Post by wickedwitch on Nov 1, 2019 18:53:57 GMT -5
Cue some generic, upbeat cooking show theme music to play us in to a kitchen setup with our host, Buddy the Clown Chef.
He’s a pretty friendly looking clown wearing a chef’s hat.
Buddy the Clown Chef: Hey hey children of all ages, it’s me! Buddy the Clown Chef, here for another episode of Buddy The Clown Chef Cooks, and what a show we have for you today. Today I have a special guest. She’s my client, my friend, and kinda my boss, a wrestler recently signed to Union Battleground, and soon to be your "favorite" superstar, please give a warm welcome to Wendy Wynne!
Wendy Wynne, a vivacious, if not entirely unimpressed redhead blatantly overdressed in a voluptuous black evening dress, comes to stand beside Buddy the Clown Chef eager not to touch anything.
Wendy Wynne: Is this honestly how you want to introduce me to my future fans and followers, ‘Buddy’? A stupid cooking show? And what was with the air quotes? Is that supposed to be funny? I'm not laughing.
And, like that, we’re off script. Buddy looks nervously at the camera with an unspoken apology before lowering his voice to speak to Wendy.
Buddy the Clown Chef: We agreed to the cooking thing because you said you liked the whole cream rising to the top analogy and--
Wendy interjects sharply.
Wendy Wynne: Well now I changed my mind. Cream rising to the top, while an accurate portrait for what to expect from me here in Union Battleground, I find it predictable and dated, and my stupid opponent Khloe Wood won’t understand the metaphor with her ridiculously baggy clothing and millennial sensibilities.
Buddy the Clown Chef gives the camera an uncomfortable side eye, trying to hide his discomfort with a big, clownish grin.
Buddy the Clown Chef: What are we supposed to do, instead? I spent half my production budget on this set.
Wendy pokes a finger into his chest.
Wendy Wynne: You’re fired. That’s what we’re going to do.
She forces him out of the camera frame with her finger and takes over.
Wendy Wynne: Now, where were we? That’s right, my former manager was about to take us through my recipe for success.
Wendy haphazardly opens some cupboards to find some pre-arranged sight gags but finds everything woefully inadequate and closes the cupboard.
Wendy Wynne: The problem is, greatness like mine can’t be taught. There’s no recipe for being Wendy Wynne. I have two modes when I wake up, and they’re both Awesome.
From off-camera, Buddy the Former Clown Chef speaks up angrily.
Buddy the Former Clown Chef: What’s the second mode?
Wendy rolls her eyes.
Wendy Wynne: I just told the viewers. They're the same. One mode. Two settings. Awesome and Awesome. It's the same. How is this so difficult to understand? And why are you still here? I fired you. Scram.
Buddy the Former Clown Chef: You can’t fire me. I’m under contract.
Buddy the Re-Hired Clown Chef begins to step back into the frame but is stopped by Wendy’s hand blocking him.
Wendy Wynne: You’re fired again.
Buddy the Re-Fired Clown Chef: You can’t--
Wendy Wynne: How about we deal with the vagaries of your current employment status LATER.
She glares off screen, presumably at a perturbed and confused Buddy the Potentially Employed Clown Chef. Wendy composes herself before continuing.
Wendy Wynne: Where was I? Oh! Right. My recipe for success. The keys to what makes Wendy Wynne the formidable force she is in wrestling today, and will be for the foreseeable future. You’ll find that out shortly, Union Battleground. The unknowable je ne s’ais quoi that is Wendy Wynne.
Wendy winks wryly into the camera.
Wendy Wynne: Instead of teaching that which can’t be taught, instead of attempting to supply rhe tools necessary for my unfortunate opponent to defeat me, I’ll do the next best thing: attempt to tutor poor Khloe Wood on how to come close to defeating me, since she’ll never actually defeat me. That’s how charitable I am. You’re welcome, Khloe.
So…
Without further ado, when little miss underage is putting on her sorry excuse for ring gear, she’s going to need to bring a little more than a potentially marketable gimmick to the ring if she hopes to be in the same stratosphere as Wendy Wynne.
First things first? Well, let's just state the obvious.
Wendy sets several clearly labeled containers of human growth hormone on the counter for the camera to close up on.
Wendy Wynne: My opponent is going to need to be at least thirty times her current physical size in order to defeat me.
Wendy levels her mocking pout into the camera.
Wendy Wynne: What you got going for you might be good against the peons, but let’s face it Khloe, you are a tiny little pissant stepping into the ring against the greatest wrestler real or imagined, ever. That being me. You’re going to need hours of gym time, augmented by unhealthy doses of illegal substances just to give you a chance against Wendy Wynne.
She sets the HGH off to one side.
Wendy Wynne: So, there’s that. What else?
Wendy opens a cupboard and sets onto the counter a prepackaged halloween costume for Union Battleground alumni, Nemesis.
Wendy Wynne: Mildly late for Halloween, but, hell anything would look better on you than the rags you wear regularly. I’ll just come right out and say it, Khloe, in order to have a prayer of scoring even a draw against Wendy Wynne, you’re going to need an entirely new mindset, a whole new format, a whole new wardrobe, a whole new everything, an entirely new you to have a hope against me.
Wendy levels that familiar pouty grin at the camera.
Wendy Wynne: You just don’t have it, girlfriend. They say that all it takes is ten thousand hours, but I’m afraid even after ten thousand hours in the ring against the perfection that is I, you’d still need another ten thousand hours or so to come close to matching me in a squared circle. These are just facts, Khloe. No shame here.
You come into this match the proud pupil of Anna Hayden, and that’s great. I have all the respect in the world for washed-up wrestlers. But whatever tutelage that gutter skank could show you is nothing compared to the encyclopedic, GODLIKE knowledge I possess on winning.
I can say win in dozens of languages, I can win at every game ever designed or manufactured by human hands.
Winning for me is as easy as 1, 2, 3, it’s that simple. And at Lights Out thirty-five that’s exactly all it’ll take for you to realize that you don’t, won’t, and can’t stack up with Wendy Wynne.
Winning is what I do on a daily basis, and you can’t expect that to change here in Union Battleground.
That’s why my name is Wynne, do you get it?
That’s not just a birthright, that’s not some clever marketing ploy, that’s a prophecy bestowed upon me the moment my parents were blessed with my presence.
The heavens themselves decreed that I, Wendy, would win.
Facts are facts, Khloe.
So, that brings us to the best ingredient for this particular recipe for your success, Khloe.
Wendy reaches into another cupboard and sets onto the counter top: it’s a phone.
Wendy Wynne: This is your Willy Wonka-esque Golden Ticket to Gunnar Graves, Khloe. It’s a phone. Call him. Now. Sooner rather than later. Get him to reroute you out of this match, and get him to book you against any other member of this roster other than me. It’s the only way you stand a chance.
Wendy smiles wickedly.
Wendy Wynne: I’ll see you at Lights Out, Khloe. This little demonstration was cute and all, but even 10 minutes of promo time with me won’t help you when you’re face to face with the real deal Wendy Wynne. I sincerely hope you’ve been paying attention and not toying around with Twitter, you detestable little stain. You’re going to need every bit of help you can get, every extra second you have at remedial training.
And even then?
It won’t make a damn bit of difference.
Why?
Because Wendy.
Always.
Wins.
She throws her head back and cackles evilly as she steps off the camera letting the music play us out, and drown out the sound of Wendy arguing with Buddy the Clown Chef.
He’s a pretty friendly looking clown wearing a chef’s hat.
Buddy the Clown Chef: Hey hey children of all ages, it’s me! Buddy the Clown Chef, here for another episode of Buddy The Clown Chef Cooks, and what a show we have for you today. Today I have a special guest. She’s my client, my friend, and kinda my boss, a wrestler recently signed to Union Battleground, and soon to be your "favorite" superstar, please give a warm welcome to Wendy Wynne!
Wendy Wynne, a vivacious, if not entirely unimpressed redhead blatantly overdressed in a voluptuous black evening dress, comes to stand beside Buddy the Clown Chef eager not to touch anything.
Wendy Wynne: Is this honestly how you want to introduce me to my future fans and followers, ‘Buddy’? A stupid cooking show? And what was with the air quotes? Is that supposed to be funny? I'm not laughing.
And, like that, we’re off script. Buddy looks nervously at the camera with an unspoken apology before lowering his voice to speak to Wendy.
Buddy the Clown Chef: We agreed to the cooking thing because you said you liked the whole cream rising to the top analogy and--
Wendy interjects sharply.
Wendy Wynne: Well now I changed my mind. Cream rising to the top, while an accurate portrait for what to expect from me here in Union Battleground, I find it predictable and dated, and my stupid opponent Khloe Wood won’t understand the metaphor with her ridiculously baggy clothing and millennial sensibilities.
Buddy the Clown Chef gives the camera an uncomfortable side eye, trying to hide his discomfort with a big, clownish grin.
Buddy the Clown Chef: What are we supposed to do, instead? I spent half my production budget on this set.
Wendy pokes a finger into his chest.
Wendy Wynne: You’re fired. That’s what we’re going to do.
She forces him out of the camera frame with her finger and takes over.
Wendy Wynne: Now, where were we? That’s right, my former manager was about to take us through my recipe for success.
Wendy haphazardly opens some cupboards to find some pre-arranged sight gags but finds everything woefully inadequate and closes the cupboard.
Wendy Wynne: The problem is, greatness like mine can’t be taught. There’s no recipe for being Wendy Wynne. I have two modes when I wake up, and they’re both Awesome.
From off-camera, Buddy the Former Clown Chef speaks up angrily.
Buddy the Former Clown Chef: What’s the second mode?
Wendy rolls her eyes.
Wendy Wynne: I just told the viewers. They're the same. One mode. Two settings. Awesome and Awesome. It's the same. How is this so difficult to understand? And why are you still here? I fired you. Scram.
Buddy the Former Clown Chef: You can’t fire me. I’m under contract.
Buddy the Re-Hired Clown Chef begins to step back into the frame but is stopped by Wendy’s hand blocking him.
Wendy Wynne: You’re fired again.
Buddy the Re-Fired Clown Chef: You can’t--
Wendy Wynne: How about we deal with the vagaries of your current employment status LATER.
She glares off screen, presumably at a perturbed and confused Buddy the Potentially Employed Clown Chef. Wendy composes herself before continuing.
Wendy Wynne: Where was I? Oh! Right. My recipe for success. The keys to what makes Wendy Wynne the formidable force she is in wrestling today, and will be for the foreseeable future. You’ll find that out shortly, Union Battleground. The unknowable je ne s’ais quoi that is Wendy Wynne.
Wendy winks wryly into the camera.
Wendy Wynne: Instead of teaching that which can’t be taught, instead of attempting to supply rhe tools necessary for my unfortunate opponent to defeat me, I’ll do the next best thing: attempt to tutor poor Khloe Wood on how to come close to defeating me, since she’ll never actually defeat me. That’s how charitable I am. You’re welcome, Khloe.
So…
Without further ado, when little miss underage is putting on her sorry excuse for ring gear, she’s going to need to bring a little more than a potentially marketable gimmick to the ring if she hopes to be in the same stratosphere as Wendy Wynne.
First things first? Well, let's just state the obvious.
Wendy sets several clearly labeled containers of human growth hormone on the counter for the camera to close up on.
Wendy Wynne: My opponent is going to need to be at least thirty times her current physical size in order to defeat me.
Wendy levels her mocking pout into the camera.
Wendy Wynne: What you got going for you might be good against the peons, but let’s face it Khloe, you are a tiny little pissant stepping into the ring against the greatest wrestler real or imagined, ever. That being me. You’re going to need hours of gym time, augmented by unhealthy doses of illegal substances just to give you a chance against Wendy Wynne.
She sets the HGH off to one side.
Wendy Wynne: So, there’s that. What else?
Wendy opens a cupboard and sets onto the counter a prepackaged halloween costume for Union Battleground alumni, Nemesis.
Wendy Wynne: Mildly late for Halloween, but, hell anything would look better on you than the rags you wear regularly. I’ll just come right out and say it, Khloe, in order to have a prayer of scoring even a draw against Wendy Wynne, you’re going to need an entirely new mindset, a whole new format, a whole new wardrobe, a whole new everything, an entirely new you to have a hope against me.
Wendy levels that familiar pouty grin at the camera.
Wendy Wynne: You just don’t have it, girlfriend. They say that all it takes is ten thousand hours, but I’m afraid even after ten thousand hours in the ring against the perfection that is I, you’d still need another ten thousand hours or so to come close to matching me in a squared circle. These are just facts, Khloe. No shame here.
You come into this match the proud pupil of Anna Hayden, and that’s great. I have all the respect in the world for washed-up wrestlers. But whatever tutelage that gutter skank could show you is nothing compared to the encyclopedic, GODLIKE knowledge I possess on winning.
I can say win in dozens of languages, I can win at every game ever designed or manufactured by human hands.
Winning for me is as easy as 1, 2, 3, it’s that simple. And at Lights Out thirty-five that’s exactly all it’ll take for you to realize that you don’t, won’t, and can’t stack up with Wendy Wynne.
Winning is what I do on a daily basis, and you can’t expect that to change here in Union Battleground.
That’s why my name is Wynne, do you get it?
That’s not just a birthright, that’s not some clever marketing ploy, that’s a prophecy bestowed upon me the moment my parents were blessed with my presence.
The heavens themselves decreed that I, Wendy, would win.
Facts are facts, Khloe.
So, that brings us to the best ingredient for this particular recipe for your success, Khloe.
Wendy reaches into another cupboard and sets onto the counter top: it’s a phone.
Wendy Wynne: This is your Willy Wonka-esque Golden Ticket to Gunnar Graves, Khloe. It’s a phone. Call him. Now. Sooner rather than later. Get him to reroute you out of this match, and get him to book you against any other member of this roster other than me. It’s the only way you stand a chance.
Wendy smiles wickedly.
Wendy Wynne: I’ll see you at Lights Out, Khloe. This little demonstration was cute and all, but even 10 minutes of promo time with me won’t help you when you’re face to face with the real deal Wendy Wynne. I sincerely hope you’ve been paying attention and not toying around with Twitter, you detestable little stain. You’re going to need every bit of help you can get, every extra second you have at remedial training.
And even then?
It won’t make a damn bit of difference.
Why?
Because Wendy.
Always.
Wins.
She throws her head back and cackles evilly as she steps off the camera letting the music play us out, and drown out the sound of Wendy arguing with Buddy the Clown Chef.
