January 09, 2013
Dear Mr. Sheik,
I’m writing for a couple of reasons. First of all, I recently bought this amazing tumbler with your likeness on it. I think you’ll agree that this is the best beer mug in all of existence. So in your honor, I’m having a giant beer.
I also have a few questions if that’s OK.
Have you ever considered competing on Iron Chef? It’s a cooking show where contestants try to make better food than the “iron chefs.” Whenever I hear someone refer to that show, I think of you on accident. (I’m a child of the ‘80s, so this makes sense.) And whenever I happen to catch an episode of Iron Chef, I’m inevitably disappointed because there are no suplexes or Boston Crabs; instead, it’s usually just a bunch of cooks hurriedly cutting up vegetables.
There’s exactly nothing exciting about watching someone else chop broccoli. The only thing you can hope is that they slip and a few fingers fly off. Then they’ve got to hurry to put their severed digits on ice and dial 911 before they pass out because of blood loss. It’d be like an episode of Rescue 911.
Anyway, if I knew there’d be a catastrophic cooking injury on the show, I guess I’d be more likely to tune in. That’s where you come in. If you were on Iron Chef, you could walk in and start suplexing people. Chefs, audience members, the panel of judges, cameramen, your choice. It’d be great. (Confession: I’ve always wanted to see someone in a chef’s hat get suplexed into a cooking implement. Maybe into a wok!)
Finally, I’ve also got a question about my son. As you’re a professional wrestling legend, maybe you can help my son with some career advice. Our little guy is only five months old, but he’s already 21 pounds. He was 9 lbs. 14 oz. when he was born. If he keeps growing at this rate, when he’s 12, he’ll weigh something like 353 pounds and be about 10 feet tall. Do you think there will be a place for him in professional wrestling?
Before you write him off, let me tell you: he’s a natural. He pretty much piledrives everything he gets his hands on: Monkey-shaped rattles, the cat, it doesn’t matter. One second he’s holding it, the next: BABY SMASH.
And while he doesn’t know how to walk yet, he can use his fists. The other day I was reading him a story when he latched onto the book, pulled it out of my hands, threw off my glasses, and clocked me with a wicked right cross. He then smiled, laughed to himself, and screeched loud enough to wake up the dog. I hope this doesn’t mean he’ll grow up to be some sort of terrible bully.
Needless to say, I think he’d make a great professional wrestler.