Hi everyone! I hope all your Thanksgivings were as fattening as mine! Highlights include: turkey AND ham on Thursday. Not one but two lasagnas on Friday. Steak AND lobster on Saturday. McDonalds AND Arby's on Sunday. The entire weekend was a gastronomic onslaught to rival the Great Binge of '03. It's about time. My "I Ate the Big One" t-shirt got destroyed in the wash.
Speaking of destruction and big things, I'm finally back home in New York where my internet history is not saved on any friend's computer, so I am free to do the important research to which my academic mind is accustomed. I like to learn a new thing every day. Today, I learned that the single cultural icon for which my father and I share an affinity, Hulk Hogan, has a reality show. Chronically behind in all things television and music, my late enlightenment to this program is actually right on schedule.
My dad loves the Hulk. He's met him on more than one occasion at airports, and there are some great signed pictures on our basement walls. Some of my earliest memories with my dad involve laying on him watching WCW (God rest it), and Hulk Hogan's image is this sensory trigger to all of those experiences: the smell of my dad's aftershave, the way he'd yell when one 'roidhead beat up another, and that one fateful day I decided to see what would happen if I pulled out one of my dad's chest hairs. To this day, I'm glad I have none of my own.
The existence of his show comes as no surprise since I got a glimpse of his flagging career last year when I saw him in Bryant Park. Incidentally, seeing Hulk Hogan in person did not cause me to regress to childhood like Hulkster iconography does. Don't ask me why. What does come as a surprise is that he has kids, which I never knew.
Obviously--though you could know this without a photo--his wife and daughter look like Russian whores, and his son is an idiot. Fabulous.
The wife is divorcing him, probably for some horrible reason because I imagine him being a nice guy. The daughter wants to be a singer, and I think you should all go support her at your local mall. Anyway, I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about Nick Hogan.
Nick Hogan wants to be a racecar driver and professional wrestler just like every boy does when he's 5. Nick, however, is 17. His racing career is already well underway. He has been stopped numerous times for recklessly driving above the speed limit and has already served time for vegetizing one of his friends in a high-speed car accident. Add in the doofy half-smile and the abominable mohawk to the right and there you go. This is Trixie calling Mach 5! We have a Grade-A Large Douchebag around the next bend.
The only problem with this is that I have this occasional tendency to find douchebags really hot. They may act like morons and pop their collars and sometimes smell kinda off, but there's something raw and animalistic about them that speaks to my inner sex demon.
I've hooked up with a couple of douchebags in my time. One was a guy everyone knew in high school who (SURPRISE!) became gay in college and the other was this Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, Night-at-the-Roxbury-dancing bookie I met here in the city. Both not anything I'd ever show to anyone or even speak to without a quart of alcohol in my system, but I gotta say: Top Quality Coitus.
Douchebags don't care. They're so absorbed in their testosterony douchbagginess that they have no idea what they're doing, but somehow.... SOMEHOW when they've finished lumbering and pawing their way through an hour in the hay, even I'd be willing to bleach my hair, get some implants, and cheer them on in the ring wearing fake nails and a cat suit.
And so, it isn't without embarassment that I resurrect an old regular column that never took off and name Nick Hogan my Celebrity Hard-On for November 2007. Well done, Nick! Don't kill any more of your friends, ok?