Hulk Hogan

White people hate Hulk Hogan. There is a time in every white person’s life when they are confronted with the reality that their heroes have fallen. As a young boy, I can remember jumping and screaming in my living room, yelling at the television, hoping beyond hope that Hulk Hogan could hear me cheering him on as he gave Rowdy Roddy Piper an anal fissure by hitting him in the head with a chair. I loved the Hulkster. I was a bona fide Hulkamaniac. Recently, however, I’ve been confronted by a series of disappointing, if not downright shocking, glimpses into the life of this man I once revered. Of course he made a reality show, and in said show, he prances around his house with a fanny pack and Hammer pants, wondering who’s life he can meddle in next. He nosier than the neighbor from “Small Wonder” (look it up, kids). After his sad, sad show ended, so did his sad, sad marriage. But, not to worry. The Hulkster promptly ran out and sacked up with a man. His ex is out banging 18-year-old beefcakes, and the Hulkster is out banging a 37-year-old beefcake. Not cool. The last straw came the other day when I flipped on an episode of his daughter’s show. Hulk Hogan, the man I wanted to be when I grew up, was chasing his daughter around Mexico, showing up at her parties, and desperately seeking her approval. Alas, he is the Hulk no more. He’s Gary Coleman in a 6’4” white man’s body. Farewell, sweet prince. You’re dead to me now. And there’s nothing I can imagine you doing to make white people stop hating you.