When I was in high school, I remember guys like Raven.

They'd take up a whole row in the back of the bus, take naps during gym, shake people down for change in the lunch line and always borrow your notes in English Lit -- even though they secretly had the highest GPA in the class.

And despite being comic-book-reading, same-clothes-wearing, never-hair-combing Gen-X bullies with a pension for self-absorption, they'd always score dates with the hottest girls in the class. If we've learned anything from Jerry Springer, readers, it's that dating tattooed freaks like Raven and Motley Crue's Tommy Lee will certainly teach your caring, concerned parents a valuable lesson in child-rearing. Dads, specifically, love their daughters to cavort with manic-depressive slackers that never forget to properly clean their face piercings but might miss an occasional tooth brushing -- or, in Raven's case, a proper hair-conditioning and salon detanglement.

So what's wrong with you people?

Without any reason or provocation, many of you have decided to cheer the degenerate Raven and his post-apocalyptic prom date, Perry Saturn. This lovely couple doesn't bring flowers and corsages to the WCW dance -- they sport steel chairs, often worn on their opponent's head, instead of the lapel. They beat up little Rey Mysterio Jr. and Kidman, make obscure references to the Little Rascals, and dress like Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love (Saturn, for the record, does appear to have better legs).

The last time I checked my wrestling almanac, the characters I just described are bad guys, villains -- corrupters of societal values and the wrestling dress code. If Raven had debuted 20 years ago in a little promotion in Memphis or Minneapolis, he would have needed security to walk him to his beat-up Gremlin and shield him from rednecks with rotten tomatoes and uncanny aim.

Yet, you continue to pop for this team, bring positive signs to arenas and join Mr. Grunge in the narcissistic anthem of our generation, "What about Raven?" It just doesn't make much sense. I root for the rock stars, not their grimy roadies. As a kid, my heroes were clean-cut, hardworking Moes like Ricky Steamboat and Dusty Rhodes. When I went to see a Rocky movie, I was clearly behind Sylvestor Stallone -- all five times.

Maybe I'm just terminally old-school. Perhaps, you see the former Flock leader as a muddled reflection of your own apathy and laziness. I suppose it's hard to judge a wrestler who has flopped down in the corner of the ring when you are sitting the same way on a beanbag chair, drinking Surge and trying to figure out how to avoid getting Cheetos sweat on the remote control (you might try using a napkin, you slob).

But until somebody convinces me otherwise, I plan to continue booing Raven and his cohorts. If I can't change the minds of the fans, at least I will serve as a reminder to all the girls who turned me down my senior year at Paul VI for derelicts with leather jackets and a Jim Morrison complex.

You really missed out, ladies...