Rasslin'

Monday night means one thing in our house - WWE. We don't watch anything else regularly on Mondays except WWE, which stands for World Wrestling Entertainment. Don't be fooled though, it's not wrestling, it's rasslin'. Please make note of this. We know it is fake, we know it is staged, we know these guys truly are professionals - barfights that violent usually involve someone ending up in the pokey doing ten to life.

Thanks to the DVR we came out of the Dark Ages to purchase we can now pause TV to have conversations if we feel the need, however we rarely do. Now, keep in mind as I say "we" you must know that I am not including our youngest child nor our eldest. I am the only uterine-abled person in the house that enjoys rasslin'. And if during WWE either of the non-watchers feel compelled to speak to any of the other three the person holding the remote will sigh and hit pause while six glaring eyes stare down the verbal perpetrator.

It really is serious business.

This last week, though, I made a huge rasslin' faux pas and didn't realize it until my husband, a very quiet man not prone to outbursts of anything other than foul language, had to pause the TV while he busted out laughing at me until he was out of breath.

On the screen was a montage of past rasslers and one of them had a ghostly white face and dark eyes. You've heard the phrase "Death warmed over" - well, this guy was "Death with big biceps". I said, "Ooh look it's Grave Digger!"

Laughter ensued from the redneck in the recliner. And a lot of it.

Without realizing I had inadvertently attempted to mesh together two redneck sports, I had called the former rassler the name of a monster truck.

I giggled, more at his laughter than my mistake, and when we both stopped he seriously said, "Who wipes your butt at the funeral home?"

Aha. The Undertaker. I stood corrected.