A Very Punchable Face by Colin Jost

                         So I yelled, “Hey!” Then I paused for five seconds. “…why would you do that?!”

            My response was so pathetic that I think they actually felt bad for me. It was like Of Mice and Men, but if Lenny felt bad for George. Instead of punching my head off my body and using it for a soccer ball, they all sort of hung their heads in disgrace and one of them muttered, “Soh-ree…”

            Then I felt bad for them! These poor tree sloths wasted a handful of their precious potato salad on an American nerd, and they didn’t even get to rip the nerd’s eyes out!

            My friends and I quickly walked away before they changed their minds. But we also felt a very small amount of pride for saying something, and not just accepting the potato salad shower as a way of life.

            To celebrate, we met up with the Scottish stag party and started murdering hookers.

            It’s all in my new movie, Hostel 5: Hot Potato.

                     * I can see the headline now: “American Comedian Curb-Stomped by Wispy Teen Models.”

The Time I Fought in WrestleMania*

            *and almost won

                             “Never back down. Never quit.”

                —JOHN CENA

                “I would really try to avoid a major head injury.”

                —THE DOCTOR AT WWE

Anytime you’re in a ring with twenty-five gigantic wrestlers in front of 82,000 screaming fans at Giants Stadium, you’re probably wondering, Have I made a huge mistake? Especially when your name is announced and the entire stadium starts booing and yelling, “Kill him!”

            In fairness, I was wearing an Odell Beckham, Jr., Cleveland Browns jersey about two weeks after he got traded from the Giants, when the wound was fresh and deep. Even the wrestlers I saw backstage were like, “Damn. You sure you want to wear that jersey, dude? These fans carry batteries.”

            It completed a triumvirate of trolling: First I had worn a Mets hat in Philadelphia, then a Yankees hat in Boston, then I came home to the Meadowlands in New Jersey, where so many of my fellow Staten Islanders were buried in shallow graves, and I taunted my favorite team, the New York Giants, because the bit was too good not to do.

                         It all started with Michael Che being a huge WWE fan. I was a big fan growing up. Che was a big fan currently. Like as a grown-up. By the end of our experience, I would be a fan again too, in a whole new way.

            Che texted me one day, “Hey…you like wrestling?” It was like in the movie Airplane! when the pilot brings a young boy into the cockpit and says, “Joey, do you…like movies about gladiators?”

            I texted back, “…where is this going?”

            He said, “You might hate me, but I said we’d do something with the WWE.”

            Now, my generation of wrestling started with Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, Ric Flair, Macho Man Randy Savage, Ultimate Warrior, and of course, The Undertaker. And my passion ran deep. I was a Marty Jannetty fan. I was a Legion of Doom fan. I was a Papa Shango fan. I didn’t just love The Undertaker, I loved his manager, Paul Bearer, way before I understood that his name was a play on “pallbearer.” I had a Mr. Fuji trading card. I cheered for the Repo Man. I enjoyed the Quebecois villainy of Dino Bravo. I couldn’t use a toothpick around my brother without saying, “My name…is Razor…Ramon.”