I was channel surfing during the break and found some reasonable viewing in the form of half naked, three-quarts bear and full on oiled up muscle fun.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I found the WWE. I’m now in love with the bodies on the wrestling gents.
I think it’s also the only sport that ‘straight’ men can watch maintaining their masculinity but really gagging at the pecs on these guys.
I know, I know – I’m a late bloomer, some of you have already had deep and meaningful relationships with WWE, but scheeszus! I’m now modelling my gym workout to look like those muscle bound men with real chests and real arms. I think I’ll need some wishes of luck.
Anyway, the mini men, who I might need to rename soon as they are not so mini – were watching One Direction on telly and Chickles was feeling awkward about telling me he liked one of the boys.
‘I think they are all cool, I like them, what do you think Chick?’
‘I like Zane’ slightly blushing, ‘he’s my favourite Dad’.
‘I think he’s the cutest, you’ve got excellent taste my love’.
Moments later we’re watching Pittbull and his girls are seriously wearing nothing, wrapped in a sheet and hiding behind his suit. I mean really? Some skank can get her kit off for some bald headed ugly latin guy and yet we can’t show too much guy on guy action unless they are wearing lycra, oiled up and rolling around wrestling other men with their heads interlocked in their thighs….
…hmmm, actually I might retract that last statement.