining -- moment came early, when Eugene, a wrestler who pretends to be developmentally disabled, took the mic to share his childlike enthusiasm for Wrestlemania with the sold-out Staples Center crowd. Unfortunately for him, the sinister Muhammad Hassan, a wrestler who pretends to be Iraqi, didn't take kindly being denied a piece of Wrestlemania (and the political self-determination that it clearly represents). Long story short, Eugene ended up in the excruciating Camel Clutch while Hassan's associate screamed faux-Arabic gibberish at him.

Well, thank goodness someone put a stop to this outrage. Resplendent in a yellow and red feather boa, and accompanied by his signature theme "Real American", Hulk Hogan strode into the arena with a creaky determination. Although he's in his fifties, Hogan's iconic status and sheer Americanousity were enough to paralyze Hassan, leaving him little more than a punching bag for Hogan's deliberately-paced geriatric onslaught. "Probably the greatest American, ever," was Jon's assessment and, not knowing very much about American history, I am inclined to agree. We immediately formulated plans to rechristen our nearest traffic roundabout "Hogan Circle".

Okay, the marquee matches were a little boring -- maybe it was just that the novelty begins to wear off around hour 3. But hometown hero Batista took the title, good mostly triumphed over evil, and nobody got paralyzed. What more can be said? Only this: I love this stupid shit.