Ringside Reality: Wrestling, Politics, and the Illusion of Freedom
Ringside Reality: The Undertaker, Ron Paul, and the Politics of Bruised Illusion
By The Realist
I remember Mean Mark.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, but leaner than I expected. This was back before the urn, the slow roll of the eyes, and the death bell tolls—before he fully became The Undertaker. I was in line at the airport in Tampa, headed to Texas. He was ahead of me at the check-in counter, dressed in black with a turtleneck pulled up to cover his neck tattoos. A ballcap pulled low, trying to blend in—but he couldn’t. Not really.
No one else recognized him. But I did.
So I leaned forward, speaking just loud enough for him to read my lips and asked, “Hi… are you the Undertaker?”
He nodded, almost in a whisper. Just a grin. I smiled and told him I wouldn’t say anything. He reached out that baseball-mitt-sized hand and shook mine—firm and warm. Then we parted ways. Just two travelers on our way to somewhere else.
That day, he wasn’t The Phenom. He wasn’t the Lord of Darkness. He was just Mark Callaway, a man catching a flight.
We Don’t Want Men—We Want Characters
We live in a world that doesn’t want men—it wants characters. It wants gimmicks. It wants slogans. It wants faces on t-shirts and enemies in spandex. It wants heroes to worship and villains to blame. And it wants you cheering in the crowd like it’s all real.
But it’s not.
I’ve seen this before—not just in wrestling, but in politics, in church, in the way our media sells good vs. evil like it’s Monday Night Raw.
We had guys in church who thought wrestling was real. I mean really believed it. One in particular raised his kids on it. One Sunday, he showed up with a big ol’ bruise on his side. I asked what happened. He said, “My kid jumped off the couch with a metal chair while we were horsing around… like they do on TV.”
Even the fakest fights can cause real bruises.
Politics as Pro Wrestling
- Trump vs. Musk
- Democrats vs. Republicans
- Blue team vs. Red team
Scripted feuds. Choreographed chaos. The crowd screams. The lights flash. And backstage? They’re laughing and cashing checks.
It’s all kayfabe—fake rivalry for public consumption. The only thing real is the damage done to those who believe it’s true.
People lose their homes.
People lose their children.
People lose their minds.
And they still think they’re part of a noble fight—
not a scripted circus owned by billionaires,
but by those whose wealth isn’t measured in money at all.
These are men of ancient power—whose inheritance is secrecy, not stocks. They trade not in dollars, but in bloodlines, symbols, and oaths.
Billionaires are just bishops and rooks on their board. The real players deal in economic alchemy—Kabbalistic finance, esoteric codes, rituals hidden behind charity, and kingdoms behind corporations.
They don’t care what team you choose. They only want to watch you obey—while believing you’re free.
And once in a while… a Lincoln, a McKinley, a Kennedy… a Reagan, a Trump, a Bull Moose… wanders too close to the edge of the board.
That’s when the reminder comes.
A bullet. A scandal. A stroke.
Or something more elegant.
And the game goes on.
Then There Are the Sincere
Not everyone in the game is a sellout. Some actually believe. Some even bleed.
I only ever spoke to one man who made it to Congress and still sounded like a man: Ron Paul.
Quiet. Sincere. Constitution in one hand, truth in the other. They mocked him. Sidelined him. Told him he was “unelectable.” Because he wouldn’t play heel or hero. He wouldn’t take the chair shot or throw one. He came to tell the truth—and that’s not what sells anymore.
Even the so-called “conservatives” in D.C. know the game is rigged. Some Democrats, too—deep down they know their party’s been hijacked.
But no one leaves. They fear the backlash. The blacklisting. The loss of campaign cash. They’d rather keep their part in the script than risk becoming a Ross Perot.
And who can blame them?
Perot told the truth about debt, jobs, and sovereignty—and the machine devoured him. One moment he’s surging. The next, he’s smeared, sabotaged, and quietly exits stage left. Another casualty of unapproved honesty.
The Final Bell
We live in a uniparty with two faces. A televised feud with choreographed punches. And a crowd too distracted—or too desperate—to see the truth.
The match is fake.
The bruises are real.
The audience is being harvested, not helped.
Meanwhile, the real men—the Ron Pauls, the working fathers, the sincere pastors—are either mocked, silenced, or turned into side acts.
They say wrestling’s fake. But the bodies that hit the floor aren’t made of foam. Ask the whistleblowers. Ask the January 6 prisoners. Ask the parents losing their children to state custody over pronouns and vaccines.
Ask the forgotten man with a bruised soul and a worn-out Bible, trying to raise a family while the Undertakers of this world get flown in first class to another round of applause.
Final Word: Not All is Fake. One is Faithful.
I met the Undertaker once. And he wasn’t who the world said he was. He was just a man.
And maybe, just maybe... if we could pull the curtain back long enough to see the politicians, the moguls, the media voices—
not as legends, or villains, or saviors,
but as just men…
We might stop cheering. We might stop fighting each other. We might put down the signs, the chairs, and the lies.
And we might start looking up again.
Because there is One who is not playing a part. One who is not owned by ancient wealth or hidden hands. One who is not part of the script.
He is the Author and Finisher—not only of our faith, but of all things. He is the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End.
And He has allowed this show to go on—
just as He allowed Israel to wait until the iniquity of the Amorites was full…
just as He allowed Sodom and Gomorrah to stand
until the cry of the oppressed rose up against it to Heaven.
How long do we have?
I don’t know.
But I do know this:
"Choose you this day whom ye will serve...
but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD."
—Joshua 24:15
—End—