Monday, June 17, 2002

People always ask me the same thing. Apart from "Are you going to eat that?", what I get asked the most is "Why the hell do you call your site My Life as an American Gladiator?"

Now it can be told

I was an American Gladiator. But I was often (well, in fact, always) cut out in the final edit of the show. The shameful truth is that I was not a terribly good American Gladiator. I once managed to knock myself unconscious with those jousting sticks. I would get queasy and vomit in the little Hamster Ball battle (which, let me tell you, is no picnic). My intimidation tactics against the contestants tended to include running away, hiding behind things, and begging for mercy.

The other Gladiators, yeah, they were good guys. Even some of the women Gladiators were good guys I think. There was so much steroid use going on that pretty much everyone's genitals had ceased functioning in any useful way long ago. And the Gladiators weren't feeling any pain if you know what I mean. That's right, we were hopped up on goofballs pretty much constantly. It was one long party. A really sweaty, neanderthal party that you would want to take a long hot shower after in an attempt to get the body oil off, but still a party.

Me and Turbo used to hang out together, and try to think of a Gladiator name for me. He seemed to think Whippet would be a good one for me, but I was always partial to The Exfoliator. We never really saw eye-to-eye on that, but otherwise we got along famously. Turbo would grunt a lot and lift heavy stuff. He was really good at lifting heavy stuff. And getting oiled up. He liked that.


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