Gronk just continuing to live his best life. One minute he’s in Vegas going Shirtless O’Clock with smokeshows and probably exercising his rights under the Writ of Prima Nocta:
… and the next he’s giving Jinder Mahal a faceful of beer on Smackdown. And my favorite part is that every time Gronk gets involved in hijinks like this, vast segments of the population lose their goddamned minds. It’s at the point where the man can’t have any kind of harmless enjoyment in public without the Worrywart Division of the Fun Police getting the vapors because either A) They’re panicked he’s going to get hurt or B) They claim they’re sick of him.
It’s hysterical. First of all, Rob Gronkowski isn’t a Hummel. He was carved out of a 6-foot, 6-inch, 270-pound block of solid testosterone. Yes, he’s been injured a lot. But every time he’s gotten hurt it’s been from balling out making plays on the field. If I have to worry about him missing the season because he was play acting in a wrestling ring, I wouldn’t want him on my team. And as far as being sick of him perpetually living his bro culture existence, if you don’t like the kind of fun he’s having, you don’t like life. He’s living the fantasy life inside the id of every man. A consequence-free environment of parties, hot women, music and wrestling, followed by parties with hot women, music and wrestling. Where no one gets hurt. If you can’t celebrate that, if you’d rather he be home on a Barcalounger reading Chaucer? That’s a you problem. I’ll just continue to live vicariously through the man.