My Sports Hero: A Tribute to Mr. Perfect

My sports hero, even though I have a reputation for detesting watching sports, as opposed to participating in them, was Mr. Perfect. No baseball or football or that nigger jumping sport for me. Only Vince McMahon was able to provide me with true sports entertainment. I know, everyone's saying but wrestling's fixed. Oh: and baseball and football and nigger ball ain't. Like they're real. In the top picture we see Mr. Perfect about to complete the Perfect Plex on some poor schlub who is about to realize that
if wrestling is fixed someone needs to tell the guy about to dislocate his neck when he hits the floor with it at 100 miles an hour. If wrestling is fixed he also needed fixing a billionth of a second after this picture was taken. I hear it took him two years in traction in the hospital before he was as fixed as wrestling. In the middle picture Mr. Perfect is again allowing his opponent to experience his final moments of health before being turned into a permanent pretzel. And in the bottom picture we see a good example of Mr. Perfect's state of mind while contemplating his opponent's preparation for a long stay in the hospital. As you can see he is not at all bothered by his opponent's immediate future as a cripple. In fact, he is completely delighted. He is happily inviting the audience to participate in his joy and experience along with him the happy pleasure of turning a fellow human being into a paralyzed vegetable. Again the Perfect Plex was administered, without error, as it always was, on this fellow too. And that was another aspect of his charm that captivated me and brought me through many qualms of conscience: Mr. Perfect was always happiest when wishing, or doing, someone else ill. And he was never gruff or angry about it like so many of the blowhards now inhabiting the WWE ring. He was calm. The more fucked up his opponents got the calmer and happier he would be. When they were writhing on the mat Mr. Perfect would never go over and just start kicking the fellow. He would bend low, his hands on his knees and inform him that he needed to get up soon or else he was going to get kicked in the face. And that
he, Mr. Perfect, did not consider that very sporting. But it was still going to happen. Once in a while Mr. Perfect would actually politely lift a dazed opponent to his feet after pleading with him to get up. He was always very gentlemanly about it. He'd dust him off a bit, steady the fellow by the shoulders and ask "Are you ok? You gonna be alright? Want to lean on the ropes for a while?" He'd take him over and let him lean on the ropes. Sometimes he'd apply a wet cold towel to the fellow's face and clean him up a bit. Once the guy recovered he would be very grateful. He'd show an admiring appreciation for Mr. Perfect's sportsmanship. Mr. Perfect would say "That's ok, we're all just trying to make a living here." Then he would immediately and without warning Perfect Plex him into the hospital. And retirement, if the fellow was lucky. Mr. Perfect wore classic wrestling togs. He considered wrestling an art and a science. He would annouce to the audience the next perfect wrestling hold he was about to apply to his victim. And then he would do it. He would give a performance in extreme athletics and gymnastics in every bout. Every bout to him was a huge mismatch in which he would sometimes politely ask his opponents to simply leave the ring before the bell and declare Mr. Perfect the winner and save a lot of time and most likely a lot of injury to the party that was not Curt Hennig. None of them ever did this. Mr. Perfect would then judge them too stupid to live and fuck them up with a smile and a lot of enthusiasm. Why did he die? He probably just decided to. He had become perfect. There was nowhere else to go.