I don’t believe that I’ve ever shared in this space before now that at one point in my (younger) life, I had aspirations of one day becoming a professional wrestler. Having size on my side, and a pretty decent head of hair back in the day, all I really had to overcome at the time was my adversity to pain, a nose softer than a breakfast crepe, and an annoying habit (to my trainer and coach at least) of yelping like a Chihuahua pup whenever an opponent came close to me.


I remember during one particularly gruesome training session that maybe I should have tried to learn to box instead – but then I realized that if I was worried about my papier-mâché snout with wrestling, how would I fare against fists like freight trains pummeling the ole air-beak?

I was brought back to the lesson at hand by my trainer, who pleaded for me to quit running around the ring, and to show at least some modicum of masculinity by squealing just a little bit less every time the other brute tried to put me into any sort of wrestling hold.

My rasslin’ career was not meant to be. I was deemed “un-trainable”. I guess we’ll never know what might have been…

Chow for now!