The “Tragedy” of Hulk Hogan

I just saw a couple of commentators on a celebrity news program bemoaning the sad fate of Hulk Hogan. His bloated nag of a wife with the three-dollar hooker eye shadow has divorced him. You might think of the former Mrs. Hogan as a fat Tammy Faye Baker, only not as good looking. This low-rent laundromat queen was little more than a gargantuan tapeworm feeding off of every penny that Hogan made.

Perhaps you remember this bit from a post of mine:

“I am reminded of the Hulk Hogan reality show, when he goes back into the ring. He's older now, and even if wrestling is fake, you still take punishment, like the knee that’s been killing him since his return to the ring. Hogan tells his wife he thought he'd be retired by now. God knows he's got money. The only catch is his wife's spending habits.

So Hulk Hogan stands in the living room, leaning to one side to favor a wrenched knee. He is in essence telling his wife, ‘I'm taking punishment and I'm in pain. I'm facing crippling injuries at an age when I should be resting and enjoying everything I worked so hard for, everything I sweated for. And all of this is to finance your out-of-control shopping trips.’

She sits there, like a sallow pumpkin draped in a corpse's pale skin, strategically highlighted with an over-application of makeup that is completely wasted on her. ‘I'm worth it. You need me.’ Her response resembles a taunting laugh.

No, he doesn't need you, you shallow, avaricious bitch. If Hogan hadn't made his deal with the devil, and signed over his soul, you'd be out on your ass. As you made your way to the Rescue Mission for a free bowl of soup and a bus a bus ticket out of town, Hogan would be laughing –not at you, but at himself, wondering how he got so drunk and desperate that he picked up the nastiest skank in the bar.”

That Hulk is divorcing his wife is not a tragedy, but a symbolic rebirth of hope on the scale of the liberation of France from the Nazis. Every man seeing this should feel like the Indian chief in the movie Little Big Man --“My heart soars like a hawk.” Not only is Hulk free, but his finances are free (or at least partially free), and if there is any justice in life the swill-guzzling hag will have to fill her own trough with her own money, earned at a bowling alley or a House of Large Sizes store.

Yet the commentators view this as a tragedy. I suppose they are upset when a man falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit is freed. They must be crestfallen when miners buried alive are rescued after several days in total darkness and stale air a mile beneath the earth. Anyone who cannot exult in the liberation of a hard-working man from the clutches of a painted lamprey must have a soul that is little more than a greasy black spot.

But “worse” news awaits the stunned viewer. The next shoe is about to drop, with an air of “OH MY GOD! HOW BAD CAN IT GET?” One can envision the few remaining Auschwitz survivors huddled around poor Hulk Hogan, murmuring, “I thought I had it bad; I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

Poor Hulk is dating women as old as his daughter!

Believe it or not, this is portrayed as further evidence of the fall of Hulk Hogan, rather than the trajectory of an eagle soaring to the greatest heights. What other disasters might these two clueless dildoes tremulously announce to a shocked audience? “Hapless Bastard Finds Suitcase Full of Cash.” Or “Cursed Man Wins Powerball Lotto.” Or maybe “Pitiful Man without a Wife Tries to Wrest Some Joy out of Life by Earning Millions and Sleeping with Centerfolds.”