I probably shouldn't be telling you this, since I don't want to cement any further your perception of me as the world's dorkiest pro-wrestling fan. But on Sunday night, I wept openly at the WCW pay-per-view event. That's right. Go ahead. Mock me. I deserve it.

It's not so much the fact that I cried that makes this interesting. Ask anyone-- I cry at anything. My friends will be more than happy to tell you about the time I cried for three hours after the movie Beaches was over, because I didn't think I'd have anyone to sit on the beach with me after I was diagnosed with some sort of killer disease like Barbara Hershey. And I think I cried all twelve times I saw Lassie, Come Home. I cried at Snoopy, Come Home, too, come to think of it. And I don't think I've ever been able to watch an episode of "Sally Jessy Raphael" without weeping like some sort of bourbon-and-Oreos crazed psycho housewife.

What makes this so bizarre is the fact that I cried at a sports event. I can only recall one other time in my tear-stained history that this has occurred-- that fateful day in 1989 when the Browns blew their chance (again) to the Denver Broncos (again) to go to the Superbowl. All I remember about it is sitting in the bathtub and crying like an idiot. Of course, I was only nine then, and everything made me cry when I was nine, up to and including E.T. and the TV show "Kids Incorporated."

Now, I know most of you probably don't consider pro wrestling a sport; really, it's more of a sweaty male soap opera. But it involves more physical activity, even if it is choreographed, than, say, a game of ping-pong, which is an Olympic event, so I'm still counting it.

Anyway, let me set the scene for you: I'm at Gary's house with my friends. The pay-per-view is almost over. "Hollywood" Hulk Hogan is wrestling Ric Flair, who you will recognize if you read this column at all as my newest love interest, and the source of my (still lingering, by the way) case of pink-eye. Flair is all bloody and nasty looking, and everyone is getting pretty grossed out. It's pretty clear that he's going to lose, so I start entertaining myself by coughing up a lung (this week: tuberculosis! Yum!)

Suddenly, Flair rallies, and he starts beating the boogers out of Hogan! Hooray! The day is saved!

When even more suddenly, a guy in a mask comes out and stuns Flair with this tazer thing, which is generally how most matches end in WCW wrestling. But then, the guy takes off his mask, and it's Ric Flair's son! Hogan has lured him over to the dark side, as it were, with a hot chick. Oh, the agony!

So, heartbroken by this treachery, I wept a little. It's no big deal. You would have cried, too, if you had seen it. Or maybe you just would have pointed at me and laughed, either way.

All I know is, Ric Flair's going to need some serious comforting after a blow like this. And I know just the super-sensitive girl to give it to him!