Thanks to the voyeuristic new series Ride Along, fans of World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) can experience the bleak, nomadic existences of professional wrestlers as they travel like enslaved circus animals from town to town.
Viewers of the program can watch their favorite WWE superstars, battered and exhausted, set out at midnight on endless, soul-crushing journeys between far-flung sports arenas, with occasional stops at Denny’s restaurants to urinate and be harassed for autographs by half-wits.
Each episode is a Sisyphean ordeal of endless despair in which hypermuscular brutes squeeze their oversized bodies into uncomfortable rental cars, then endure the torturous monotony of America’s interstate highways while guzzling caffeine to stay awake.
TV critics are unanimous in their praise of Ride Along as the bleakest, most depressing depiction of an American tragedy since Making A Murderer.
In one recent episode, The Miz repeatedly pitched his idea for a comedy catchphrase, while passenger Dolph Ziggler clearly spent the six-hour drive praying for the sweet release of death.