Post by Alysson Gardner on Aug 19, 2012 2:40:45 GMT -6
When this happens, you know your career has derailed in a bad way. Something that's encarved in my mind for a big while, and might just change my life entirely in a way or another.
Michael and I are doing a photo shoot. One of these fitness magazines wanted me to model some sports outfits, as well as an interview with the both of us. Ever since I married Spike, things have been pretty happy when it comes to people recognizing us as a bad ass couple of wrestling, so we've been doing a couple of stunts together, which is pretty damn cool.
Photographer: Ok, Alysson, can we use the third model now?
Alysson: Of course, no problem. I'll be right back, hun.
I peck Spike on the lips and exit to my dressing. I can tell he's pretty bored, but hey, he said it himself that it would be cool, so he has nothing to complain about. But here's the problem: every time I do a photo shoot, there's a contract that regards what can and cannot happen. When I enter the dressing room, outfit #3 is a bikini. I wrinkle my nose, a bit confused - that wasn't expected. I half open the door, peeking my head out the door.
Alysson: ... model 3 is just a bikini, really?
Photographer: Yes, a black and red bikini. Is there anything wrong?
Alysson: Sort of. Unexpected.
Photographer: Well, we can just not use it if it's wrong for--
Alysson: No, no problem.
I enter back in the dressing room and undress, to put on the bikini, since he was so honest about it. After a couple of minutes, I walk out of the dressing room and the usual reaction follows - a bunch of grown men looking at me with their jaws dropped, and I don't know if I'm just looking damn good or if they're just looking at my boobs. Spike doesn't seem to be too satisfied as he just shrugs, and the photo shoot goes on.
Spike: I'm not sure about this, Alysson, there's something fishy about this photo shoot.
Alysson: Chill out, Mike, we're almost done. Then we grab Xander and rush back home.
They make more and more shoots with both me and Mike, until everybody is pleased. Luckily, none of the photos that they asked us to perform were inappropriate. But the worse was still to come.
Back to my dressing room I had to put my street clothes back on so we'd go home. As I was changing into these, I heard knocks on the door.
Alysson: Yes?
Spike: I think you wanna see this.
Confused, I finished putting on my shirt, grabbed my jacket and walked out of the dressing room with my boots undone. And, as Spike had well pointed me, the production team was looking at the screen of a computer... A bit too eagerly. I approached them nonchalantly.
Alysson: So, guys?
The simple sound of my voice was enough to make people jump on their seats, as the dude operating the computer rushed with a few clicks, as everybody were acting like the children that broke the neighbor's glass with a football.
Production #1: All good, Mrs. Kane, we were... Reviewing the photos!
Alysson: Oh, you got the photos already? Can I see them?
I peeked my head at the computer screen... But the camera used for the photo shoot was nowhere next to the computer. And there was a folder open, named "Goodies".
Alysson: Is that the folder with the pics already?
Production #2: Um, no, Mrs. Gardner, it's--
Alysson: Can I see it?
I grab the mouse and click the folder. As it pops up, I realize what they were enjoying. Apparently there was a web cam inside my dressing room... taking pictures of me as I changed clothes. I smile at the boys with my best troll impersonation.
Alysson: ... very adult of yours. I want you all to delete all of these pictures RIGHT NOW.
No reaction. They just look at me with a poker face, as if they had just been epically scolded.
Alysson: You're not gonna delete them? Well, I guess I'm gonna have to break your computer then.
Production #1: NO NO NO NO NO! This computer is not ours!
Alysson: Oh no? So I have to guess that the web cam you installed in the dressing room is not yours as well? C'mon, just delete this crap, or else I'm gonna punt this computer all the way to Canada.
With a sigh, the operator selects every single photo and deletes it permanently. I nod.
Alysson: Better. Well, I'll be on my way now. Oh, and by the way, I'm going to sue your magazine for invasion of privacy and breach of contract.
Photographer: WHAT?! Breach of contract?!
Alysson: I never agreed in shooting with a bikini.
And then Spike and I entered our car and drove away.
Well, I guess every dog has its day. Whatever. It's not like it's going to change anything in the long run. So go ahead and brag, Mercedes, you have a win over your superior. If that's gonna lead you somewhere in the near future, well, I don't give a flying crap, because wherever you see yourself, I will have already been there.
I mean, we are in an interesting predicament this week, aren't we? We have five women seeking to get their hands on the Women's Championship, but only two of them will actually fight for it, and only one will be able to take it home. And while I wished my girls Emma and Ayla would get a chance at this, I guess it's my role in this whole circus to claim the championship back to the part of the female roster that actually cares about the status of that g** forsaken belt instead of using it as a mirror to put on some lipstick. I mean, seriously, in all fairness, that's all Jennifer Williams has done ever since becoming Starlets' Champion. In my run with the belt, I dignified the belt, I gave it prestige, I put on the ultimate challenge. And then the attention black-hole, the boot licker extraordinaire in Jenny-poo becomes champion... and needs Sydney Knight to win in a tag team match? Wow. How low have we gone?
Jennifer, it's not new that I don't like you, and no matter where our lives and careers lead us to, I'll keep on hating you and wishing you were gone for good, away from me and from those who actually give a s*** to the sport instead of sucking up to the rest of the world. So instead of pretending to be something useful and interesting like you've been doing all this time, heed my friendly advice: stop trying to be me and just go away. Believe me, you are not the face of the division just because you fluked your way into a match with me and then defeated me for the belt; that makes you lucky. But you'll never be THE one.
I mean, let's check history and numbers, shall we? How many times have I broken a promise? None. How many times I've failed to deliver a show, even in defeat? None. And all of this while proudly waving the flag of a division THE BOTH OF YOU should be proud to be a part of instead of vainly trying to steal my thunder and become the revolutionary bitch. I know, it must be cool to see people looking up to you with awe and some admiration - has that ever happened, by the way? Last time I checked, people looked at you either as the prissy CEO that can't fight for her bacon, or the Zelda Knite-ripoff with all of the gamer girl shnapigans; never as a role model -, but you should leave that to someone who can actually manage a revolution.
Hell, you can't even manage a hotel chain and your career at the same time, let alone a group of rabid women running around and about like a bunch of chicken with broken necks with no sight or direction. Instead, you should try and learn some mathematics. Here's a simple mathematics calculation for you: zero charisma plus negative originality, times your infinite delusion, all of that potentiated by the cursed Hilton-Williams gene that runs through your veins, what does that add up to? Sis tip: if you really think you're the sovereign face of this division, you could be surprised, so take on this with caution.
Seriously... Just stick to the 101, sweetcakes; you'll be fine as long as you don't try to be a smartass.
And I guess the same would apply to you, Mercedes. I mean, the way you keep poking me with your snarky BS, with your phrases of effect and your Saturday Night Live mic abilities, it almost makes me believe you wanted to piss me off. But at the end of the day, all there's left for me to do is laugh at you. "Losing my touch"? Really? Funny, you never had one at all. I wish I could not repeat myself, but you have to remind yourself what could have happened if I showed up at that match for the Women's Tag Team Championship with Mercedes Lewis at the first place. Would you have ever had the opportunity to team up with Kathleen Conway to become a champion in the first place? Or would I have crushed you under my boot, like it always happens when I'm 100% hellbent on it?
Food for thought, Mercedes: things could have been so much different had I been there. And you can go ahead and call me a flaker, a quitter, a traitor, whatever suits your quirks. I've heard them all before and I don't give a damn anymore, because it just seems to me that you guys all have a bliss repeating one another over and over again. The fact of the matter here is that, had I showed up, maybe, the Women's Tag Team Championship would be less of a boring championship and, who knows, more of a successful thing. Maybe it'd still exist. Maybe I'd be in an extrasensory tantric relationship with Lewis, with William Shatner narrating kamasutra positions instead of being married to Michael by now. Possibilities, possibilities.
But one thing's for SURE, Mercedes - I AM superior to you. The fact I call you my little ragdoll, my puppet girl, is not because of the number of wins I have over you. Believe me, I keep track of my wins. It really is because of the way I always manage to piss you off by being smarter than the smartest. You have no idea how I enjoy when you come with your snarky bulls***, your open mic night stunts, trying to be the godmother of everything sarcasm, when in fact, almost every single time we met in the ring, YOU left the square with your panties in a bunch, cursing my name for being the Disney villain YOU could never be; never the other way around.
In case you look back and decide to take notes, you're welcome.
But who knows? I could be talking all of this in vain, and you'll be the one to take a shot at Jennifer Williams for the championship, and whoever wins, the division will be on bad hands. Just because of the factor that the both of you, the both of my girls and I should take care of. The people.
Seriously, I don't know about the lot of you, but it's always been for THEM that I've been doing all this work. THEY are the ones who decide who they want to see on TV, not Kelly or Steve. And I want to believe people know me. And that's the problem. People know that I would rather see my girls Emma Danielson or Ayla Saint-James fighting for this championship, and it would be fair, but I'm afraid this could split the votes and you, Mercedita, would be the lucky bastard to earn a shot. Talk about a bo-ring match. The poor man's Sydney Knight versus the female version of Charlie Sheen.
But maybe, just maybe... The planets could align themselves and the people could agree in sending... me for the match! How magical would it be? And believe me, Jennifer, if that happened, I wouldn't have any mercy on you... No pun intended, Mercedita. Like I've said, every dog has its day. And the both of you mutts have already had your day on me. And I NEVER lose to the same opponent twice in such a short time. Bring your best and your worst at me; it still won't be enough. And I'll be on my way to making HISTORY, as not only I'll become the second longest reigning Women's Champion of NCW's history, but New Championship Wrestling's first ever THREE-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. As well as the most relevant tri-champion ever since Joe Everyman's third National Championship run.
I've already said I have a revolution in store, and maybe it will be something you'll see coming, but not something you can CONTROL nor CURB. And when it happens, you'll be part of history... Becoming history. And believe me, Jennifer... If me or one of my girls get our hands on you... We're gonna
ROCK
YOUR
WORLD
and you won't be able to put your own mind back in place EVER... AGAIN.
Ayla: ... did they REALLY do that?! What a bunch of pigs!
That was the obvious reaction as I told Ayla and Emma about what happened at the photo shoot. Of course, that was an abridged version, that involved a lot more things, like Spike almost punching a dude to the face, but hey. As I nodded and Ayla shook her head negatively, Emma took a sip of her beer.
Emma: I guess that's it, we've hit rock bottom. These guys see us wrestling in these beauty contest s*** and think we're allowing ourselves to do this kind of crap.
Alysson: I know, right? Not to mention I've been in a lingerie match.
Emma cusses it under her breath as she waves it off, and Ayla does a vomit taunt.
Ayla: It's about we started showing people what we're REALLY made of, girls. We can't let this happen anymore.
Alysson: Yeah... Hm. Hey, Ayla. Remember when we agreed you'd referee our match? So we wouldn't have to wrestle a Bra & Panties?
Emma gasps on her beer.
Emma: You telling me it was already set up? And you didn't tell me beforehand?! Alysson, you sneaky bastard.
Alysson: It was supposed to be natural, girl. And hey, it worked. You didn't have to be on your bra and neither did I.
Emma: I'll give you that. Clever idea.
Alysson: Right. Well, it's time we three... Well, we think pretty much the same way, don't we? I think we should group together or something. You know, in case they keep pulling this crap on us.
Ayla: Bah, Aly, come on, everybody knows we're pretty much a band right now. They're already calling us the new Bitches With Attitude.
Ayla took a sip of her soda, as I smiled at her.
Alysson: Then maybe we should live up to the hype.
Michael and I are doing a photo shoot. One of these fitness magazines wanted me to model some sports outfits, as well as an interview with the both of us. Ever since I married Spike, things have been pretty happy when it comes to people recognizing us as a bad ass couple of wrestling, so we've been doing a couple of stunts together, which is pretty damn cool.
Photographer: Ok, Alysson, can we use the third model now?
Alysson: Of course, no problem. I'll be right back, hun.
I peck Spike on the lips and exit to my dressing. I can tell he's pretty bored, but hey, he said it himself that it would be cool, so he has nothing to complain about. But here's the problem: every time I do a photo shoot, there's a contract that regards what can and cannot happen. When I enter the dressing room, outfit #3 is a bikini. I wrinkle my nose, a bit confused - that wasn't expected. I half open the door, peeking my head out the door.
Alysson: ... model 3 is just a bikini, really?
Photographer: Yes, a black and red bikini. Is there anything wrong?
Alysson: Sort of. Unexpected.
Photographer: Well, we can just not use it if it's wrong for--
Alysson: No, no problem.
I enter back in the dressing room and undress, to put on the bikini, since he was so honest about it. After a couple of minutes, I walk out of the dressing room and the usual reaction follows - a bunch of grown men looking at me with their jaws dropped, and I don't know if I'm just looking damn good or if they're just looking at my boobs. Spike doesn't seem to be too satisfied as he just shrugs, and the photo shoot goes on.
Spike: I'm not sure about this, Alysson, there's something fishy about this photo shoot.
Alysson: Chill out, Mike, we're almost done. Then we grab Xander and rush back home.
They make more and more shoots with both me and Mike, until everybody is pleased. Luckily, none of the photos that they asked us to perform were inappropriate. But the worse was still to come.
Back to my dressing room I had to put my street clothes back on so we'd go home. As I was changing into these, I heard knocks on the door.
Alysson: Yes?
Spike: I think you wanna see this.
Confused, I finished putting on my shirt, grabbed my jacket and walked out of the dressing room with my boots undone. And, as Spike had well pointed me, the production team was looking at the screen of a computer... A bit too eagerly. I approached them nonchalantly.
Alysson: So, guys?
The simple sound of my voice was enough to make people jump on their seats, as the dude operating the computer rushed with a few clicks, as everybody were acting like the children that broke the neighbor's glass with a football.
Production #1: All good, Mrs. Kane, we were... Reviewing the photos!
Alysson: Oh, you got the photos already? Can I see them?
I peeked my head at the computer screen... But the camera used for the photo shoot was nowhere next to the computer. And there was a folder open, named "Goodies".
Alysson: Is that the folder with the pics already?
Production #2: Um, no, Mrs. Gardner, it's--
Alysson: Can I see it?
I grab the mouse and click the folder. As it pops up, I realize what they were enjoying. Apparently there was a web cam inside my dressing room... taking pictures of me as I changed clothes. I smile at the boys with my best troll impersonation.
Alysson: ... very adult of yours. I want you all to delete all of these pictures RIGHT NOW.
No reaction. They just look at me with a poker face, as if they had just been epically scolded.
Alysson: You're not gonna delete them? Well, I guess I'm gonna have to break your computer then.
Production #1: NO NO NO NO NO! This computer is not ours!
Alysson: Oh no? So I have to guess that the web cam you installed in the dressing room is not yours as well? C'mon, just delete this crap, or else I'm gonna punt this computer all the way to Canada.
With a sigh, the operator selects every single photo and deletes it permanently. I nod.
Alysson: Better. Well, I'll be on my way now. Oh, and by the way, I'm going to sue your magazine for invasion of privacy and breach of contract.
Photographer: WHAT?! Breach of contract?!
Alysson: I never agreed in shooting with a bikini.
And then Spike and I entered our car and drove away.
Well, I guess every dog has its day. Whatever. It's not like it's going to change anything in the long run. So go ahead and brag, Mercedes, you have a win over your superior. If that's gonna lead you somewhere in the near future, well, I don't give a flying crap, because wherever you see yourself, I will have already been there.
I mean, we are in an interesting predicament this week, aren't we? We have five women seeking to get their hands on the Women's Championship, but only two of them will actually fight for it, and only one will be able to take it home. And while I wished my girls Emma and Ayla would get a chance at this, I guess it's my role in this whole circus to claim the championship back to the part of the female roster that actually cares about the status of that g** forsaken belt instead of using it as a mirror to put on some lipstick. I mean, seriously, in all fairness, that's all Jennifer Williams has done ever since becoming Starlets' Champion. In my run with the belt, I dignified the belt, I gave it prestige, I put on the ultimate challenge. And then the attention black-hole, the boot licker extraordinaire in Jenny-poo becomes champion... and needs Sydney Knight to win in a tag team match? Wow. How low have we gone?
Jennifer, it's not new that I don't like you, and no matter where our lives and careers lead us to, I'll keep on hating you and wishing you were gone for good, away from me and from those who actually give a s*** to the sport instead of sucking up to the rest of the world. So instead of pretending to be something useful and interesting like you've been doing all this time, heed my friendly advice: stop trying to be me and just go away. Believe me, you are not the face of the division just because you fluked your way into a match with me and then defeated me for the belt; that makes you lucky. But you'll never be THE one.
I mean, let's check history and numbers, shall we? How many times have I broken a promise? None. How many times I've failed to deliver a show, even in defeat? None. And all of this while proudly waving the flag of a division THE BOTH OF YOU should be proud to be a part of instead of vainly trying to steal my thunder and become the revolutionary bitch. I know, it must be cool to see people looking up to you with awe and some admiration - has that ever happened, by the way? Last time I checked, people looked at you either as the prissy CEO that can't fight for her bacon, or the Zelda Knite-ripoff with all of the gamer girl shnapigans; never as a role model -, but you should leave that to someone who can actually manage a revolution.
Hell, you can't even manage a hotel chain and your career at the same time, let alone a group of rabid women running around and about like a bunch of chicken with broken necks with no sight or direction. Instead, you should try and learn some mathematics. Here's a simple mathematics calculation for you: zero charisma plus negative originality, times your infinite delusion, all of that potentiated by the cursed Hilton-Williams gene that runs through your veins, what does that add up to? Sis tip: if you really think you're the sovereign face of this division, you could be surprised, so take on this with caution.
Seriously... Just stick to the 101, sweetcakes; you'll be fine as long as you don't try to be a smartass.
And I guess the same would apply to you, Mercedes. I mean, the way you keep poking me with your snarky BS, with your phrases of effect and your Saturday Night Live mic abilities, it almost makes me believe you wanted to piss me off. But at the end of the day, all there's left for me to do is laugh at you. "Losing my touch"? Really? Funny, you never had one at all. I wish I could not repeat myself, but you have to remind yourself what could have happened if I showed up at that match for the Women's Tag Team Championship with Mercedes Lewis at the first place. Would you have ever had the opportunity to team up with Kathleen Conway to become a champion in the first place? Or would I have crushed you under my boot, like it always happens when I'm 100% hellbent on it?
Food for thought, Mercedes: things could have been so much different had I been there. And you can go ahead and call me a flaker, a quitter, a traitor, whatever suits your quirks. I've heard them all before and I don't give a damn anymore, because it just seems to me that you guys all have a bliss repeating one another over and over again. The fact of the matter here is that, had I showed up, maybe, the Women's Tag Team Championship would be less of a boring championship and, who knows, more of a successful thing. Maybe it'd still exist. Maybe I'd be in an extrasensory tantric relationship with Lewis, with William Shatner narrating kamasutra positions instead of being married to Michael by now. Possibilities, possibilities.
But one thing's for SURE, Mercedes - I AM superior to you. The fact I call you my little ragdoll, my puppet girl, is not because of the number of wins I have over you. Believe me, I keep track of my wins. It really is because of the way I always manage to piss you off by being smarter than the smartest. You have no idea how I enjoy when you come with your snarky bulls***, your open mic night stunts, trying to be the godmother of everything sarcasm, when in fact, almost every single time we met in the ring, YOU left the square with your panties in a bunch, cursing my name for being the Disney villain YOU could never be; never the other way around.
In case you look back and decide to take notes, you're welcome.
But who knows? I could be talking all of this in vain, and you'll be the one to take a shot at Jennifer Williams for the championship, and whoever wins, the division will be on bad hands. Just because of the factor that the both of you, the both of my girls and I should take care of. The people.
Seriously, I don't know about the lot of you, but it's always been for THEM that I've been doing all this work. THEY are the ones who decide who they want to see on TV, not Kelly or Steve. And I want to believe people know me. And that's the problem. People know that I would rather see my girls Emma Danielson or Ayla Saint-James fighting for this championship, and it would be fair, but I'm afraid this could split the votes and you, Mercedita, would be the lucky bastard to earn a shot. Talk about a bo-ring match. The poor man's Sydney Knight versus the female version of Charlie Sheen.
But maybe, just maybe... The planets could align themselves and the people could agree in sending... me for the match! How magical would it be? And believe me, Jennifer, if that happened, I wouldn't have any mercy on you... No pun intended, Mercedita. Like I've said, every dog has its day. And the both of you mutts have already had your day on me. And I NEVER lose to the same opponent twice in such a short time. Bring your best and your worst at me; it still won't be enough. And I'll be on my way to making HISTORY, as not only I'll become the second longest reigning Women's Champion of NCW's history, but New Championship Wrestling's first ever THREE-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. As well as the most relevant tri-champion ever since Joe Everyman's third National Championship run.
I've already said I have a revolution in store, and maybe it will be something you'll see coming, but not something you can CONTROL nor CURB. And when it happens, you'll be part of history... Becoming history. And believe me, Jennifer... If me or one of my girls get our hands on you... We're gonna
ROCK
YOUR
WORLD
and you won't be able to put your own mind back in place EVER... AGAIN.
Ayla: ... did they REALLY do that?! What a bunch of pigs!
That was the obvious reaction as I told Ayla and Emma about what happened at the photo shoot. Of course, that was an abridged version, that involved a lot more things, like Spike almost punching a dude to the face, but hey. As I nodded and Ayla shook her head negatively, Emma took a sip of her beer.
Emma: I guess that's it, we've hit rock bottom. These guys see us wrestling in these beauty contest s*** and think we're allowing ourselves to do this kind of crap.
Alysson: I know, right? Not to mention I've been in a lingerie match.
Emma cusses it under her breath as she waves it off, and Ayla does a vomit taunt.
Ayla: It's about we started showing people what we're REALLY made of, girls. We can't let this happen anymore.
Alysson: Yeah... Hm. Hey, Ayla. Remember when we agreed you'd referee our match? So we wouldn't have to wrestle a Bra & Panties?
Emma gasps on her beer.
Emma: You telling me it was already set up? And you didn't tell me beforehand?! Alysson, you sneaky bastard.
Alysson: It was supposed to be natural, girl. And hey, it worked. You didn't have to be on your bra and neither did I.
Emma: I'll give you that. Clever idea.
Alysson: Right. Well, it's time we three... Well, we think pretty much the same way, don't we? I think we should group together or something. You know, in case they keep pulling this crap on us.
Ayla: Bah, Aly, come on, everybody knows we're pretty much a band right now. They're already calling us the new Bitches With Attitude.
Ayla took a sip of her soda, as I smiled at her.
Alysson: Then maybe we should live up to the hype.
