I have a well-chronicled dream of one day being a badass. As such, I occasionally entertain the idea of joining a roller derby league. It’s a fleeting thought – not because the last time I wore anything with wheels I was 12 and it ended in a broken wrist, or because I get enough bruises from just trying to be a functional human. No, the real reason I’m not starring in my own personal Whip It is because I’ve never thought of a good stage name.
Meet Mistress Rager. Before every match I’ll enter the rink to a death metal version of “Won’t You Be My Neighbor”* and sit at the side of the track while changing from my boots into skates, and from a leather jacket into this cardigan. Then, when I take someone out, I’ll yell things like “Welcome to the Land of Make Believe, bitch!” or “See you next Prince Tuesday!”
Oh yeah. I’d be a total badass. Y’know, if not for the fact that I have less coordination than a greased squid on land. Paired with cavity-free teeth that are, according to my dentist, the nicest he’s ever seen, it’s probably best that I keep my derby persona locked away, Mr. Hyde-style. At least, until someone crosses me. Then I’ll be body-slamming them into a wall while referring them to this blog entry to explain why I’m making “Henrietta Pussycat” puns.
*How does this not exist on YouTube already? Make it happen, Internet Gnomes.