The Midnight News 06.30.03 

Posted By Hyatte on 06.30.03

Holy God, This is Late!, HBO, Piper, Kimberly's Old Crew, Gossip, Foley, Reading Material, Guess What I've Been Up To, The Same Damn Joke, Trish, Crap, and None of This Was Worth Waiting For 

Do you get PAID for this? I ask, because I too want to find a job where I waste peoples time with my crappy idiotic moronic statements and actually get money for it. Rot in hell ... jackass.

p.s. I want 10 minutes of my life back. 


Yes, I do get paid for this… I get paid with LOVE.

You can’t have those ten minutes back until you tell me exactly what you will do with them… and then, only if I approve.

Can you please cornhole or do something to shut that fat fuck Scooter up. He is more depressing to read than Herb Cuntz. It's mushroom faggots like him that make me not want to watch rasslin'.

You suck too... but at least your not depressing.


Aww, that’s so sweet to say.

Herb Kunz is still alive?

Well of course 411 slipped in the Alexa rankings. Do you really think you could lose Flea and actually NOT lose all your weekend hits? It's not like anyone was coming for the movie guys, you know. 

Zach Savage

And when Flea puts on his scuba gear and dives down to his computer to read this, he’ll be very, very pleased. (Put this in the file called “Inside Joke”)

I’m Chris and this is the Midnight News. I’m very late here and have too much stuff to do outside of this so this will be quicker than usual. But informative… oh yes, it will be informative.

Oh yes.

Si, mamacita.

Let’s proceed.


Vince made a new ass of himself in HBO’s Real Sports (“Nothing is out of bounds”) by trying to bully that poor reporter with the gay name. People are wondering why.

Well, I see two schools of logic here:

1) Vince is an imbecile


2) Vince saw a way to get publicity.

I don’t think Vince is an imbecile. I DO think that Vince has spent his entire life doing what he does now and doing it quietly, without much attention other than the two times wrestling went hard-core mainstream (and even the first time he let the rassler’s do most of the talking). I’m thinking that maybe he acts the way he does because he honestly sees no other way to do it.

Or 2: They did have Triple H get in a coffin with a dead girl and immedieatly issues a press release explaining their actions without anyone actually asking for an explanation (with the exception of The Net, but we demand explanations for just about everything. I demanded an explanation as to why Big Bully Busiek was fired and STILL haven’t gotten an answer…. The man used to poke out children’s balloons, people… that’s heat getting’ GOLD!!!). They (and their stockholders… smart move there, Linda) are DESPERATE for attention. If Vince has to shove around a couple of weasel reporter or two to get it… so be it. 

So, in summary… Vince is NOT an imbecile, he just has no class… and he doesn’t want to go to jail for helping KILL EVERY WRESTLER WHO’S DIED SINCE 96!!

And Bryant Gumble is still the whitest black man alive. Next to me, of course.


Piper was fired for speaking his mind. This wouldn’t have happened 15 years ago.

Ironic… just when Piper thought he had all the answers, they changed the questions. 

Now all he needs is for Frankie Williams to hunt him down and beat the shit iout of him for no reason and the circle will be complete. (You want old school references, I’LL GIVE YOU OLD SCHOOL REFERENCES!!!!)

All I know is that during his book tour, he said that if he ever got back to the WWE, the first thing he would do is “put the F back in”. Well, he got F-ed up all right.

In other news, Sean O’Haire was seen walking around backstage, smoking and muttering: “So close. I was so close to a big push. So goddam close. You motherfuckin’ mouthy fag in a skirt. WHY COULDN’T HE KEEP HIS GODDAM MOUTH SHUT!!! WHAT AM I GONNA DO NOW???” He kept this up until Stephanie promised him a huge program against Rikishi that would stretch for months. O’Haire was last seen sticking his head into an oven.

In reading about this, I’m starting to think that Piper might be a little short on cash. He was so quiet for so long, then he just started showing up everywhere. Is he really in trouble or something… after draining WCW for all the shekels he could get?

Well, if he’s reading… I would suggest that he go to hollywood and… no, not ACT, fools… no one is waiting for Hell Returns to Frogtown Again… but open up a stunt man school where he can show actors how to sell and give fake punched realistically. All Piper did was punch people… and he used to box too. He’d be a natural.

Well, he would.


My source sent me a few more tidbits. They haven’t been checked or verified for authenticity. As as I know none of this is true… or it could all be true… or it could all be mostly true… or it could all be mostly false. No one knows…:

1: And then there is our lady friend who is tougher than most and has finally shown when those who know chose her to follow her dream. Unlike her contemporaries, one of whom still hasn’t left the side of his mentor, this natural lass has made a name for herself by throwing herself into the scene. But is she all about the job? Many say no. Indeed, the talk amongst the locker room is that this down home country gal practices her technique, the one she uses out of the ring more than in, on whoever is willing and able. She hasn’t had to search very hard, and gets lots of intimate practice time with quite a few men. Truly, she is a method actress… she even uses her tongue when the cameras are off. 

2: Poor, poor guillible Superstar. He thinks his stock has never been higher. Old injuries are controlled, old attitudes are toned down. He feels good, he looks good, he feels like time gone by has made a U-turn just for him. Who says loyalty is a fool’s game? Little does he know that it’s just a matter of time before irony rears it’s ugly head and he gets set up for the heartbreak… or should that be “Hart”break of all time. His old foe may have lost his smile, but he hasn’t lost his taste for revenge, and McMahon is desperate enough to do it. Better believe it. 

3: Last note that should send cheers through you, if this is true. That ultra-power couple that everyone thinks will make it work? Well, whether they do or not it should be noted that despite all his machinations and game playing, our future groom is finally the subject of many backstage whispers in the dark. Those whispers, while not loud, do carry over to the right ears. Don’t look now, friend, but Vince has finally started putting together the pieces and is starting to ask himself if he has been heeding the right advice all this time. Is the hunter about to become the hunted in a game of locker room politics? Just remember, my friend, Vince isn’t afraid of letting a rattlesnake near his ear. Game on.

Kinky. Kiiinky.

The next segment is also gossipy… but real enough so that real names can be used.


Remember the Nitro Girls? Of course you do.

Remember those Nitro Girls “In-Depth” pieces that Nitro ran that focused on one girl each time, and all of them were portrayed as rocket scientists (or cancer researchers, or engineers who were building rockets to send cancer patients to outer space or some such), with the basic gist being that they were all highly intelligent, Scott Keith level-geniuses who, once this Nitro thing wrapped out they would go feed starving children, cloth the lepers, and get back to that rocket/cancer/build/cure/send to space thing? Remember that? Of course you do. Ever wondered what happened to them?

Well, a reader recently caught five of them on that TV show (the one I PRAY none of you watch) called Thirty Seconds To Fame where they had 30 seconds to get famous… to impress the judges and get a deal or something.

They called themselves “D-5” I believe (I lost the e-mail) short for “Diva 5”. I am pretty sure “Chae” was in it… but the reader swears they ALL were Nitro Girls.

I just can’t believe these girls got together and said, “Damn, all those years on Nitro and we never broke into mainstream… if only we had thirty more seconds to prove ourselves… heyyy, wait a second…”

You know… now that I think of it, I really CAN believe that exact conversation occurred.

You know (2)… all I need is thirty seconds to flame someone on national TV and I’ll be HUGE. I KNOW I would!!


Did you ever think… ten years ago (those of you who, of course, weren’t still in diapers and sucking at your momma’s teet a decade ago, that is) that Cactus Jack would end up being a novelist for the Ivy covered walls of Albert Knopf publishing? Yeah, me neither.

Hell, I figured he’d be dead by now, quite frankly.

Good for Mick… it’s nice when an actual good guy wins one for a change.

So, he’s got his very first all-fiction book: Tietam Brown all set to be released and he’s doing the promotional thing and he’s giving interviews to every rasslin’ “journalist” who wants one and no one has yet to point out that his first two books, while highly entertaining reads (although Foley is Good had more padding and filler than your typical edition of the Midnight News), weren’t exactly spotless writing, and he’s decided that he’s missed the business and is dipping his toes back in McMahon waters (with the best part being that he now has enough money to cheerfully tell Vince to piss off at a moment’s notice) and all’s great for Mick.

So, how about a review? Courtesy of Jeff Miles.

Well, it’s not really a review… Jeff likes it and all, but it’s more of a detailed summary… so be careful here… although he doesn’t give away too much, there are a lot of spoilers in here. Okay? Good.

Mick Foley's debut novel, Tietam Brown will thrill fans of his two autobiographies, as Foley's great penchant for telling a story comes to life once again. Any fan of Foley should love this book, as it includes wrestling, sex, drugs, violence, sex (oh yeah, I already said that but there is a ton of sex), love, hate, and just about any other emotion you can think of. Foley's infamous references to the "penile area" definitely remind me of Have a Nice Day and his courting of Collette.

For those of you that remember Beverly Hills, 90210, you remember the lead female character, Kelly, having a life of "whatever can go wrong, will go wrong." In 90210 Kelly was raped, kidnapped, addicted to cocaine, addicted to weight loss pills, shot, developed amnesia, burned nearly to death, as well as some other things I'm sure I just can't remember. Well Andy, the protagonist of Tietam Brown, takes Kelly's life one step further. Orphaned at 3-months old by his dead-beat father, Andy goes from foster home to foster home, always ruining his welcome by going into rages and causing harm. The thing is, there is sympathy because the people that Andy harms truly deserve the harm. Andy throughout the novel is a very sympathetic character.

In his first foster home, Andy-at age 5-gets so fed up from abuse his foster father delivers to him, his foster-mom, and the couple's two kids that he accidentally causes a car accident by trying to choke the life out of the man, who is driving. This leads to 3 deaths-all pinned on Andy. Also as a result of this accident, Andy loses his ear (sound familiar), and use of his right hand.

He goes next to a couple whose son had just shot himself accidentally with the family gun, or so we thought. It turns out that the man of this house is a sexually predator who uses Andy to continue the disgusting, psychotic sexual games he was playing with his own son. Finally when Andy his had enough, he unleashes rage again and cold-cocks his "dad" with a bag of quarters, knocking him out, and repeatedly punching and kicking him until the man's wife begs him to stop. Upon hearing what happened and getting proof from some old photographs, Andy's new mom blows her brains out with the same gun that killed her son.

He moves to a boy's detention center, run by Catholics. His time there is not described in much detail. However, his stay there quickly ends when two of his "friends" try to sexually assault him in a bathroom. He uses the quarters again, killing one of the boys by punching him in the throat. I will let you find out when reading the book what happens to the other boy. This incident puts Andy in a boy's prison, where his dad comes to pick him up on his 17th birthday. All these events I just mentioned are told to us throughout the novel in flashback form, as the book takes place mainly during his time with his dad.

Starting high school, Andy is of course picked on because of his ear, starting in woodshop when his safety glasses do not stay on. The football coach, an ex-NFLer and school legend, picks on him unmercifully, calling him Annie. This leads to bashing from the football team, always on edge because of steroids. The one person who has sympathy for Andy is Terri, the homecoming queen and prettiest girl in school. I find this to be the one flaw in the book. While it is obvious why he likes her-she is nice to him, sticks up for him, very pretty, great breasts--, her attraction for him is never really explained. At first it seemed like a pity project, but we never really know why she is interested in him. Wanting to make him a Christian is hinted at, but she is never pushy about her beliefs. The development of this love story, despite not knowing why it started, is a very enjoyable part of Tietam Brown. These, of course, are the parts in the novel where much of the sex is involved, and plenty of talk about breasts, of course.

The crux of the novel is Andy's relationship with his father, Tietam. After abandoning him for 16 years, 9 months, all of a sudden this ex-wrestler seems to want to be an influence in his son's life again. Tietam at first seems like a comic character. He entertains his son (and the reader) with stories of sexual escapades. He does have the flaw of bringing married women home to have sex with him, but Andy overlooks this to have a good relationship with his dad. Included in this is the funniest part of the book, when Andy asks Tietam for advice on how to get a girl to love him and Tietam replies with something like "You have to get them to lick your ass." This wonderful, nurturing, fatherly advice caused Andy to do a complete double-take and me to spit out the water I was drinking. So the relationship seems to be going well, albeit weird, until Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve everything starts to unravel, leading to Terri breaking Andy's heart, and Andy finding out details about Tietam's past that are very scary, including what happened to Andy's mother, whom Andy had always thought died while delivering him.

I can't explain the conclusion without taking away the purpose to read the book, but rest-assured it's worth it.

Jeffery Miles

Thanks to Jeff

By the way, the WWE had a website set-up for Mick that features excerpts from the book (quite a few of them too), where he’ll be signing the book, and promises a daily log during his tour. You can check that out here

Ahh… it’s good that Mick might get some of you boneheads to actually READ something… I like doing that too. In fact, it seems to be time for…


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hi-moder8.

Hyatte: Oh yeah, which ones?

Flea: Stephen King, George Orwell…

Hyatte: And?

Flea: (takes a long, drawn-out, desperate pull from his bong – followed by a nice, generous sip from his glass) and… whoever.

Hyatte: Whoever?

Flea: Yep

Hyatte: Who the fuck is whoever?

Flea: When you know, then you’ll know


Leaving Las Vegas, Hooking Up,Potshot, and Missing Links. That’s the list so far. Four books that have nothing in common.

So what’s next? Horror? A legal thriller? Science Fiction? 

How about a Science Fiction comedy.

Good Omens is by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and was one of those books that I didn’t think I would like at all. I love Gaiman’s non-comic book stuff (never got into his Sandman series) but had never heard of Pratchett. The premise of the book sounded like I would have to remember a lot of characters with strange names and vague abilities (one of the bigger problems I had with American Gods, although I enjoyed the whole book, overall). 

Man, was I wrong. Good Omens not only turned out to be a slick, easy to follow page turner, but it really is funny as hell. Maybe one of the top 3 books I’ve ever read. If you are familiar with Gaiman’s work, or Pratchett’s… or both, you’ll be able to see who wrote what. Gaiman clearly provided the overall structure and plot while Pratchett “punched up” the script and handled the prose. On his own, Gaiman doesn’t write with such wit. 

So, the plot of the comedy revolves around the AntiChrist who was switched at birth with the wrong child and ended up not as an American Senator’s child, but as a normal suburban lad in London. With Armageddon fast approaching, it’s up to an Angel and a Demon, (two friends who really don’t want everything to end, but are just followuing orders from above) to try to fix things properly. There is also the last of the Witchfinders, a descendant of the greatest Prophetess to walk the earth, the book she wrote, lots of demons, lots of angels, and the Four Horsemen: three of whom have taken human form and all of whom now ride motorcycles. 

There is also a Hellhound sent to safeguard the AntiChrist and do his bidding. Since the AntiChrist he was sent to hasn’t been properly prepared for his rise and instead has been raised a normal child, the Hellhound isn’t quite sure what to do.

It’s all in the details here. For instance, the authors have included footnotes at the bottom of several pages which further enhance the story, or particular points. Flip through a copy and find the explanation of the British monetary system. You’ll have a good chuckle.

The excerpt I’ve included here is almost a break from the main plot. It’s a scene from the third act where all the relevant parties are heading to an air base in Lower Tadfield to either start, or prevent, a nuclear meltdown, which would officially kick off armageddon. On their way to the air base, they all meet a rather interesting man who serves no purpose in this story other than establish to the reader just who is heading for the climatic showdown. This is what happens when he runs into the four horsemen and the AntiChrist, the Hellhound, and his very human friends (called The Them):

It is a high and lonely destiny to be Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents’ Association.

R.P. Tyler, short, well-fed, satisfied, stomped down a country lane, accompanied by his wife’s miniature poodle, Shutzi. R. P. Tyler knew the difference between right and wrong; there were no moral grays of any kind in his life. He was not, however, satisfied simply with being vouchesafed the difference between right and wrong. He felt it his bounden duty to tell the world.

Not for R. P. Tyler the soapbox, the polemic verse, the broadsheet. R. P. Tyler’s chosen forum was the letter column of the Tadfield Advertiser. If a neighbor’s tree was inconsiderate enough to shed leaves on R. P. Tyler’s garden, R. P. Tyler would first carefully sweep them all up, place them in boxes, and leave the boxes outside his neighbor’s front door, with a stern note. Then he would write a letter to the Tadfield Advertiser. If he sighted teenagers sitting on the village green, their portable cassette players playing, and they were enjoying themselves, he would take it upon himself to point out to them the error of their ways. And after he had fled their jeering, he would write to the Tadfield Advertiser on the Decline of Morality and the Youth of Today.

Since his retirement last year the letters had increased to the point where not even the Tadfield Advertiser was able to print all of them. Indeed, the letter R. P. Tyler had completed before setting out this evening walk had begun:


I note with distress that the newspapers of today no longer feel obligated to their public, we, the people who pay your wages…

He surveyed the fallen branches that littered the narrow country road. I don’t suppose, he pondered, they think of the cleaning up bill when they send us these storms. Parish Council has foot the bill to clean it all up. And we, the taxpayers, pay their wages…

The they in this thought were the weather forecasters on Radio Four,* whom R. P. Tyler blamed for the weather.

Shutzi stopped by a roadside beech tree to cock it’s leg.

R. P. Tyler looked away, embarrassed. It may be that the sole purpose of his evening constitutional was to allow the dog to relieve itself, but he was dashed if he’d admit that to himself. He stared up at the storm clouds. They were banked up high, in flickering tongues of lightening that forked through them like the opening sequence of a Frankenstein movie; it was the way they stopped when they reached the borders of Lower Tadfield. And in their center was a circular patch of daylight; but the light had a stretched, yellow quality to it, like a forced smile.

It was so quiet.

There was a low roar.

Down the narrow lane came four motorbikes. They shot passed him, and turned the corner, disturbing a cock pheasant who whirred across the lane in a nervous arc of russet and green.

“Vandals!” called R. P. Tyler after them.

The countryside wasn’t made for people like them. It was made for people like him.

He jerked Shutzi’s lead, and they marched along the road.

Five minutes later he turned the corner, to find three of the motorcyclists standing around a fallen signpost, a victim of the storm. The fourth, a tall man with a mirrored visor, remained on his bike.

R.P. Tyler observed the situation, and leaped effortlessly to a conclusion. These vandals – he had, of course, been right – had come to the countryside in order to desecrate the War Memorial and to overturn signposts.

He was about to advance on them sternly, when it came to him that he was outnumbered, four to one, and that they were taller than he was, and that they were undoubtedly violent psychopaths. No one but a violent psychopath rode motorbikes in R. P. Tyler’s world.

So he raised his chin and began to strut past them, without apparently noticing that they were there,** all the while composing in his head a letter (Sirs, this evening I noted with distress a large number of hooligans on motorbikes infesting Our Fair Village. Why, oh Why, does the government do nothing about this plague of…).

“Hi,” said one of the motorcyclists, raising his visor to reveal a thin face and a trim, black beard. “We’re kinda lost.”

“Ah,” said R. P. Tyler disapprovingly.

“The signpost musta blew down,” said the motorcyclist

“Yes, I suppose it must,” agreed R. P. Tyler. He noticed with surprise that he was getting hungry.

“Yeah. Well we’re heading for Lower Tadfield.”

An officious eyebrow raised. “You’re Americans. With the Air Force base, I suppose.” (Sirs, when I did national service I was a credit to my country. I notice with horror and dismay that airmen from the Tadfield Air Base are driving around our noble country-side dressed no better than common thugs. While I appreciate their importance in defending the freedom of the western world…)

Then his love of giving instructions took over. “You go back down the road for half a mile, then first left, it’s in a deplorable state of disrepair I’m afraid, I’ve written numerous letters to the council about it, are you civil servants or civil masters, that’s what I asked them, after all, who pays your wages? Then second right, only it’s not exactly right, it’s on the left but you’ll find it bends round towards the right eventually, it’s signposted Porrit’s Lane, but of course it isn’t Porrit’s Lane, you look at the ordinance survey map, you’ll see, it’s simply the eastern end of Forest Hill Lane, you’ll come out in the village, now you go past the Bull and Fiddle – that’s a public house – then when you get to the church (I have pointed out to the people who compile the ordinance survey map that it’s the church with the spire, not a church with a tower, indeed I have written to the Tadfield Advertiser, suggesting they mount a local campaign to get the map corrected, and I have every hope that once these people realize with whom they are dealing with you’ll see a hasty U-turn from them) then you’ll get to a crossroads, now, you go straight across that crossroads and you’ll immediately come to a second crossroads, now, you can take either the left-hand fork or go straight on, either way you’ll arrive at the air base (although the left-hand fork is almost a tenth of a mile shorter) and you can’t miss it.”

Famine stared at him blankly. “I, uh, I’m not sure I got that…” he began.


Shutzi gave a little yelp and darted behind R. P. Tyler, where it remained, shivering.

The strangers climbed back onto their bikes. The one in white (a hippie, by the look of him, thought R. P. Tyler) dropped an empty crisp packet onto the grass shoulder.

“Excuse me,” barked R. P. Tyler. “Is that your crisp packet?”

“Oh, it’s not just mine,” said the boy. “It’s everybody’s.”

R. P. Tyler drew himself up to full height.*** “Young man,” he said, “how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?”

Pollution smiled, wistfully. “Very, very pleased,” he breathed. “Oh, that would be wonderful.”

Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.

Engines revved.

“I missed something,” said War. “Now, why are we meant to make a U-turn by the church?”

JUST FOLLOW ME, said the tall one in front, and the four rode off together.

R. P. Tyler stared after them, until his attention was distracted by the sound of something going clackclackclack. He turned. Four figures on bicycles shot past him, closely followed by the scampering figure of a small dog.

“You! Stop!” shouted R. P. Tyler.

The Them braked to a halt and looked at him.

“I knew it was you, Adam Young, and your little, hmmph, cabal. What, might I enquire are you children doing out at this time of night? Do your fathers know you’re out?”

The leader of the cyclists turned. “I can’t see how you can say it’s late,” he said, “seems to me, that if the sun’s still out then it’s not late.”

“It’s past your bedtime, anyway,” R. P. Tyler informed them, “and don’t stick your tongue out at me, young lady,” this was to Pepper, “or I will be writing a letter to your mother informing her of the lamentable and unladylike state of her offspring’s manners.”

“Well ‘scuse us,” said Adam, aggrieved. “Pepper was just looking at you. I didn’t know there was any lor against looking.”

There was a commotion on the grass. Shutzi, who was a particularly refined toy French poodle, of the kind only possessed by people who were never able to fit children into their household budgets, was being menaced by Dog.

“Master Young,” ordered R. P. Tyler, “please get your – your mutt away from my Shutzi.” Tyler did not trust Dog. When he had first met the dog, three days ago, it had snarled at him, and glowed its eyes red. This had impelled Tyler to begin a letter pointing out that Dog was undoubtedly rabid, certainly a danger to the community, and should be put down for the General Good, until his wife had reminded him that glowing red eyes weren’t a symptom of rabies, or, for that matter, anything seen outside of the kind of film that neither of the Tylers would be caught dead at but knew all they needed to know about, thank you very much.

Adam looked astounded. “Dog’s not a mutt, Dog’s a remarkable dog. He’s clever. Dog, you get off Mr. Tyler’s horrible ol’ poodle.”

Dog ignored him. He’d got a lot of dog catching-up still to do.

Dog,” said Adam, ominously. His dog slunk back to his master’s bicycle.

“I don’t believe you have answered my question. Where are you four off to?”

“To the air base,” said Brian.

If that’s all right with you,” said Adam, with what he hoped was bitter and scathing sarcasm. “I mean, we wun’t want to go there if it wasn’t all right with you.”

“You cheeky little monkey,” said R. P. Tyler. “When I see your father, Adam Young, I will inform him in no uncertain terms that…”

But the Them were already pedalling off down the road, in the direction of Lower Tadfield Air Base – traveling by the Them’s route, which was shorter and simpler and more scenic than the route suggested by Mr. Tyler.

*He did not have television. Or as his wife put it, “Ronald wouldn’t have one of those things in the house, would you Ronald?” and he always agreed, although secretly he would have liked to have seen some of the smut and filth and violence that the National Viewers and Listeners Association complained of. Not because he wanted to see it, of course. Just because he wanted to know what other people should be protected from.

**Although as a member (read, former) of his local Neighborhood Watch

scheme he did attempt to memorize the motorbikes’ number plates.

***Five foot six

Before R. P. Tyler ends his small role in this story, he meets an Angel, a Demon, and locates the AntiChrist’s Father.

Seriously, this is one funny book. Lots of action, tons of quirky characters, great pacing. It’s one of those books you really don’t want to end. If I ever find Gaiman’s e-mail address, I’ll beg him to get together with Pratchett for a sequel. Really, such a good book.

Good Omens. I can not recommend this any higher.

By the way, next time I’ll feature a book that I really didn’t like one bit. Just to show that this isn’t all about me kissing ass.


Three men, one frickin’ joke.

This is why I can’t do Mop-Ups anymore. What could I possibly say that wouldn’t be said by a few dozen others?

Last Raw, Sgt. Slaughter saluted our country by once again donning the tights and telling maggots to shut their pieholes. This time he did it on them French fellas.

Ol’ Sarge has discovered that there’s more to life then just eating rations. He’s packed on a few pounds.

So, I scoured the web for about ten minutes and came across three well known writers who… well, I’m sure they thought they were being innovative. 

Hurricane came out onto the stage and complained about La Resistance. They asked him to find a partner for a match. Hurricane said he already found one, one who is used to taking care of maggots like them. Out walked Sarge, who looks like he ate Don Kernodle, came out.

That’s from Wade Keller 

The tag champs face the Hurricane and Holy Cow, Sgt Slaughter, who apparently ate the Iron Sheik. 

That’s from Bruce Mitchell.

Did Sgt. Slaughter look like he swallowed The Big Show or what? 

Say hello to Dave Scherer’s offering.

Yes kids… brave the pop-ups and/or buy the damn newsletter and YOU TOO can get in on the high minded comedy stylings of Dave, Wade, and Mojo.

Keller wins for the old school reference. Mitchell and Scherer were just too goddam weak. I don’t get it, I thought Mojo Mitchell was THE FUNNIEST THERE IS??

Incidentally, I held my breath and trotted over to Scooter’s … err… “rant”? He didn’t make a connection… but he did reference sonmeone I doubt any American has heard of.

But he did make a pre-emptive strike against me. See, I was planning on posting his DVD list to show how many cartoons and wrestling tapes such a well rounded genius like himself actually gets… but the Scotsman ratted me out to him so he discussed it before I could. Oh, I’ll still post it anyway, because it’s funny but I’m very disappointed in the Scotsman. Squealed like a rat in a trap, he did.

And while we’re on the topic…


The regularly scheduled bashing of all things Net will have to take a break for a week… I’ll goof on CRZ and his silly cunt of a fiance next time around. 

Instead, I’ll use this space to tell you a quick, amusing story:

Guys like Hyatte are not columnists. If they have something to offer - post it on a message board. 

So guess what I did. Wait, let me start from the beginning.

So, there I was last Thursday, or maybe Wednesday, minding my business when someone told me that there was a thread on the 411 forums about someone at MSN running around pretending to be me. I checked the thread out and decided to, for the first time in the 3-4 years I’ve been with 411 to register and make a comment. So I did.

Well… message board kids hate me… which I don’t mind (better to be hated than not read, I say), so I was all set to let it go…

But one of the 411 Moderators took it upon himself to make a comment about how lame I am, then close the thread before I had a chance to respond. That bugged me. They can abuse their own silly Mod power all they want, (CRZ does it all the time) but not at the expense of my ass… on MY GODDAM SITE!

So I talked to Widro and asked him to re-open the thread so I could respond. He was happy to do it.

So I asked Widro to make me a Moderator myself.

So he did. (this makes me a baby, apparently)

So now, I’m a moderator for the 411 boards.

Ohhhh…. The kids there had a fit. In fact you can read the whole thread.

This is the second thread… the first one, which was much better was re-opened by me… then closed by the same guy who closed it the first time, then re-opened by me AGAIN… then deleted by the guy who closed it twice… because I was embarrassing him by not letting him get away with it. Said Mod has lost his power since… and everyone blames me for it.

In this thread, you’ll see a few dozen reason why I’m going to ruin EVERYTHING… and you’ll also see how the posters should BAN TOGETHER AND BOYCOTT UNTIL I AM TOSSED OUT!!!

Plus, I just don’t DESERVE to be a moderator for 411… I’ve done nothing to earn the spot.

I will say this, Forum head guy, Mike Watters (Widro and Ashish are much too… *coughashamedHACK* busy to run it themsleves) is taking this in stride and is actually a mellow guy.

And the moderator who helped start me on this? Well he’s so pissed that he’s sending me private messages bringing up just about every flame that’s ever been used on me over the years… “The net is the only thing you have”, “You can dish it out but can’t take it”, “You’re a janitor!”. What makes it funny is that he’s British, so it’s all polite-like.

All this uproar and I haven’t even really done anything yet… just so you know.

So go check it out… and if your inclined, join up. It’s not the best board going, but it’s got the most people… and I PROMISE not to ban people for not kissing my ass or the ass of my girlfriend. No, really… I swear.

I don’t even have time for this, really… but Widro was in such a giving mood, I couldn’t pass up the shot.

So that’s the story… funny and sad… mostly funny.


Someone actually requested this… and seeing how I had nothing else to do tonight…

The following is a list of some of the unique and amusing last meals given to prisoners in Texas. Rest assured, they all DESERVED to be killed… except for the ones who were framed and had lazy court appointed lawyers… and chances are they deserved to be killed anyway.

Prisoner # 999319... Kia Johnson killed 6-11-03: Four fried chicken breasts, onion rings, fried shrimp, French fries, fried catfish, double-meat cheeseburger with grilled onions, strawberry fruit juice, and pecan pie

Kia didn’t fuck around… he went TOTALLY surf ‘n’ turf

Prisoner # 876... Bruce Jacobs killed 5-15-03: Whole fried chicken, twelve buttered bread slices, fried onion rings and okra, six RC colas, one large bag of Fritos corn chips, two tomatoes, salt, and pepper

Okra? Oh God… horrible, HORRIBLE stuff.

Six cans of RC Cola??? Brother was clearly planning to hose down the guards after he died.

Fritos? Didn’t he know just how GREASY that shit is?

Prisoner # 999169... James Colburn killed 3-26-03: Mexican Lunch: tortillas, tacos, burritos, Spanish rice, cheese dips, chips, six Cokes, and chocolate cake

Lord… everyone knows that chocolate and spicy food does NOT go together. What a rube.

You know… it’s their last day and they are locked in a cell with nowhere to go… give them a friggin’ BEER. 

Prisoner # 861... John Elliot killed 2-04-03: One cup of hot tea (from tea bags) and six chocolate chip cookies

That’s kind of sweet, actually.

Prisoner # 999257... John Baltazar killed 1-15-03: Cool Whip and cherries

Kinky… kinky and romantic. Looks like old John wanted to make his final night with his hand a special one.

Prisoner #897... William Chappell killed 11-20-02: Bologna sandwich with cheese, two pieces of fruit, and juice. Same meal that is served to all other offenders in the main dining room. 

Ironically, Bill was fucked as the other offenders actually had filet mignon marinated in truffle sauce and served over a bed of parision rice and lobster sauce. The warden REALLY anted to fuck him over one last time. Didn’t even tell Bill this until one second before the plunger was depressed. Bill had time to scream, “Oh you sonafabi…” before his heart was stopped. Oh, how the warden laughed.

Prisoner # 999001... James Powell killed 10-01-02: One pot of coffee

He tried to get a stay of execution by claiming he was given Sanka. No one cared. 

Prisoner #981... Daniel Hittle killed 12/06/00: Relish tray (green olives, cheese, pickles, celery), french fries (with ketchup), 2 grilled cheese sandwiches, 2 cinnamon rolls, and a pitcher of milk

I always wondered if these vegans, right before they die, ever sit up and say, “Fuck it, if I’m gonna go, I’m gonna at least SEE what a burger tastes like”

Prisoner # 999008... Jessy San Miquel killed 6/29/02: Pizza (beef, bacon bits, and multiple types of cheese), 10 quesadillas (5 mozzarella cheese, 5 cheddar cheese), 5 strips of open-flame grilled beef, 5 strips of stir-fried beef, chocolate peanut butter ice cream, sweet tea, double fudge chocolate cake, broccoli, and grapes

What the hell is broccoli doing there?

Prisoner # 885... Jonathon Nobles killed 10/07/98: Eucharist - Sacrament.

Yeah, those Christ nipples are so filling. (well, where do YOU think they came from?)

Prisoner # 999061... Javier Cruz killed 10-01-98: Venison steak, baked potato, Lite beer & Camel cigarettes (Alcohol & tobacco prohibited by Texas Prison policy)

Ah, so that explains it. That’s rather bullshit, isn’t it?

Camels? Those things’ll kill you quick.

Prisoner # 770... David Castillo killed 8/23/98: Twenty-four soft shell tacos, six enchiladas, six tostados, two whole onions, five jalapenos, two cheeseburgers, one chocolate shake, one quart of milk and one package of Marlboro cigarettes. (Prohibited by Texas Prison policy)

See, that’s what I would do… have them roll a damn BUFFET in my cell.

Prisoner # 849... Delbert Teague, Jr. killed 09/09/98: None. Last minute he decided to eat a hamburger at his Mother's request.

Awww… she didn’t want him to go to hell on an empty stomach.

Word to the wise to all you budding parents out there… naming your child “Delbert” will bring you NOTHING but trouble.

And finally, ever wondered what the VERY FIRST man executed in Texas had for hois last meal? No? Well TOO BAD!!

Prisoner # 592... Charlie Brooks Jr. killed 12/07/82: T-bone steak, french fries, catsup, Worcestershire sauce, rolls, peach cobbler, and ice tea

Oh, and Charlie Brooks Junior just happens to be the brother of legendary (and horrible) wrestler “KILLER” TIM BROOKS… so I managed to make a rasslin’ connection right here in this segment!! HA HA HA HA HA!!! HYATTE RULES!!!!!

The guy who told me about the Brooks thing is named Matt Long… he told me this back in September… one wonders if he’s reading this and if he is, he must be amazed at my memory.


I’m hearing rumors that Trish Stratus has been put on Heat duty because Lita is coming back and the company wants to re-establish her as a top lady wrestler, and with Trish being so good they feel she may overshadow her.

So it’s like this: Trish Stratus, who everyone says is the friendliest, most accomodating, nicest, (insert your own positive adjective her)est chick diva the company has ever had, is being punished so Lita can have a shot.

And yes, it’s punishment… being on Heat means you’re not featured on RAW, which means you have less exposure, which means you make less money for the same amount of work.

Jesus Fucking God. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

For chrissakes… why dodn’t they just make Stratus a heel and have her FEUD with Lita? Have her be the Canadian Bitch and her gimmick can be pretending to coming on to American fans for a few minutes before belittling them on camera? A hot babe goofing on losers? She’d be the GREATEST CHICK HEEL OF ALL TIME!!

No, they fuck her over by sending her to heat… and I’m not kidding, people… everyone, and I mean EVERYONE has had only nice things to say about her… does she show up in the newsletter rumor sections? No… she stays quiet, shows up, and gives 100%… yeah, pack her perfect ass to heat… KILL HER CAREER!!

I swear… of all the lameass moves the WWE has pulled… this is the one that has stunned even me.

Meanwhile, Flea and I are convinced that the girl who used to show up on AIM and bullshit with us was NEVER Stratus… just some phony. We only say this because she hasn’t been online for months and neither of us are willing to think that she just got sick of our charm and our… well, MY charisma… (Flea don’t have charisma… he just has the ability to call everyone a “cocksucker” and make it seem cute… he also has a way of using double negatives and making them seem endearing) 

Poor girl… I hope she just makesas much money as she can and get the hell out of rasslin’ before she turns into Mae Young… (who’s only 35, believe it or not)

And this has nothing t do with the fact that I want to bang her so hard my balls turn blue every time I type her name. See, watch: Trish Stratus… AHH… ARRGH


Oh when did I post this? Three years ago here at 411 I believe? Yeah, that sounds right.

I decided to go over a very much ignored part of wrestling history that I thought the readers would enjoy. They did… so let’s haul it out again!

Wrestling is crap!! Well, not exactly, but one thing for sure is, “Wrestling” and “Crap” do have a relationship with each other. In fact, poop has played a MAJOR role in wrestling since it’s inception!!! Confused? Dumbfounded? Well let me break it down for ya....for all those little turds who freaked when I took over Al’s News....I happily give to you:


1911: Frank Gotch farts in George Hackenschmidt’s face to win two falls at White Sox ballpark. Frank’s white trunks are said to be streaked with brown.....Frank blames the mud.

1938: Shohei “Giant” Baba is born.....5 days later, Shoehei’s “Giant Kaka” is born.

1947: Buddy Rogers and Billy Darnell pig out on Beans and franks before wrestling in New York. The in ring fart blasting results in a ringside fan choking by asphyxiation. They called it a heart attack.

1971: Mil Mascaras makes his Madison Square Garden debut. Having been raised on Mexican food and water, his body reacted violently to New York’s cuisine.....some say that if you inhale deeply in one of the stalls, you can still catch a whiff of Burrito.

1971: Andre the Giant wrestles in Canada. Vince McMahon SR is attending. One of Andre’s movements blow out all the plumbing....the place is flooded but Vince immediately signed Andre to a contract.

1975: Ric Flair, Johnny Valentine, Bob Bruggers and Tim Woods are involved in a plane wreck. each man crapped his pants BIG TIME. When Flair woke up, he took a wiff and screamed, “WHOOOOOOO”. A catchphrase is born.

1982: Superfly Snuka performs the Superfly onto Don Muraco from on top of the steel cage...the impact was like squeezing a tube of crest for Muraco. 

1985: Randy Savage takes a bathroom break during an intense gimmick creation meeting with his new employer, Vince McMahon. During the break, Savage has a difficult time with a rather stubborn movement, after a lot of straining, the jam up unclogged and it all rushed out. Still staring, Savage bellows “WHOO YEAAAAH”...Vince hears it from his office and immediately has Savage’s catchphrase.

1985: Missy Hyatt gives a wrestling anal sex for the first time.

1985: Pat Patterson promises a young wrestler a push in exchange for anal sex for the first time 

1991: Ralston Purina markets and distributes WWF Superstars Cereal. The breakfast food is taken off the market due to causing intense diarrhea in children.

1992: Andre the Giant dies. Dozens of plumbers who made fortunes repairing arena plumbing after he got through with them mourned.

1995: The Giant, aka The Big Show makes his debut: Dozens of plumbers scream, “WHOOPEE, THANK YOU JESUS, and go ahead with buying a summer condo in the Bahamas.

1996: Sid unloads in his trunks during his main event match against the Undertaker at Wrestlemania XIII. It’s the first time crap made it on the WM main event...(unless you count Mr. T)

1997: Someone leaves a hunk of love in the gym bag of Rena “Sable” Mero. Mark Mero blames British Prime Minister Tony Blair for some reason. 

1997: Owen Hart returns to the WWF after his brother Bret is thrown out. Shawn Michaels refers to him as “a nugget”

1998: Owen Hart dies. His trunks were filled with nuggets.

1998: While hiding under the trapdoor during the Warrior’s “magic act”, Curt Hennig gets cute and dumps in a bucket during a live Nitro. Later, he dies.

2000: Vince Russo tries to re-invigorate a flagging WCW by putting the title around a loaf of his shit. Hogan refuses to job to it. Russo shoots on Hogan and we never see Hogan in WCW again. Dallas Page volunteers to take Hogan’s place but it’s too late.

1992-present: The Internet and wrestling become linked. Crappy writers from the world over gather together to gab about how crappy wrestling, and each other are. Numerous references to sucking people’s ass, eating shit and dying, and not giving a shit about this and some such are mentioned on an hour basis. Idiots proclaim themselves the greatest Internet Writer ever and it doesn’t mean shit.

Well okay, Hennig died a few years later… but still.

I think we should end it here. I’m off to work, then I may log on and do a little moderating and laugh at everyone bitching at me. It really is a hoot. You’re all welcome to join me.

Over the next week, come and see the finest columnists free labor could possibly offer showcase their wares and universally agree on one topic: Nash sucks.

And next week… oh I think it’s time for another week off… we’ll see if I can get Flea in here… he’s got something really special to promote anyway.

I leave you with this very vague, very cryptic message:

Girls who work at Best Buy deserve a spanking.

Coming soon: And Another Thing: The Taking of Triple H. I promise.

This is Hyatte