In Fukuoka, near the ferry port, I stumbled upon this tiny “port festival.” There were singing acts, dance acts, and, apparently, Japanese pro wrestlers. Who knew that they’d resemble the Mexican wrestlers? Except during their interviews and exhibitions, they’re unfailingly polite and modest. Not quite the DDP, Sting, or Goldberg I remember from my brief middle school obsession with pro wrestling. (Yes, it happened. Yes, it was fun while it lasted.) I didn’t actually stay to see a match, but I assume the trash talk would go something like this:
A: Oh, I give you my regards for this fight.
B: Yes, may we fight honorably and well.
A: Your jumpsuit is a little tight. Would you like to pause to adjust it?
B: Oh, thank you for noticing. Yes. [Adjusts] So, shall we begin?
[Both look at officiate. Officiate looks at announcer. Announcer looks at random VIP. VIP nods. Announcer nods. Officiate nods. Wrestlers bow.]
A: I will now pound you into a bloody pulp, if you don’t mind.
B: I wonder how bloody… well, good luck, sir.