Come in, children, and have a seat. School’s not out for the summer just yet.
I know, I know; I am a cruel headmistress for making you sit through one more lesson before turning you loose to run wild and free along the beach; to storm two cages and dive headfirst into the carnage that awaits us all.
For the Group of Death, the triumph of teamwork over GOD’s best efforts to divide and conquer. To pit one of our own not in his right mind against us. To put two rival stablemates and one young gun in a position to gain further advantage and measures of revenge.
This will be bigger than last year’s affair, I can already feel it.
And I’ve got a feeling I’ll be heading into the fray early.
I welcome it.
So let me get this out of the way now. Yes, I’ve lost to the tandems of Murrrfection and the Hollywood Bruvs.
And you know what else?
There is a certain sadness to having to tell people all the time who you’ve beaten. It’s what we in the business call, “Pulling a Stevens.” If you have to scream at the top of your lungs, “LOOK WHO I’VE BEATEN!”, why do you sound so surprised that you’ve beaten me? Was that a big day for you? Did you go out for a special sundae after the show? Can you finally draw a heart around this victory on your vision board, or will you be listing it as a notable accomplishment on your resumé five years after it happened?
Losing to you, Andy and James, is just one of the single digits in the L-column I’ve suffered since I walked through HOW’s door over a year ago. People who gloat know that this may be the last time they’re ever gonna do it, so I’m glad you got your jabs in now before the play clock hits zero on Saturday.
Putting my shoulders to the mat is the most important thing you’ve done since you got here, and I’m very, very happy I could give you that little morale boost, because boy, it sure does look like you both need it. Big Murrr’s caught up in a bad monologue of 10 Things He Hates About Me and Witherhold went on a rant that he should’ve kept in his journal or talked out with a therapist.
“Andy hates that we were friends, and he hates my stupid voice. He hates who I hang around with now and that I made that choice. He hates that people like me and they want me on their team. He hates that my career’s alive and that I’m called a Queen. He hates that I am in his head and take up space rent-free. He hates that now he needs a brace upon his tortured knee. He hates that I am mouthy; he hates that I have a lot of gall.
But most of all he hates that he can’t let this go, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”
You’ve got me in your mouth so much, Murrr, you’d think we were fucking instead of you and Viv, but I guess that’s not really a thing anymore, is it? Weird flex to criticize Rayne and Mike when your own love life’s in shambles because you’re a selfish prick, but go off I guess. At least I get to invite Viv to the He-Man Murray Haters Club meetings now, so your loss is our gain. Might even invite Marvin and Cayle to it too.
You might not realize it yet, or maybe you have and you’ll never admit it, but this is your Vegas Residency, Andy. Lee Best Studios doesn’t believe you’ve got any new material in you, doesn’t think you’ve got the creativity you once had to produce a new record, and week after week you prove him right. But he’s willing to give you a Swan Song in your Golden Years so he lets you belt out some of your classic hits like, “Lindsay Troy’s career is busted;” “Lindsay Troy is a hack;” “Lindsay Troy can’t make it on her own.”
Every performance from you is the same ol’ song and dance and every single angle you take against me is obtuse.
You’ve locked your own inner monologue away from saying those things about yourself, because it’s far easier to project your own negative thoughts onto others than it is to confront the problem itself, isn’t it?
The life of an addict, right?
I hope you choke on those pills and die mad about it. Ain’t nobody coming to save you now, asshole. Not Perfection. Not MJ. Sure as fuck not the Minister. And not that Eric Daneian knee brace. I took almost half a dozen metal-plated headbutts from the LSD Champion and that didn’t finish me off; you think a contraption that costs over half your salary is gonna do it?
Think again, dipshit.
James Witherhold doesn’t know how a woman’s body works; what a fucking shock. I know the big hee-hee-haa-haa joke lately is that “El Tee is suuuuper old” but I am 39, not 59, you fucking dolt, so menopause ain’t gonna happen for awhile. What else you got, Mastermind? Were you in an elevator one morning bragging about how many women you fucked only to later admit you fucked none of them? Where were all the scantily clad ladies to be found during your Hawaiian sojourn? Are you really just the living, breathing embodiment of the 40 Year Old Virgin? It’s OK if you are, we don’t sex shame in the House of Troy, it’s just that…you know…you don’t have to be such a try-hard.
Then there was the soundbite begging to be Bottomlined. I dunno, man; I’ve got plenty of bones to pick with Lee but maybe going in on your team captain wasn’t the smoothest move you could’ve pulled.
Maybe the pressure’s getting to you, James. I wouldn’t blame you. I know it must be extremely difficult for you to be the same age as Dan Ryan – don’t let the New Age Birther Andy Murray tell you differently – while knowing that one of his many career-defining moments was holding four World Championships simultaneously, and one of yours was shaking hands and forming Dynasty. How do you even compare? How can you begin to measure up? How can you keep your story straight between Dan needing to carry me and him needing me to do his dirty work? Is there an article in “Modern Day Misogyny” that will explain how to talk yourself out of this corner, or do you have to go to the website and pay extra for the bonus content?
There are so many questions that nobody wants the answers to because your tired, hacky bullshit is the same tired, hacky bullshit you’ve been peddling in front of a camera since Cecilworth commandeered a bus out of Mormon Country and carried around a briefcase that contained upwards of eighteen dollars.
And of course, it’s no surprise that, as Lee drives his piecemeal train into Petticoat Junction, he rounds it out with MJ Flair, who he views as my mirror but is really getting a third-rate knockoff.
I’m not sure why nobody’s told you this yet, MJ, but not everyone has to like you. Not everyone has to have a reason for you, and not everyone has to explain everything to you. You going on and on and on about Dan and I dumping you and Jack is very embarrassing; it makes you look like a clingy ex who won’t admit to yourself that it’s over, so you try to rationalize everything in hopes that something will make sense.
Sometimes, things just don’t work out.
Sometimes, the thrill is gone.
Sometimes, we need to see other people.
You digging for the hidden meaning in all of this isn’t going to give you what you want. And in truth, you wouldn’t know how to dig for anything – emotion, depth, whatever answers you think are out there – if someone gave you a map and a shovel and told you where the big 97red X is.
You’ve called me and Dan “baggage handlers” more times than you’ve won actual matches this year, which ought to tell you that the material isn’t sticking. Repetition does not transform a lie into a truth, kid. You still think you’re above reproach, and to think you haven’t betrayed anyone when your entire presence here is based on a lie is very precious indeed.
Andy thinks I’m self-righteous?
He hasn’t listened to you long enough.
What was it you told me? You didn’t give anyone a heads-up about you coming into HOW because, “Mr. Dane thought it best if no one knew.” Oh, but I thought we were family, MJ. “Aunt Lindz” and all that, right? At least I got a heads-up from Mary-Lynn about Jack joining. But you thought it best to listen to Dane and side with him on that one.
You didn’t tell any of us that you were splitting after Rumble at the Rock. I found out from your aunt.
You didn’t tell any of us when you were coming back.
But you want to keep singing your sad, sad little song about how Dan and I did you oh, so wrong. You build yourself up to be a martyr when you’re really nothing but a fool.
Lee’s hoping to catch lightning in a bottle twice with you. He pretends that where I’m concerned, age is now a factor, whereas if it was to begin with he never would’ve offered up a contract. He thinks I’m long in the tooth, but he doesn’t realize that my fangs are as sharp as ever. With every jab and every snipe, my resolve strengthens and I’m emboldened to persevere.
You said you have a long career ahead of you.
Not if I end it first.
You were stupid enough to come collecting when I took on the Minister because you thought I was an easier target than Dan, and now you have no chance of taking the LSD title off him at Normandy. You think you’re still deserving of a shot at the belt but you’re at the bottom of the food chain, and when I’m done with you, you won’t even be there; you’ll be extinct.
When I’m through with you in France, I won’t be surprised if you’re blubbering in Kevin’s kitchen again, wondering if you can hack it here and if you’ll ever win again.
You should’ve just stayed there the last time and ate his food.