Smackdown

I don't know how the WWF (or the 2006 equivalent) got resurrected in my living room, but apparently it has.

A stronghold of interest has gripped Stevie like Hulk Hogan on George the Animal Steel, and for the last few weeks he has relayed grudge matches to me in nauseating detail at every possible second.

I can feign interest in a lot of things, my friends, but professional wrestling ain't one of them.

But I've done my best. I even offered up the rather cool past life fact that I used to hawk cotton (that's trade for "vending souvenirs") at every Smackdown that rolled through Motown back in the day.

And through all of his Vince McMahon narratives, I haven't the heart to tell him it's fake. God, I feel like he just caught me slipping money under his pillow.

But perhaps I should have.

Because we were at the emergency room today with a sprained wrist resulting from "The Wrist Breaker," a little move he and his friend came up with.

A highly-effective and aptly-named move I might add.