-René Magritte, "the betrayal of images" (1928)

"This is not a pipe"

(The scene opens to this picture, proudly displayed in the locker room of one Elle Gagne. It is this, arguably the most famous of French surrealist paintings, that will serve as the backbone of my lesson today. But, how can I deliver a lesson if there's no teacher to be found? There's a camera man in the locker room, but no Elle Gagne. But, can you really blame her for not wanting to stay in the locker room? The very same locker room that HELL so easily, unjustly, and illegally invaded? For that matter, can you blame her for wanting to be in the DWF arena-- HELL follows her wherever she goes! And after all those attacks... all those unwanted, non-consensual, forced and feeble interactions... all of that is starting to grate on the lovely Ms. Gagne. And, while it was surely and spectacularly possible for her to shake off that first attack, the continued pre-match confrontation, no doubt concocted out of desperate necessity, has forced Elle Gagne ...to the hospital. But, this isn't for what you think. After all... ceci n'est pas une pipe)

Elle Gagne: Malheuresement, I don't think HELL have an appreciation for fine art.

(Elle Gagne is seen standing atop a green hill outside the local county hospital. The sky is clear and blue like Windex-- something I wouldn't be surprised Apocalypse and Big Shot have been sniffing in order to create those disjointed, misguided, contradictory, rudimentary promos. The hill upon which Elle Gagne is perched overlooks the parking lot of the local hospital. The big, brown, brick building is clearly visible in the background. In the foreground stands Elle Gagne, dressed casually-- blue jeans, sneakers, and a white DWF t-shirt. Her strawberry blonde hair blows in wind-- wind that will undoubtedly carry her forthcoming words to the ears of her helpless, hopeless opponents.)

Elle Gagne: I wanted to frame my promo around an extended metaphor on perception versus reality. It's like René Magritte-- he painted a pipe, yet underneath it wrote "This is not a pipe." Contradiction? No. A contradiction is HELL wanting to rid the DWF of females, and yet Apocalypse causing nationwide nausea by coming on to me on national TV. Mon Dieu! I'm outside of a hospital, and I don't think there's enough Pepto-Bismol in the area to suppress vomiting that vicious. A contradiction is Big Shot belittling me for thinking I am the only one who can speak an inferior language, and yet Big Shot himself ejaculating French more mechanically than Arnold Schwarzenegger's English while trying to save John Connor. 

(By the way, I don't know what you daft Brits have against foreigners, but for the record-- I never flaunted the fact that I can speak French-- only that I speak English better than you... and, lo and behold, that's still true. Furthermore, Governor Schwarzenegger's a foreigner, too... and he could kick your ass.)

Elle Gagne: See, Magritte paints not about contradiction, but perception. The painting on my locker? C'est vrai! Ceci n'est pas une pipe! It's just a picture.... of a pipe. I wanted to deliver my diatribe around that theme...

(Elle Gagne thumbs her nose, and flexes her mouth so her teeth and gums protrude awkwardly, briefly exchanging her slight and seductive French accent for a harsh British one, hoping to speak in terms that her opponents can understand. Judging by their collective response to her first proclamations, however, that may be an impossible task)

Elle Gagne: But to do so would be to assume that you bloody bastards have been properly educated. 

(Elle Gagne flashes a quick smile before puckering her lips and nodding for the camera, returning to her trusty French accent)

Elle Gagne: Though, as it is undeniably evident that none in HELL know a thing about etiquette, eloquence, or elocution, it'd be foolish of me to assume you've the proper background to comprehend such advanced topics as philosophy, surrealism, or... in your case, reality. So I'll instead articulate another metaphor, one my inauspicious adversaries have oh-so-poorly tried to present...

(The crying crescendo of an ambulance's siren pierces the air. The ambulance, with hurried elegance, races into the parking lot. In less time than it'll take you to process this scene, two men have ejected themselves from the vehicle and around the back to rip the doors open and clear the way for a stretcher to emerge. As soon as the way is clear, more men emerge from the back, guiding that stretcher at the top speed their legs can carry them into the hospital. A woman is on that stretcher, bleeding from the abdomen, apparently the recipient of an unsightly gunshot wound. Yet, in the face of this potential tragedy, the paramedics use quick wit and steeled nerves to assist the wounded, knowing that with a margin of error gone faster than the precious seconds between life and death, the wounded woman could be living out her last day on the planet.)

Elle Gagne: Apocalypse, Big Shot... have you two ever been in a situation where success depends on fast and flawless execution? Those guys, the paramedics... they have. In fact, they do it for a living. You'd think it'd be a tremendously trying task, living life knowing that another's depends on nothing more than one click too many on a stopwatch. And there's no denying the skill and valor displayed by those who dedicate their lives to ameliorating others' emergencies. But, really, that split second scene that just occurred behind me? In reality, it's complete in less than the time it will take me to score the three count on your broken bodies come DWF Scars and Stripes.... but perceptually... as the old cliché goes... every second can last a lifetime. 

(Sadly, sometimes lives end as quickly as careers. Big Shot, Apocalypse... depending on how merciful I'm feeling in the coming week, count on at least one of yours to expire. And if not, perhaps I'll just relegate you two to a status reflective to the quality of your contributions to this fed... a fate worse than death, I'd imagine.)

Elle Gagne: Apocalypse, Big Shot... consider my question rhetorical. 

(Elle Gagne feigns a stupefied expression before collecting her composure and continuing with an exclamatory "Ah!")

Elle Gagne: For the slower ones in my audience-- namely, my opponents... "rhetorical" means that I used that question to further my speech, I don't actually expect an answer. Why?

(Reinforcing my lesson already! Oooh la la, I'm brilliant!)

Elle Gagne: Because, like everything I'll encounter in the ring, I know the answer. I know that you know what slows down our perception of time. Adrenaline! You and those HELLacious buddies of yours have talked about it already, how you get pumped up and things slow down every time you enter the ring. Then my question to you, is.... are you all perpetually placed in the ring? I do believe it's an understatement to say that you all are a little slow.

(Elle Gagne cracks a cocky smile before emphasizing her fluid French accent)

Elle Gagne: Tell me, mes petites chiens, why is it that you are so retarded?

(Elle Gagne giggles as she prepares for a bit of déjà vu)

Elle Gagne: Ah, silly me. English, with all of its ambiguity, is quite an amazing instrument, n'est-ce pas?

(Already having been established, it's all about reinforcement now...)

Elle Gagne: Yes, I meant retarded in the sense of "one who acts with delay." But, I suppose both senses of the word are applicable today....

(Elle Gagne reaches into her pocket and produces her leather wallet. Upon opening it, she removes a card with "Participant: Special Olympics" written on it)

Elle Gagne: You'll have to excuse me, I don't know what this is. We don't have this in my country. But, according to the boys in the back, this belongs to Big Shot.

(Elle Gagne smiles and laughs as she tears the card and sprinkles it in pieces on the ground beneath her feet. Forgive me for recycling this bit here, but after the obscene amount of horrid HELL puns made this week, I'm entitled to relive a bit of greatness, n'est-ce pas?)

Elle Gagne: Apocalypse, Big Shot. if you're capable of imagination-- something I'm highly skeptical of at this point.... recall the picture I presented you at the beginning of the day. It's a pipe.... or is it? Truthfully, it's a picture of a pipe. Your acceptance of it as that labeled object is only related to your perception. Think of how important that is... and how heinously you've ignored that importance. All week long you've insisted on confronting, attacking, abusing, and manipulating me. Do you know how desperate that makes you look? You degrade women, yet at least this one knows that to strike fear into the hearts of men requires cunning, not cowardice. Yet, instead of fighting like men, you take your whole impotent stable and continue to interfere with your three opponents-- two of whom haven't spoken a word.... none of whom will be required to in order for ME to claim victory.

(Elle Gagne waves her arm, motioning toward the hospital behind her)

Elle Gagne: Despite your false and feeble claims, I will not be coming here on a stretcher, even if you insist on illegally injuring me a million more times between now and the pay-per-view. Despite your inaccurate claims of infallibility, it is you two who will be defeated-- single-handedly, by yours truly, at Scars and Stripes. This was supposed to be a handicapped match-- and you two worthless weaklings may end up that way after the in-ring revenge I exact for your pre-match insecurity. And if either of you should even think about....

(Elle Gagne visibly shudders before unwaveringly continuing her speech)

Elle Gagne: ..."having your way with me" after the match.... there's an excellent rape crisis center at this hospital. I advice you to check in with sodomy wounds after I shove my stilettos up your ignorant asses. Think it'll end any other way? I'll point you to the psychiatric ward with a diagnosis of dementia. Don't like it? C'est la vie, mes amis.