(Though, technically, it's not a guilty pleasure if you're not ashamed of it.)
JayG throws up a list of his guilty pleasures. I counter with one. Single. Admission:
That's right, bitches. I am a member of the Raw Fan Nation, the WWE universe, whatever the Hell you want to call it. Mock away.
Oiled up, muscular men in eensy britches, grappiling sweatily and grunting with abandon. Rippling abs, tight glutes and bulging biceps. It's a giant, 'roided up soap opera, and it's the closest thing to gladiatorial competition there is.
Yeah, I know it's scripted, and yet I give no fuck.
Look at this man. Just look at him. You could grate cheese on his abs! He could have the cognitive ability of a gerbil, and I would not care, because, TEH HOTNESS.
(I know Miss Kitty and The Cranky Con and his wife watch, too, so bite me. We're all well-educated, and wrasslin' lets us release the doves...er, our inner redneck.)