There are zero good wrestling podcasts.

I sometimes dream about Selena Gomez coming to my house and making me rub her feet while she eats an entire one of those big restaurant cans of refried beans. Then she starts farting, and I have to keep rubbing her feet and telling her how sexy she is. If I stop either for even a moment, she spits on me and denigrates me in Spanish.
After that, she goes into the bathroom and closes the door. She's in there for what seems like an eternity, and the whole time, the most horrendous, sickening noises you can imagine are coming out from behind the door. Slowly, a vile, rancid, unholy stench fills my home.
She eventually emerges, dragging an almost visible cloud of stink behind her like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons. She sits back down on the couch near her empty can of beans. She checks inside the can, and the spoon rattles inside as a look of disappointment appears on her face.
She instructs me to place my head in her lap, and slowly strokes my hair and wipes the tears from my eyes as we wait for one of the six plumbers she has on speed dial to come unclog my toilet.