Not that it’s for mere nostalgia that we tune in. Nor is it for want of purity. No, it’s blood we seek, just like it has been since ’76—that’s 1776—when we sent the original George W. across the Delaware to break some British bone for us. Only now, well-accustomed to the culture of MySpace and YouTube and ReadyMade and the self-published memoir, we want to break those bones ourselves. “Shoot I could have done that,” we say, flapping a dismissive palm at contestant Chad, who flexes a biceps after narrowly edging out Anthony at Hit & Run. Or else, “All right, this one’s for real. I could not handle Hang Tough,” biting our lip and fixing our gaze. “Aww why’d she go over that one?” we cry later during instant replay, though, incredulous. “You go under. Anyone with half a brain goes under.” Of course, none of us will ever be asked to substantiate these assertions; just as the show itself is clearly scripted and the postbattle interviews rehearsed, the preseason competition—which, supposedly, gleans from Every Corner of the Country These Twenty-four Elite Individuals—is little more than an audition fielding Santa Monica bodybuilders and out-of-work “professional skateboarders” with silver-screen ambition, whose back-stories have been hastily henpecked by failed mystery novelists in Lower Manhattan cubicles and sent via e-mail to the show’s producers. And so we watch, lacing ourselves up in Adonis’s or Koya’s hi-top wrestling tennies (provided by Asics), furtively—or else not even furtively—envisaging it’s us answering when Hulk asks how it felt to be face to face with three hundred pounds of pure All-American muscle, brother.