You stop at a red light in your crayon-encrusted, toys-r-us-on-wheels, minivan. Your Luchadora Bride in the co-pilot seat, scrolling through baby pictures on her phone, Lil Lucha one and Lil Lucha two nestled in their jump seats in the back. Suddenly, some punk next to you decides to rattle everyone’s window at the intersection with the latest rap song. Just then, Ice Ice Baby comes on your radio and you decide it’s time for your presence to be felt at the intersection as well. You are a Suburban Luchador… and these are your stories.
You go to the gym to try and maintain what the good Lord has given you, only to be asked by some meat head if you’re using the two 80lb dumbbells at your feet (which you couldn’t move even if you kicked them). Without missing a beat, your eyes drop to your flexed bicep as you say, “Nahh… that’s for my warm ups. I’m on my last set.” You are a Suburban Luchador… and these are your adventures.
While discussing superheros with a student you express the superiority combined with humanity of Spider Man, to which the twit responds “Spider Man sucks.” Your prompt response, with extended finger inches from his chest, “Well, I sure hope you’re never mugged while in New York City.” You are a Suburban Luchador… and these are your memoirs.
You challenge your faithful sidekick, La Luchadora, on Inspector Gadget trivia by asking her the name of his dog. She mocks the ease of your question… only to ask for a hint. “It’s an organ of the body,” you respond. “Pshh… easy… Liver.” You are a Suburban Luchador… and these are your tales.