The AEW on TNT Twitter account (@AEWonTNT) is completely unhinged at the moment, posting a thread of images of Kenny Omega with a simple question: “Which_Kenny_Omega_Are_You?” Rather than asking its followers to tag themselves to an image, the way this meme usually works, the person running TNT’s AEW account has gone one further, posting individual photos of the AEW World Tag Team Champion in action with a name appended to it, like a display of license plate key chains at a souvenir stand. I chose a very difficult name that doesn’t end up on a lot of souvenir license plate key chains, so I’ve been forced to identify with ten names I didn’t choose for myself, ten photos of Kenny Omega whose meanings are now tied to names that aren’t “Kenny.” What do they mean? What kind of person is a Sandra who’d knee Trent in the face? Upon much soul searching, here’s what I’ve surmised.
You’re psyched up, man. Like, you just ripped a couple of cans of Monster, slapped yourself in the face a few times, and are really, really confident that you’ll be able to make it through the PowerPoint presentation you prepped between rounds of Call of Duty at two in the morning. Ahh, shit—your phone’s ringing, bro, and it’s your mom. The last time the two of you spoke she really wanted to know if you had any plans on coming to visit or settling down with your (ex-)girlfriend or going for that promotion, but you were in the middle of a killstreak and were a little short with her and, besides, who could have guessed there’d be a pandemic or whatever? You decline the call. 2020’s been a real bummer, but you’re about to make it yours. Better rip another Monster though, just in case.
One of the things you really got into while you were on lockdown was YouTube videos about stretching, and now you’re a real monster about it, really getting your limbs out there while standing in line for an egg and cheese sandwich at the bodega. You logged on Twitter a couple of days ago and saw one of your friends clowning on people who stretch because of YouTube, like, “you guys, did you hear about these things called muscles?” and you know the tweet is about you, but it’s also like, you guys, did you hear about these things called muscles? Turns out that when you stretch them, it feels great. Given how awful everything else is, you’ll take all the pleasure your body can give.
When “resistance” meant making a run on the local artisanal yarn store to make those cute hats for the protest where you hugged a cop, you were all in. Now that it means occupying local parks and pulling down statues of slavers and confronting cops—maybe even the one you hugged—you’re left wondering whether this is going to hurt Joe Biden’s chances against President Cheeto. You don’t want to say anything negative, but you are concerened.
Like everybody else, you thought that thread about TikTok witches hexing the moon was hilarious. Then you took some shrooms and looked at the moon, and yeah, that beautiful, luminous girlboss in the sky did look wrong. You can’t say how, and the more research you do on the subject the more confused you are, but your thumb is hovering over your phone’s keyboard and you’ve got a whole thread on your mind about how maybe baby witches need to, you know, unhex the moon. If you post it, will you be hexed? Is it worth getting hexed if you save the world from the wrath of the moon? Only one way to find out, hoss.
When you see injustice in the world, you often forget to say anything about it. Not, like, maliciously, it’s just that there’s always something else, and it’s not like any of the individual injustices you’ve witnessed, however coincidental they seem, add up to anything systemic. So yes, that thing—what was it again?—that you saw on your way home from Trader Joe’s was awful, but you’re already planning on throwing a bath bomb in the tub, turning up the volume on Alexa, and letting everything melt away.
You woke up this morning and decided today was the day you were going to wrestle with God. Yeah, you went out and bought yeast, flour, and baking powder the moment all your other friends started talking about using the bread machines their parents had foisted onto them when they moved out of the house, but your enthusiasm kind of ended there because the whole process—making the dough, letting it rise, punching it down, and so on—just seemed a little much when you could just buy bread. But then you did it. You did the damn thing. There it is, too—a golden, incredible loaf of bread that you made, goddamn. But also, maybe calm down a little, Jim. It’s just challah.
You’re a real dick, Katie. Yeah, it looks like you’re helping your friend there, but we’ve all noticed how often you do this, and it’s not cute. You’re not the partner in science class who does none of the labwork and gets all of the credit, you’re the partner who does none of the labwork but makes a really pretty cover page that the professor writes “Nice!” on, and we honestly prefer the later, because at least she doesn’t expect us to not resent her. We resent you.
Jesus Christ, Lauren—it’s July, and you’re still telling the story about how you got the last pack of toilet paper at Target the day the stay-at-home order was issued? First of all, are we supposed to be impressed that you got a four pack of one-ply? Secondly, everyone has a bidet now. You’ve had a bidet since you came back from that trip to Japan you took to “find yourself,” and you never shut the fuck up about that, either. You can just get toilet paper now, anyhow. Nature is healing itself.
Five days ago you fucked up and forgot to put on a mask before popping across the street to the gas station for a lemonade and a Black & Mild, and now you’re staring at the baby thermometer your mom sent you, which is now beeping in alarm because you’ve got a fever of 101 degrees. You’ve never been too sure of the thermometer’s accuracy, but it’s never made this noise, and it’s never glowed an angry red like it’s doing right now. But it’s probably wrong, right? You leave the apartment, head to your car, drive to Sam’s Club, and, oh, shit, you left your mask at home again. Do you go home for it? Of course not. You walk through Sam’s Club looking half-crazed for reasons nobody there can figure. Your whole body is a gun, a horrible engine of death. It’s free sample day and out of the corner of your eye you see a woman put down a tray of Bagel Bites. You forget all about the thermometer. Pizza’s on a bagel, baby. The time for pizza is now.
Okay Sandra, yes, it does suck that you found a bottom to the bottomless fries, but the waiter didn’t make you go to Red Robin for your birthday, and he’s not the only one getting anxious about how much time we’ve spent in this restaurant. No, you’re not wrong, but Trent’s just doing his job and—oh, you don’t want to tip him? That’s … that’s not okay either, Sandra. Come on. I’ll buy you another milk shake at Shake Shack. I know you like Shake Shack better than Red Robin. I know Red Robin sucks. (I am so, so sorry Trent.)