The sun hung heavy over Chichén Itzá, Miss Manners, parasol in hand, moved gracefully along with the tour group. She adjusted her oversized sunglasses, looking more like a dignitary than a wrestler on a working vacation.
The peace of the guide’s passionate history lesson, about Kukulkán and the ancient Mayans, was shattered by the shrill voice of a woman in a rhinestone “Cancún 2025” t-shirt.
American Mom: Excuse me! Can you, like, speak English already? This is ridiculous. We’re Americans, we paid for this, and I shouldn’t have to sit here listening to … whatever this is!
Tour Guide: Señora, I speak English, but… I like to also speak Spanish for history. It is culture.
American Mom: Culture?! We’re on vacation! You should cater to us. You live off our tourist money. You should be grateful!
Gasps rippled through the group. Miss Manners finally snapped her parasol shut with a sound that was as sharp as a whip.
Miss Manners: Oh, for heaven’s sake! What an absolute embarrassment you are. Here we stand before one of the most remarkable wonders of the ancient world, and instead of engaging with the history, you’re pitching a fit because … what? You’re hearing Spanish? In Mexico? How positively shocking!
American Mom: Excuse me, who do you think you are…?
Miss Manners: I’ll tell you who I am. Unlike you, I am obviously someone who knows the meaning of decorum and how to behave in public without shaming our country. You see? This is why people from other nations look at our once great country and hope to never see us darken their shores. People like you…?
Miss Manners waves a hand at the American Mom who huffs and sets a hand on her hip as if to silently scream at the audacity of someone speaking out against her
Miss Manners: You’ve paraded into another nation with all the grace of a drunken bull in a china shop, and now you’re barking at a man for having the audacity to speak his own language on his own land. The Mayans were building pyramids while your ancestors were still bickering over fire and wheels. Perhaps you could show a shred of humility?
The American Mom turned her head and looked at the rest of the tour group, as if to silently plead for support. But all she found were embarrassed stares and none stronger than from her own husband as well as her two kids, both who were hiding their heads in shame.
American Mom: I-I just think…
Miss Manners: You think? My dear, you haven’t demonstrated a single working brain cell since you opened your mouth. You’re not owed comfort everywhere you go. You are a guest in this country, and from the looks of it, a very ungracious one.
The mom’s humiliated and hen pecked husband tugged her arm.
American Dad: Come on, Karen, let’s just go.
(Karen, seriously?)
Their kids were already slinking away in embarrassment, dragging their souvenir bags behind them. The woman huffed, her face twisted in humiliation, and stormed off with her family in tow.
Miss Manners turned back to the group as though nothing had happened, snapping open her parasol again.
Miss Manners: Now then. Do go on, señor. Some of us are actually capable of appreciating culture without screaming at it.
The guide, smiling gratefully, continued his guidance. Miss Manners listened with a self-satisfied smirk, as though she’d just delivered divine justice.
A red velvet chair sat in front of a long polished mahogany table set for tea. Miss Manners sat primly in her chair, back perfectly straight, dressed immaculately in a black dress with pearls. She held a teacup like royalty.
Miss Manners: Ladies and gentlemen… and I do use those terms as loosely as possible… you may rise in gratitude, for you are once again in the presence of refinement, sophistication, and grace personified.
She sipped her tea.
Miss Manners: You see, Sin City Wrestling, in all its infinite lack of taste, decided to send its prized Bombshells on what they call the ‘Party Hard Tour.’ And what, pray tell, is that? Nothing but a traveling carnival of intoxication, debauchery, and sloth. Drunken dancing, neon lights, sweat-soaked raves that would make even Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Sunday school picnic. And the fans cheer for it!
She scoffed.
Miss Manners: How utterly predictable. How utterly… pathetic. And leading the charge of this parade of idiocy is none other than my opponent, the aptly named Candy.
Miss Manners rolled her eyes in disgust.
Miss Manners: Oh yes, Candy. The giggling, glitter-smeared, bubblegum princess of the division. She waltzes to the ring with her bright colors, her mindless squeals, and her confetti cannons and you people eat it up, don’t you? You clap your sticky little hands and shout her name because she reminds you of a carnival ride: loud, cheap, and likely to make you nauseous if you’re exposed to it too long.
She set her teacup down with a sharp clink.
Miss Manners: But underneath the sprinkles and the sugar, what is she really? She is an airhead. A scatterbrained waste of a roster spot. While true competitors dedicate themselves to this craft, Candy prances about like a cheerleader at a pep rally, thinking a smile and a few glitter bombs will win her matches. And the worst part? Management allows it. They indulge this ridiculous circus act as though she represents what a Bombshell should be.
She sighed and shook her head.
Miss Manners: But Candy dear, this is not a carnival. This is not a candy shop. This is wrestling. And when that bell rings, all your childish theatrics will melt away and all that will remain is a confused, clueless little girl trapped in the ring with a woman who embodies class, poise, and ruthlessness. You see, while you’re too busy chasing balloons and cupcakes, I am busy dismantling you. While you’re waving to the crowd, I will be breaking you down, piece by piece, until there is nothing left but a sticky, melted mess at my feet.
She stood, smoothing her dress, her tone condescending yet cold.
Miss Manners: I am Miss Manners. I am the cure to this company’s sickness of vulgarity. And Candy, when I am finished with you, you will serve as the perfect example of what happens to those who mistake childish games for serious competition. The Messiah of Manners does not play. She punishes. And when the party ends, and the glitter fades, the only thing left for you will be humiliation.
She gave a curtsey.
Miss Manners: Now then… run along, child. Go blow your bubbles while you still can. Because once you step into the ring with me, I’ll pop them all.
She raised her teacup again, sipping as the camera faded.
