When professional wrestling gets meta-textual, hilarity ensues. Sure, it's easy enough to suspend one's disbelief over years (and years) of weekly episodes but, when a certain character's history is
relayed in soliloquy (from the 3:50 mark onwards), you can't help but laugh.
Meanwhile, I heartily disagree with my darling wife: CM Punk may well be on
a speeding rocket to Planet Dickhead, but beating up an announcer does not a heel turn make (though it helps). He's not so far gone that a recovery, and a return to more admirable ways, isn't out of the question (as WWE itself
wants us to remember).
Or maybe I'm just guilty of not wanting Punk to be a bad guy, especially when there seems such little point. I dunno. The great thing about professional wrestling? I won't have to wait long to find out. The pay-per-view that'll answer all my questions is but three weeks away.
This entire angle fascinates the hell out of me. Last year, John Cena remained a face in spite of the cries of the crowd and the demands of the hard-core fans. WWE all but said "fuck you fanboys" and, in doing so, created an entirely new type of wrestling persona. This year the company is challenging us in a different way. "You want to love this anti-establishment, weird, rebel guy? All right, then we're going to test that love by letting him off the leash. Do you really love him? Yeah, we'll see..."
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF