This election year, I’m voting for Justice. Justice is my favorite American Gladiator. Now that season one of American Gladiators is over, it’s time to decide which gladiator should lead the gladiators in season two. There are three gladiators running for the position of head gladiator.
First, there is Justice, who would bring needed change to gladiator leadership. Second, we have Wolf, who should have been put in charge for season one instead of Militia—who has been a colossal failure as an American Gladiator. Now, however, Wolf is too old and frail to be a gladiator.
Finally, there is Helga, who has yet to admit that she made a serious mistake in Assault in episode five that has considerably damaged the Gladiators’ reputations. Besides, do you really want a gladiator leader that has to sit down to pee? Frankly, Helga wouldn’t even be a gladiator if she weren’t married to former head gladiator Nitro. Helga’s fans only support her because they’ve felt pity for her ever since Nitro had an affair with Blaze during his tenure as an American Gladiator.
For those that missed television’s hottest new show of the year, Hulk Hogan—the man who defeated Andre the Giant for the WWF championship in WrestleMania III—saved television during the writer’s strike by hosting the new American Gladiators. I was rooting for contestant Anthony from New York City, who with regard to his qualifications to compete against Titan in Joust said, “I have been punched in my face several times during my life.” With contestants like Anthony, who needs writers?
Since the return of American Gladiators, I’ve thought of a few things that also need to be brought back. I’m the man for the job seeing as how two years ago I successfully brought “sexy” back with a little help from Justin Timberlake.
Let’s start with snap bracelets, those rigid plastic strips that wrap into a coil after slapping them against your wrist. Just like all profits from Livestrong bracelet sales go towards curing cancer, all profits from snap bracelet sales will go towards giving cancer to those trendy tools that wear Livestrong bracelets.
The syke out. Nothing livened up childhood conversation like a good ol’ syke out. Syke outs ranged from the classic, pull out money and pretend to give it to your friend: “Here’s five bucks—syke!” to the dark: “Your mom has leukemia—syke!” A modern update for women looking to burn their boyfriends would be: “I just got back from the doctor and it turns out I’m two months pregnant—syke!”
The positive connation for the word “bitchin’.” As in, “dude, check out my bitchin’ snap bracelet.”
Calvin and Hobbes. I learned more from reading Bill Watterson in the paper on Sunday mornings than I did by going to Sunday school. The funny pages died last year when the character Lisa Moore from Funky Winkerbean was killed by breast cancer. Why’d it have to be Lisa? Why not Cathy, or Luann, or that insufferable Rose from Rose is Rose? Why are most chicks in today’s comics obnoxious tramps? Is this to more accurately reflect real life?
Awesome educational PBS shows like Slim Goodbody and The Magic School Bus. The dramatic increase in obesity in today’s youth is directly caused by the removal of Slim Goodbody from the airwaves. Slim Goodbody gave sound advice on eating healthy and exercising, and kids listened because they were so petrified that if they didn’t obey, then Slim would cut out their kidneys and put them on his spandex organ suit. As for The Magic School Bus, Ms. Frizzle was one bitchin’ teacher. I want her to turn the school bus into an amino acid and teach my biochemistry course.
Ultimately, we need to bring fun back to our daily lives; we need to bring back recess. Our school lives used to be a prison-like sentence of endless classes except for two glorious twenty minute recesses. Now with only a few classes per day, we have more unscheduled time than we could’ve ever dreamed about as Lunchable munching youngsters, and what do we do with it? Attend organizational meetings, print off notes in the library, and browse Facebook, all while listening to crappy indie bands on our iPods.
Gone are the days of recesses spent playing touch football and terrorizing the girls on the playground while trying not to get grass stains on your JNCO jeans, the days of slamming pogs and showing off your Beanie Babies, the days of feeding Tamagotchis while the teacher wasn’t looking. No more fanny packs. No more neon MC Hammer parachute pants. The Nerf wars and Super Soaker battles are over. Laser pointers, once a valuable tool for blinding siblings, teasing pets, and ruining movie theater previews, are only used now for PowerPoint presentations. The pre-MP3 days of FM pop station splendor have vanished. You can no longer turn on the radio and expect to instantly hear either “Peaches” by The Presidents Of The United States of America, “Gangsta’s Paradise” by Coolio, or if you’re unlucky, Weird Al Yankovic’s parody “Amish Paradise.” Damn it, I haven’t thrown a Koosh ball in the last ten years.
Then again, maybe it’s time to leave all these childhood memories behind. I’ll be graduating soon, getting a real job with health insurance and a 401k. I need to focus on the future and not the past. I’m going to start acting more mature. I’m going to stop wasting my time on shows like American Gladiator, and start focusing on the presidential race so that I can cast an informed vote in November—syke! Hulkamania forever!