"Is The Contender Ready?" "Yep."

It's a big night in the Gressel household – a sporting event the likes you've never seen is set to take place this evening, and you just know that The Lovely Mrs. G. and I will be there in front of the TV, glued to every exciting moment.

No, it's not the Olympics. Those wimpy, ad-filled games start on Friday night. T onight's games are even better.

Tonight is the season finale of... American Gladiators.

Yes, my ultimate guilty pleasure is coming to an end for another season, about to go on hiatus for a few weeks until (Thank God!) the fall TV season arrives.

After tonight they'll pack away the joust sticks, sew up the holes in Justice's spandex, scrub the stink out of Hulk's combination hairpiece/bandana, and let Leila have her baby, hopefully without having to run The Gauntlet to get to the delivery room.

But first – we have to sit through two hours of tense, action-packed clashes of good and evil as the four remaining semi-finalists have to battle it out to see who can come up with the most points, the fastest Eliminator time, and (more importantly) the dumbest catchphrase.

Will they cry as they thank God and their country for the power to be there?
Will they "give it 110%"?
Will they say that they're going to just go out there and try their best, using the strength of their spouse/children/dogs as their motivator?

What do you think? (Hint: Don't wager the college fund on this bet.)

Meanwhile, it's our last chance to see Titan's Enormous Man Thighs do their patented hoochie-coochie-wiggle-jiggle for a while. We'll only have to guess from here out what Toa likes to eat on a Subway sandwich. And if things go horribly wrong, we'll never get to know if Hellga can actually smile or not.

Sniff – what am I gonna do without them?

I know I'm a sick puppy. I admit it. I'm a reasonably intelligent, highly interesting, and occasionally creative guy. (Choose your own adverb if you must.) I can watch 60 Minutes with the best of them. I appreciate PBS on occasion. And I'd rather watch a documentary more than just about any other movie genre (except for Disney animation, but that's another sickness for another day).

But put me in front of NBC on Monday nights, and I become what The Hulkster tends to call a "Gladiator Maniac." (And yes – even I shudder at the thought of that moniker.)

It's sad, isn't it? I'd much rather watch Crush than Diane Sawyer. (Hell, who wouldn't?) I'd rather spend an evening mocking a guy named Wolf than mocking a horrible president named Bush. I would rather watch two poor shlubs fall into a giant color-coordinated ball pit than watch all of the Olympic pageantry combined. And I want to know – no, I NEED to know – who will win the overpriced gas-guzzling Toyota pickup? It's keeping me up at night, people!

So if you're around tonight, please do me a favor and avoid calling our house between 7:00 PM and 9:00 PM Central. I'll be far too preoccupied to answer the phone.

And then, it'll all be over and done. The pools will be drained, the Beast will be returned to the freak show from which he came, Hulk will go back to trying to get his kid sprung from jail, and Jet, Rocket, Zen, and all of the other wussy little B-list Gladiators will start looking for work, most likely waiting tables at the nearest Denny's.

And I will be left all alone, with just my happy, joyous, silver spandex memories to keep me warm until September.

That, and my official souvenir American Gladiators Joust stick.