It was the Monday Night Raw, right after WrestleMania, and I returned to gorilla after my segment.
“What the fuck was that?” Vince asked me.
“Eh, I’m sorry, sir? What do you mean?” I responded, confused.
I had just won the historic main event at WrestleMania, and Vince was making sure I knew
how little that mattered and I better not be getting too big for my britches.
“What did I tell you?” Vince asked, turning it on me.
“To go down on the punch,” I answered, it dawning on me why he was upset at me.
“Then why the fuck did you no-sell it? You fucked everything up.”
“Sir, honestly, I didn’t mean to no-sell it. I thought I did sell it, I just didn’t go down, I
wasn’t expecting it to land the way it did, and I was a little stunned,” I explained my reasons,
which, once they came out of my mouth, I realized, sounded like fabricated excuses.
“Do you fucking think I was born yesterday?”
Well, no, sir, I certainly don’t think you were born yesterday.
I had never been cussed at by him before. This was real top guy shit. But I was completely unprepared. And also, I was not in any way trying to fuck him, or anyone for that matter, over.
We were less than twenty-four hours removed from WrestleMania. I was running on about an hour of sleep, having done media in the morning, and had just delivered a promo with a new chantable catchphrase and future merch shirt.
How about a thank-you?
Instead, Vince was very upset that I, who had just won both titles in the first women’s main event of WrestleMania in its history of thirty-five years, didn’t sell the punch delivered to me by Lacey Evans, the brand-new lady on the roster who had only been seen walking down the ramp in high heels, a dress, and nice hats.
Should I have been selling for her in this manner the night after such an occasion? Fuck no.
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