Inspired, one fan yells: "Go back to Japan!"

The racist comment jolts me for a second--you'd never hear such a thing at Harvard. That guy would not survive the wrath of those who would accuse him of being a callous, indecent, and backward human being. At Smackdown!, no one says a word. A couple of guys actually laugh. In fact, I begin to chuckle, not at the comment, but at a marvelous realization: I don't have to be politically correct--this is professional wrestling! It'sokay to be an asshole. No, it's expected to be an asshole! _Slaughter those disrespectful foreigners! Shame on them for being from Japan!_ Of course, I don't say any of this out loud; Christina looks appalled enough. I can tell she finds these fans quite uncouth.

Kurt Angle, a 1996 Olympic gold medalist (Who says professional wrestlers have no talent?), and his partner face the Dudley Boyz, Buh Buh Ray and D-von, next. The Boyz, using many complex moves that target their opponent's groin, beat Angle and partner, demonstrating (almost unnecessarily) the superiority of pro-wrestling over that other two-points-for-a-takedown crap. Gleeful, I tell Christina that Kurt Angle was an Olympic champion. She's doubtful, and certainly not impressed. Another invigorating fight matches The Godfather, wrestler and part-time pimp, against some no-name pretty boy. Smoothness personified, The Godfather literally dances around the ring while his "ho train" (a bevy of woman wearing some spandex and bikinis), cheer him on and jiggle. "Ugh!" Christina groans. I nod, but believe this guy to be the epitome of masculine authority--the women obey his every word, bow to his every whim. Secretly, I root for The Godfather, not because I think pimping is an estimable profession, but simply because I can. I couldn't look anyone in the eye if I were to think such thoughts at Harvard.

Next we see the Degeneration-Xers, dressed in neon gereen adn black, successfully destroy and humiliate all their adversaries. They are cocky, obnoxious, and beloved by all. To them, pinning someone is not as important as hurting them, and their victory dance is a spectacle that every man should behold: with a chesty snort, they raise their arms and thrust them downward, forming an X over their groin. Their battle cry--part insult, part exhibition of their enviable virility--is unmistakable: "SUCK IT!" I'd witnessed it a hundred times on TV, but seeing it in person has an unexpected effect on me--I develop an abrupt desire to buy one of those novelty foam hands that's giving the finger. They suddenly seemed so cool.

Finally, it's time for Mankind--an ugly, animal-like wrestler, whose face hides behind a leather mask. Almost neolithic, he proves that instinct is more important than intelligence. During the fight with his former best friend Al Snow, Mankind is reluctant. At one point, when he's about to perform his most effective and deadly move--where he pulls a dirty sock puppet out of his pants and crams it down his victim's throat--Mankind hesitates. He decides against it, tucking Mr. Socko (the filthy stocking's official name) back down into his crotch. Like some stupid animal, he remains faithful, but confused. Al Snow quickly recovers, and, through a series of punches and clotheslines, gains the upper hand. He heads for the metal chair.

I'm on my feet, worried. Al snow raises the metal chair above his head. This can't be happening--Al Snow can't win. I look to my left for Christina, thinking she'll empathize with my distress. She isn't even standing. Her face is blank, passionless. This can't be; Mankind, the heart of WWF, is a motionless lump on the mat, and Christina doesn't even care! I can't believe it. SMACK! Oh no...it's over. But wait...the official declares Al Snow disqualified for using the chair. Mankind did win! Ha! He didn't disappoint me! I realize that his victory was scripted, but I really don't care. It is he, and other professional wrestlers like him, who give me hope that machismo and masculine vulgarity isn't completely taboo.

Christina and I shuffle out of the Fleet center. My pulse has slowed, and my head is achy. I hobble toward the exit, saddened that it's over. Well, at least I had a couple of hours to enjoy these consummate men, who, to an unknowing person, are simply bullies, pimps, assholes, and animals. Now, it's back to Harvard, where I must deny that I respect these men, lest I be thought "insensitive."