For “Hollywood” Hulk Hogan, On the Occasion of Joining the New World Order
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For “Hollywood” Hulk Hogan, On the Occasion of Joining the New World Order

Colette Arrand

Who knew that twenty years later he’d sue Gawker
to fulfill the revenge fantasies of a man so cartoon evil

he’s yet to deny the rumor that he enjoys bathing
in the blood of younger, hotter men? For every angle

where he brained a rich guy or a cop on the take
or his boss, there’s a story about Hulk Hogan snitching

on wrestlers trying to form a union or stooging for a CEO
or how his name is “Hogan” because he needed to appeal

to Irish Americans. The only honest thing about Hulk Hogan
is this heel turn, how the wealthy feel underappreciated

and will snap on the lower classes that buffeted them
before their desires turned towards colonizing the moon,

towards using their wealth to escape the aftermath
of their wealth, to go to a place where wealth

has no meaning, and they, the wealthy, will have little
to dine on but their meaninglessness. There’s Hulk Hogan,

trying to stave off the reality that he’s best remembered
as an orange relic from a decade our parents are embarrassed

about because they remember him and not something good,
like The Talking Heads or Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814.

There’s just so much of him available, waving the flag
and telling children to eat vitamins and drink milk and pray

to God, by which he meant the United States of America.
I mean, fuck this country. Who thought it was a good idea

to film a man headbutting a flag bearing a hammer and sickle?
More people love communism than Hulk Hogan. More people

love communism than the United States. If I were to list everything
the WWF built up in service of making Hulk Hogan look good,

it would resemble a list of everything I love. Communism is one.
Homosexuality is one. Macho Man Randy Savage is one. Imagine

being on the wrong side of any of these matches. Imagine crying
when Hulk Hogan joined the New World Order in 1996. Imagine

liking a wrestler like Hulk Hogan enough in 1996 to cry over him
like the disciples wept for Judas’ betrayal. Like Judas, Hulk Hogan

will die and be buried. The ink on his back that says “immortal”
will be a lie, too. There’s a short story about the hubris

of a man who tattooed something that impossible on his back.
More people love that short story than Hulk Hogan.