I watched about 90 seconds of Hogan Knows Best last night. A logical fallacy. It’d be like calling a sitcom Everybody Loves Dubya. It nearly burnt a whole in my stomach. Nothing makes the prospect of nuclear apocalypse less unappealing than Hulk Hogan. Hogan wouldn’t know best if he was faced with the choice of either having his shoulder dislocated or eating a slice of pie.
From what I could gather, the premise of each episode is that his daughter, Brooke, has got a date planned. Hogan is kept in the dark about it, as he is so threatened by the idea of his adult daughter enjoying a sexual relationship (with someone other than himself?) that he’s apt to behave like a hungry dog that’s been left alone in the house too long, resulting in a urine-soaked rug and chewed-up furniture unless his wife takes the sensible precaution of smacking him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
He predictably finds out about his daughter’s date and then grills the prospective suitor when he turns up at the house. The show is flawed because NO-ONE could be less intimidating than Hulk Hogan. He’s a physical wreck. He hobbles around like he’s got pins and needles, and his hip grinds so much that the Cro-Magnons could have used him to start fires.
If he attacked you in a blind rage, all you’d have to do is kick one of his knees and he’d be down and out. None of that pretending he can’t feel pain and shaking his head thing that he used to do as a wrestler – he’d be throwing Diamorphine down his neck by the handful and begging you to take his daughter out so he can be alone with his pain.