At any rate, if you're looking for one of my columns, I've put up one of my oldie but goodies. Read it, and be sure to check out the new stuff by Sid, Kelli and Blurry.

Initially, the idea of becoming a professional wrestler intimidated me. After all, these were the guys whose bodies were slammed on the ground and thrown against painful looking ropes....and in the less popular organizations they even bled. But I had always heard it was fake. Or was it? I was about to find out.

I contacted a small handful of wrestling schools and found that Ronald "Ogre" Sinbad's School of Professional Wrestling fell into both my price range and geographical preference. I showed up the morning they asked me to, wearing sweatpants and a Richard Marx T-shirt. (I'm not a fan! I wore it because I didn't want to rip any of my other clothes.) After checking in with Kathy, who stood at least a foot taller than me and may have had a deeper voice, I was escorted to the Class Registrant, Matty Gump. Matty, a stocky 50-something man wearing a unitard, pushed some papers towards me.

"Fill these out, sign 'em all. Can't take the classes without 'em."

"What are these, waivers in case I die?" I joked.

"Yeah."

I skimmed the papers and signed them all. Typical stuff. I was basically allowing them to use my picture in promotional brochures and agreeing that if I died or was injured I wouldn't hold Sinbad's School accountable. Knowing it was fake, I thought the chances were low. I shoved the papers back at Matty, real wrestler like.

"Okay, son. First thing we need to do is hook you up with the nutrition counselor. Her name is Natalia. She's from Iran or somethin', but she knows how to bulk up young wrestlers."

It was true that the pictures of the men on the wall resembled a truck and I looked more like a car--Ric Ocasek, that is--but that wasn't going to be any fun.

"Actually," I said, "that's going to be my gimmick. An underweight wrestler. I'm going to be super quick and yet powerful. I'm going to be a wonder among the wrestling world. What do you think?"

"Son, these other guys are 250, maybe 3 to 400 pounds some of 'em. You can't go in there looking like a marionette, boy. You're going to need to bulk up."

"But wouldn't that be great, "I went on, "I could get someone like The Rock or someone to physically carry me into the ring and I could just....explode! You know what I mean? Just run and flip and--"

"You'll get killed." Matty said mattter of factly and with a certain tone that said the conversation was over. I decided it may be best to promote myself that way with another source, maybe my coach.

I was ushered by Kathy to a little kitchen area and she told me to wait for Natalia. While I waited, I looked at the shelves on the walls. Dozens of containers with names like "Weight For You" and "SuperrrrrrCHARGE" lined the shelves. The walls were covered with charts and graphs and there were a couple scales in the corner.

When Natalia walked in, I was surprised to see she was a mere slip of a girl. She sure didn't look like she knew anything about gaining weight. She was also very pretty.

"I'm Jim," I said, "You must be Natalia." I smiled and extended my hand.

"Dream on,"she said. "Every guy comes here thinks he's going to get Natalia to be on his arm when HIS day come to enter ring. Dream on, skinny boy"

"No, you don't understand--" I stammered.

"Do you think I like my job, I like work with guys who don't weigh so good?" I wanted to yell at her, but her accent made it hard for me to understand what she had said until she spoke again. Then it was too late to yell.

"Here's what you do, "she said, handing me a booklet, "Read this in it's entirety and memorize it. Then live it. I'll see you next class. Wait here for Kathy" In a second, she was gone. I glanced at the booklet. 'Eating for Two'. Great. I'm pumped to be the next People's Champion in the WWF and she's giving me pregnancy brochures.

After Kathy had marched me to the gym area, my instructor--Ogre Sinbad himself--and a couple of other muscle-bound students laughed at me.

"Didja lose your way?" Ogre hollered, waving his arms like he was flexing for a crowd. The other two guys exploded and for some reason, did a high five.

"Not really, "I tried, "I'm a student."

"Gain some weight!" one of them shouted.

"Get in the ring with us, Pinocchio," the other mocked.

I threw my hands up in disgust. "You guys don't get it. This is part of the gimmick. My wrestling name is going to be Jimmy Featherfellow."

That brought on more laughter and now three other large men found their way to the floor to see what the commotion was. They immediately started smirking.

"Somebody needs a couple weeks of classes with Natalia," the ugliest of the three said.

"Classes?? He needs to move into the kitchen and get one of them things that does the...you know like for the needles and they lay down and all the stuff?" the largest guy said.

"Intravenous therapy." I said.

"Shut up!" the guy yelled back. He started towards me, but Ogre waved him off.

"Well, Jimmy Featherweight or whatever....I can't do nothing with you til you weigh a little more." He walked towards me all serious and talked lower. "These fellas would kill you."

"I don't get it. I mean, can't they work with me. Do we have to be rough right off the bat?"

Ogre looked confused.

"Well, wrestling's fake, right?"

When I said that, it was as though the entire world stopped spinning and heard what I said. The five wrestlers all glanced at me and Ogre's face soured.

"Fake? Show em fake, Dirk!" Ogre hollered.

One of the students kicked the other in the groin and slapped him across the face.

"Did that look fake?" Ogre asked.

"Well, actually, no that looked painful. But Vince McMahon even admits that--"

"First of all, string cheese, if you wanted to work with Vince McMahon you came to the wrong school. Second of all, wrestling isn't fake. There may be storylines and the bad guys and the good guys might really get along offstage, but it's all real. Every punch is real."

As if to make a point, the ugly guy did the Atomic Drop on the biggest guy. On a concrete floor.

Who's going to need IV therapy now, wise guy, I thought.

"I always heard that they pull their punches and use blood capsules and all that." I tried.

"Look, every young kid like yourself dreams of being a professional wrestler. You see the glory they get or you see the chicks or you see all the money involved and you get hungry. But, you're better off--you specifically--just watching from the stands."

"Watching? I hate watching wrestling, "I said, "Being a star, maybe. But watching, no thanks."

"Well bulk up and get limber and come on back, we'll talk"

"I don't know. I think I changed my mind, "I said, "I mean, you guys all seem kind of stupid and stuff. Or dazed. Like boxers get sometimes. I don't want that to happen to me."

Ogre and the other five guys slowly surrounded me. Oops.

As I put the finishing touches on this story, I can't help but think what a mistake it was to try to be a wrestler. Or worse yet, to mouth off to those wrestling students. At any rate, I hope you--the reader--learned something. I have to go now, the nurse is here to put the straw in my mouth so I can eat.