The Midnight News 09.29.03 

Posted By Hyatte on 09.29.03

Foreign Affairs, Tammy, Going Bald, Satan Does Sinatra With a Love Pony, Two Kings, Reading Material, Flea, and I'm Not Bluffing 

thank you for bringing bloom county back!

Kenny F

You’re welcome.

Hi Mushyballs. I’m Chris and this is the Midnight News. That’s about all I have for interesting top o’ the column mail this week, other than some Europee’n bitching me out for disrespecting the great sport of soccer… but I trashed that mail so too bad.

I really wanted to be here last week, actually, I wanted to do a few columns before taking a vacation, but I got lazy again. Maybe I’ll always be a 3 on, 1 off type of guy… who knows. All I DO know is that the… “braintrust”… here at 411 are making it VERY EASY for me to blow off a week or three… but I’ll get to that at the bottom of the column. Lots of stuff to hit on first. In fact, let’s get to it.


Up at a house show in Canada some rube poured his beer all over Eddie Guererro. Eddie got pissed and went after the mooseblower. Rather than doing what MOST Canadian males do when a shirtless, buff Hispanic comes over, this guy ran away.

After the melee had broken up and the Mounties carted el hoser away (spilling beer is a capital offense up in the Great White North), the match between the Guerreros and the Basham brothers continued. Then Eddie got on the mic and apologized to the building for his actions… apparently alcoholics aren’t allowed to go near beer… even Canadian swill (Scott Hall must have missed that memo).

Now if it was TEQUILA… it would have been a different story.

Eddie was MUCH more fun to hang with when he still had the mullet.

Later that night, Pat Patterson was seen dry-fisting a bunch of Canucks in an alley behind the hotel. When asked if this was his response to Eddie getting beer poured on him earlier, Patterson said, “Eddie got beer poured on him?”

The scary part of this story is that there was a LINE of Canadians in the alley waiting their turn.

Yes, this Patterson joke was intentionally because 411, in their infinite wisdom decided to... to... oh, I'll get to that later. 

Friggin’… let’s just say Hyatte isn’t too thrilled with one or two people around here at the moment… BIG TIME not too thrilled…



Let’s all take a moment to enjoy that witty, witty title…


…ahhh sweet.

Tammy Sytch wrote to me last week and called me “Big Guy”!! That alone is enough to make this news column.

But then she continued. The feedback to that picture of her that I posted was, in her words, “enormous”… and she thanks everyone for the very nice words… 100% positive reaction. Everyone misses her and told her so.

Now she would like you to grow a set of balls.

See, she surfs around and reads people bash the crap out of her, calling her fat, sloppy, washed up. She wants to know where THOSE people are? Why can’t they say to her face what they post on message boards or in their columns? 

I tried to explain to her that people WOULDN’T write to her because then it would be like admitting that they READ THIS COLUMN… and we couldn’t have that, oh no…. pussies.

So she sent me two more pics… and wants you to rate them HONESTLY on a scale of 1 to 10. She wants HONESTY… if you want to slam her, SLAM HER (no, not in that way… although… hmm… is it worth as beating from Candido? Hell yeah!). If you talk shit about her when you didn’t think she was reading… then why not do it now when you KNOW she is? It’s only e-mail… what are you, a little fruit? Little child? Punk ass bitch?

The pics are at the bottom of This edition of my Guide to Life column at Flea’s site (it’s last week’s column, so read it if you didn’t before… I didn’t do one this week simply because I had no time). 

Then write to her at Once again, let me re-iterate, this is NO scam… I have NOTHING to do with this. I don’t read the letters… it’s all her.

Here, I’ll start… in her first pic, she bears a SCARY resemblance to Sandra Bernhardt. But I’ve got to admit, she looks damn cute in her second pic. Damn cute.

So back up your big mouths, bitches… if you have a snide comment to make about her, say it… if not, well say that too. She wants honesty. Don’t worry, I don’t think Candido will hunt you down if you’re too rough. 

So, whaddaya waiting for?

Oh, and by the way, she closed her e-mail with this:

Hope this can make your Sunday column so you can plugg my butt again ;)

You know… if any other web guy received that statement from her… their dicks would explode right there, right then.


I’ll tell you right up front, this has nothing to do with anything.

Okay then… so I bought some Nair because a man just has GOT to get rid of his backhair (not that I’m A-Train or George “The Animal” Steele or anything but… ) and it worked great. The only problem is that the stuff smells like a hair salon.

So… with the backhair gone I started wondering what else I could ace out.

Yeah, re-read the title of this piece. 

Off came the pubes. I am now cleaner than a newborn. 

Now before you send out that e-mail screaming: FAG!!! I KNEW IT!!! YOU’RE A HOMO!!!!!, let me tell you what I am learning from this experience.

It really does cast the illusion that you’re bigger than you really are… sort of an important perk for me, sad to say. But, it also highlights just how nice and wide I am, so that’s cool.

Going hairless makes it look… cute. I don’t know how else to describe it. An ugly thatch of brown forest is gross. Makes it look like a gnarled weed poking out from the underbrush. Clean shaven, it looks sort of adorable. I now have a better understanding as to why girls don’t mind sucking it. It’s a fun little (but FAT!!!) appendage… just bouncing around, minding it’s own business. Happy-go-lucky, not a care in the world. It’s almost as if it’s saying: Hello there! Won’t you come over and play with me?. It’s no longer a cruel weapon on lust. Now hairless, it’s a fun friend who wants to hang out and get high!

Now here’s a cool little perk that I didn’t even consider. Once you get rid of the main… err… carpeting right above Mr. Happy, what you get is a soft little pillow of skin! It’s perfect for her to rest her head on while she works on your head. Maybe later she can take a NAP!! With the coarse, rough steel wool hair gone, it makes a SPLENDID place for her to rest her hard-working jaw. And neither of you have to suffer the embarrassment of getting the hair caught in her teeth by accident. Owwww.

So fellas… it’s a bold statement to make, but if you are ever of mind and feel like making your wang look more presentable and less “ewww”… Nair out the pubes!!! She’ll thank you for it!

And mucho apologies go out to Miss Sytch for being in the same column as this segment… sitting right on top of this segment in fact (ooooh, there’s a joke there that I ain’t touching)

Now back to our regularly scheduled column.


Or, as one reader pointed out, it should be “…in order to sing Patsy Cline’s cover of a Willie Nelson song… bah!

Anyway, las… well… two weeks ago I covered a story about that nutty Satan Wannabe Jim Mitchell shunning the WWE in order to stay in the south and run a cheesy, extra-seedy karaoke practice on top of being a seedy, gross looking performer on the hillbilly deluxe show that we call NWA/TNA. 

I also pointed out that he probably uses the side gig to pick up girls… including YOUR sister… I hope you all shuddered at the image, as well you should have.

Finally, I admitted to having a mental image of this guy singing “My Way” in a quarter full room of depressed drunks and toothless waitresses…. 

Well… people responded with a little backstory.

First, a former room mate of Mitchell wrote in and said that, while he has no DEFINITIVE PROOF (hasn’t spoken with Mitchell in months), he has reason to believe that Mitchell has actually applied to the WWE a number of times, but was told that unless you are either A: Black and/or B: Have a set of tits, there isn’t much room for upward mobility in the company. Further speculation suggests that the money Mitchell was offered by the WWE (the same dollar amount offered to AJ Styles), made it financially stupid for him to sign up… ESPECIALLY given the companies’ recent (lack of) success with repackaging and launching new gimmicks, even established ones like Mitchell’s “Praise the Dark Lord” old hippie gay red suit ultra-evil booga, booga, booga character!

A fellow named Jeremy also wrote in and said that at it is well established that the Sinister Minister has a dick the size of Kentucky… and several ring rats have admitted that the old warthog is actually “the best lay in the business”… (hmmph, must have been included in his contract with LUCIFER!!!) Which not only means that he’s picking up your sister, getting your sister in his van, but he is actually banging the hell into your sister and YOUR SISTER IS PROBABLY LOVING IT!!! Which makes him a rat jap bastard as well as an evil crab from Beezelbub’s penis

Oh, and finally… Mitchell’s roommate admitted something that was THE SCARIEST NOTE OF ALL… Mitchell actually does a kick-ass Sinatra up on stage. 

A monster prick, the skills to use it… and a killer Sinatra rendition…

Maybe this whole Satanist thing is worth checking out? 

Anyone wanna send me a brochure or something?


Well, as I said before, I’ll only bring this back when it’s called for.

I wasn’t Jay Bower’s biggest fan, but at least the sumbitch was ORIGINAL!!! He didn’t RIP ANYONE OFF!!! He was the type of columnist that WIDRO AND ASHISH SHOULD LOOK FOR… NOT LOW-RENT HYATTE WANNABES, FOR FUCKING GOD’S FUCKING SAKES!!!!

Anyway, he was nice enough to fill in for me last week and did a goodbye column. He’s leaving for the usual reasons… lack of response, too much effort for free… why was he wasting his time only to get ragged out on…. Etc, etc. I’m sure he’ll turn up again.

But something he put in his last column was so good, and it so nicely described why Rick Scaia is such a useless cumstain that I take great pleasure in goofing on endlessly, that I thought I’d put it here.

So this is a recent story about The Rick that Bower shared. Pretty much says it all.

(and give Jay a pass for referring to himself in the third person… he used to be a “smark”)

Jay's former AltWrestling pal Will Parrish (best columnist in IWC history PERIOD) falls off the face of the earth just after merging with OO. 

Jay --not yet the shining Internet Wrestling Celebrity that he would become -- stops hearing from Will frequently and never sees him online anymore. 

Jay, putting two and two together, worries something happened to his friend so he emails Ric asking if he knows if Parrish is ok. No response. 

Jay once again emails Ric the next day asking if Will is ok. No Response. 

Jay once again emails Ric, asking if Will is ok. No Response. 

On the fourth try, Jay simply writes "Is Will Ok, feel free to respond with just a "yes" or "no". No response. 

Jay resends the email. No response. 

Finally after having the first six emails ignored, Jay begins to flood his mailbox. 

Scaia crawls out from under his rock and responds with something along the lines of "You are a resilient little rascal aren't you", admitting that he knew I was worried and wouldn't lift a finger to respond because he is just a little too important to be bothering with me. You keep on telling yourself that Ricky.

Douchebag. The guy can’t even be bothered to answer a simple e-mail. He’s too important. Too cool.

He’s a buttpirate… sorry, he’s a buttVIKING… and his writers are all losers too.

Next time any of you douchebags accuse ME of taking myself or this net thing too seriously, re-read this. I’m 100X bigger than this polesmoker and nowhere NEAR as self-involved.

And Scooter Keith blows too.


I found this story from the LATimes website (gotta reg if you want to get in) through Neil Gaiman’s nifty little blog. Since I’m all up in this books sheeit, I thought I’d share something the guy wrote about the mucho popular Stephen King: 

For the World of Letters, It's a Horror 

[By Harold Bloom, Harold Bloom is a professor at Yale, a literary critic and author of "The Western Canon," (Riverhead Books, 1995)].

The decision to give the National Book Foundation's annual award for "distinguished contribution" to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind. He shares nothing with Edgar Allan Poe. What he is is an immensely inadequate writer, on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis. 

The publishing industry has stooped terribly low to bestow on King a lifetime award that has previously gone to the novelists Saul Bellow and Philip Roth and to playwright Arthur Miller. By awarding it to King, they recognize nothing but the commercial value of his books, which sell in the millions but do little more for humanity than keep the publishing world afloat. If this is going to be the criterion in the future, then perhaps next year the committee should give its award for distinguished contribution to Danielle Steel, and surely the Nobel Prize for literature should go to J.K. Rowling. 

What's happening is part of a phenomenon I wrote about a couple of years ago when I was asked to comment on Rowling. I went to the Yale bookstore and bought and read a copy of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone." I suffered a great deal in the process. The writing was dreadful; the book was terrible. As I read, I noticed that every time a character went for a walk, the author wrote instead that the character "stretched his legs." I began marking on the back of an envelope every time that phrase was repeated. I stopped only after I had marked the envelope several dozen times. I was incredulous. Rowling's mind is so governed by clichés and dead metaphors that she has no other style of writing. 

But when I wrote that in a newspaper, I was denounced. I was told that children would now only read J.K. Rowling, and I was asked whether that wasn't, after all, better than reading nothing at all? If Rowling was what it took to make them pick up a book, wasn't that a good thing? 

It is not. "Harry Potter" will not lead our children on to Kipling's "Just So Stories" or his "Jungle Book." It will not lead them to Thurber's "Thirteen Clocks" or Kenneth Grahame's "Wind in the Willows" or Lewis Carroll's "Alice." 

Later I read a lavish, loving review of Harry Potter by the same Stephen King. He wrote something to the effect of, "If these kids are reading Harry Potter at 11 or 12, then when they get older they will go on to read Stephen King." And he was quite right. He was not being ironic. When you read "Harry Potter" you are, in fact, trained to read Stephen King. 

Our society and our literature and our culture are being dumbed down, and the causes are very complex. I'm 73 years old. In a lifetime of teaching English, I've seen the study of literature debased. There's very little authentic study of the humanities remaining. My research assistant came to me two years ago saying she'd been in a seminar in which the teacher spent two hours saying that Walt Whitman was a racist. This isn't even good nonsense. It's insufferable. 

I began as a scholar of the romantic poets. In the 1950s and early 1960s, it was understood that the great English romantic poets were Percy Bysshe Shelley, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, John Keats, William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. But today they are Felicia Hemans, Charlotte Smith, Mary Tighe, Laetitia Landon and others who just can't write. A fourth-rate playwright like Aphra Behn is being taught instead of Shakespeare in many curricula across the country. 

Recently, I spoke at the funeral of my old friend Thomas M. Green of Yale, perhaps the most distinguished scholar of Renaissance literature of his generation. I said, "I fear that something of great value has ended forever." 

Today, there are four living American novelists I know of who are still at work and who deserve our praise. Thomas Pynchon is still writing. My friend Philip Roth, who will now share this "distinguished contribution" award with Stephen King, is a great comedian and would no doubt find something funny to say about it. There's Cormac McCarthy, whose novel "Blood Meridian" is worthy of Herman Melville's "Moby-Dick," and Don DeLillo, whose "Underworld" is a great book. 

Instead, this year's award goes to King. It's a terrible mistake.

What a tool.

While I agree that there are some books and writers that have zero business being published (if I ever meet the idiot who thinks Scott Keith can make money I plan on stomping on his balls until sperm leaks out of his ears, THEN injecting him with the AIDS virus, THEN buttfucking him with a rusty garden weasel), this guy would rather see the publishing houses slam their doors on EVERYONE except for specific few. This guy does not seem to realize that movies/television/and video games have pretty much blasted pasted books as the primary choice for people to spend their downtime. The publishing world is in horrible shape these days… NO ONE IS READING ANYMORE!! And THIS highbrow dickhead would prefer to see the audience FURTHER alienated.

Truth is, no one has promoted the simple art of reading more than Stephen King… and his books are GOOD… well, most of them anyway. And who has done more to get kids and teens reading than JK Rowling? Who? No one. 

All this goes to show is that even intellectual superior people can be completely narrow minded.

But nevermind what I think, what’s Flea’s take in all this?. Well, as luck would have it, it’s right below:


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hi-Obliter8

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


So, anyone care to tell me what all my selections so far have in common? Come on, anyone? It’s real easy.

That’s right, with the exception of Tom Wolf’s Hooking Up, they have all been 100% fiction.

The problem there is, a great many people who do read prefer non-fictional books: biographies, military history, true crime stories. They have tried out fiction and found it LACKING! Truth is stranger than fiction, Hyatte!, they scream. To HELL with my snarky little bullshit selections, They want non-fiction or they’ll read NOTHING!!

Okay, fine. Babies.

I am not opposed to non-fiction stories, the last one I read was Kitty Kelly’s His Way, the Sinatra bio. My issue with them is that the writer, especially in autobiographies, usually drones on with boring (to me, at least) filler before getting to the juicy “backstage” stuff (only Foley and Howard Stern’s first books held my interest cover to cover). True life/crime/history stories suffer the same problem with me. Too much filler, not enough killer (although I’ll eventually get around to reading Capote’s In Cold Blood and I have Dalton Trumbo’s Johnny Got His Gun on the shelf and on my “to read” list). Nah, I’ll take fiction. Sorry.

But I have some non-fiction books on the shelf, and my two favorites are two that you’ve probably never heard of. One is the life story of an LA gangster which I’ll get to sometime down the road. The other is my selection for today.

No, it isn’t The Buzz on Professional Wrestling. For Christ sakes, get a clue.

And no, it is NOT Tonight… In This Very Ring, dumb fucks. 

Anyway, I really couldn’t tell you who reads this column, but if you are a professional wrestler, or an athlete of any sort who goes to the gym with regularity, then this book is something you WILL enjoy. If you ever wondered why Scott Steiner has jacked himself up to the obscene proportions that he has, or why HHH is seemingly so obsessed with being a builder, then this is a fun book for you.

Samuel Fussell was a skinny New Yorker with a degree from Oxford who, at age 26, was sick and tired of being intimidated by the very nature of NYC, so he decided to do something about it. He wanted to get bigger. Then he wanted to get even bigger. Then he wanted to get even more bigger. Pretty soon, his desire became an obsession, then his obsession became his life. A few years later, after the smoke cleared, he wrote this book.

Muscles: Confessions Of An Unlikely Bodybuilder is Fussell’s journey from a skinny, neurotic wimp into a full-blown, obsessed, narcissistic bodybuilding freak. He takes us from his beginning, to his first visit to his local Y, to his graduation from machine to free weights, to moving to California, to steroids, to competing in power-lifting meets, to moving onto bodybuilding meets, and finally to… well, why ruin it? All along, he introduces us to the lifestyle of those infected with what “the sickness”: the diets, the programs, the regiments, and the very interesting cast of characters he meets along the way. 

Make no mistake, Fussell isn’t a writer who is just observing the lifestyle for the book, the man lived the lifestyle fully. He completely abandoned his old life and embraced this new obsession with a passion. He does a great job letting us get into his head and seeing how people can abuse their bodies like they do for that extra inch of muscle. Fussell has arranged his story smartly - each chapter progresses his journey with efficiency, with the climax being the last big bodybuilding meet he appears in. The man takes us inside this whacked world and has a lot of fun with it (it is a funny book) but not at the expense of builders or the lifestyle. He doesn’t mock them, he just honestly writes about what these folks are all about. In fact, the only person he really goofs on is himself.

Oh, and the specter of Arnold Schwarzenegger looms over every page, which reminds you that Arnold was worshipped by a small army of people long before he made his first movie. 

It’s not a perfect book. Fussell tends to overwrite a bit and lay on the prose thick (if you don’t mind Mick Foley’s style, then you won’t mind this). Some characters are introduced and then dropped way into the background without so much as a page or two devoted to them, which gives me the sense that Fussell’s editor demanded some trimming. It’s not the best book you’ll read, but it’s FUN. It’s a kick. Plus there are pictures, so you’ll get to see the author in his various stages.

Seriously, this is one of those books where the parts are greater than the sum, so there were a lot of cool excerpts to pick from. I decided to go with Fussell’s first day in Los Angeles where he basically gets off the plane and heads straight for the nearest gym. It’s a good excerpt because he gets into the difference between New York and LA builders and meets a bunch of interesting people, including his best friend. Check this out and tell me this doesn’t look like a real blast to read: 

(note: just so you won’t get confused, “Shangri-La” is the name of the gym and “Sweet Pea” and “Mousie”are his two bodybuilding friends/partners from New York) 

…Shangri-La looked like a cross between a cathedral and a singles bar. Every corner housed a fern. A series of Casablanca fans hummed from the 20-foot ceiling. Skylights in the roof created spotlights on the floor, illuminating iron worshippers in a fountain of fiery brilliance. Between the lifters, a score of neatly clad, pencil-necked employees in red uniforms officiously replaced the weights in the racks and cleaned the equipment. There were framed, signed photographs of bodybuilders and airbrushed lithographs of streamlined nudes by Patrick Nagel on redbrick walls.

The dominating decorations of the gym, though, were a series of life-size blown-up photographs of the owner, Raoul, posing in his competitive briefs. There were twenty of these, all black-and-white, slung from the wooden rafters like flags in a medieval banquet hall. He was equal to just about anyone I’d seen in the magazines. I knew that to get that spectacular a body would take me at least six more years of three on, one off, double split sessions, forced feeding combined with stringent dieting, and, of course, complete focus. At the very least, six years. It might well take thirty-five or forty years, as it had for the bodybuilder Albert Beckles, now still competing at the age of sixty.

But I didn’t stop for even a moment to consider the effort or, for that matter, the absurdity of the quest. Instead, displaying again the symptoms of the diseased, I rushed off to the locker room to pursue my career choice by shaving a few nubs off my legs with my Lady Bic. While I was exchanging the tank top I wore on the street for the one I wore in the gym, I saw a near naked figure at the mirror.

“Seven percent,” he said smugly.

He was “standing relaxed” in his underwear, with his shirt in one hand and his pants rolled down around his ankles.

He turned to me. “I’m seven percent,” he said again. “Body fat,” he added, proffering his hand.

With his free hand, he dug his fingers into my side, using his thumb and index finger as makeshift calipers. “You’re about twelve percent,” he said, grimacing, “probably even more.”

There was something about his face – he looked familiar. Suddenly it hit me. The posters outside. This was Raoul, Mr. America.

“You… you… you look so different,” I stammered.

Raoul smiled, revealing a latticework of metal in his mouth. “It’s the braces,” he said firmly. But it wasn’t the braces. It was the body. In the pictures, he looked enormous, a Master of the Universe. In person, he looked like a malnourished accountant. 

Raoul saw the look of confusion on my face. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’m a little old for braces. Well, maybe, but it’s a marketing decision. It will help my overall presentation.”

I nodded my head and donned the my sneakers. Raoul, glimpsing himself in the mirror again, couldn’t contain his excitement. “Hey buddy, look and learn,” he said. “Watch me expose my rectus abdominus!”

He shifted his feet, offered his right side to the mirror, and, in a deliberate motion, lifted his arm above his head before tilting his right hip in the direction of the mirror. He nodded rigorously at the sight. His abdominal muscles looked like an ice-cube tray. He had but one word to say, “Quality.” With a little smirk, he pulled his clothes back on and strutted out of the door.

As soon as he left, I tried the move myself. The rectus abdominus was nowhere to be found. My body-fat percentage was simply too high. Where Raoul had a deeply gouged grid of rectangular brown muscles, I had a pasty blanket of white flesh.

I might have despaired had I not heard the thundering steps of Lamar behind me. His wild dash didn’t stop until he had emptied his guts into the toilet right by my posing mirror.

“Lamar! Son!” his father (and training partner) cried, waving a towel before him, as he rushed in a few seconds afterwards. The old man fell to his knees to cradle his son’s head in his arms, then helped his massive offspring right himself from the messy bowl.

My response was automatic and a little too loud. “The muscles gained are worth more the price of pain,” I said, covering my love handles with my tank top and the iron shibboleth.

Lamar’s father broke into a grin at my words and introduced himself.

“I’m Lamar’s dad, Macon’s the name.” He was the first person I’d seen who didn’t look like he modeled for Muscle Digest or Penthouse. “Say, weren’t you in the heavies last year at Mr. Ironman?” Macon asked, biting his fingernails and knitting his brow in an effort to remember.

“No, I’m filling out before I compete. I’ll compete in a city show next year,” I revealed. I knew that much, start off with a city show, take it to the state, then the nationals…

Lamar peeked out from his stall and came to join us. His father carefully swabbed the corners of his mouth, as Lamar held both hands to his head and moaned in pain.

“Lamar, we got us a new builder,” Macon said.

Lamar looked up and brightened visibly. When he discovered I was from new York, like his idol Lou Ferrigno, he asked me all about the legendary New York gyms, like Tom Minichiello’s Mid-City in Manhattan, and Julie Levine’s R & J in Brooklyn. I’d heard of both but hadn’t dared to work out at either. I admitted no such thing, though, instead trumpeting my workouts in them and the good times I’d shared with the owners.

Suddenly, Lamar looked at himself in the mirror in a panic. He turned to Macon and said: “Oh no, Dad, look! Oh no! I’ve lost some size!” They both dashed back at the toilet in misery.

I dashed to my locker and brought back a pack of BIG Chewables. As luck would have it, Lamar and I used the same brand, and he popped a handful of these into his mouth, along with a multi-vitamin pack I gave him, as though they were candy. The effect on Lamar was immediate. He did “the Walk” all over the locker room.

Thanking me for my generous care for a fellow builder, Macon asked if I would be so kind as to join him and the elephantine Lamar after the workout at their Ford Maverick, which was parked across the street. They called the Maverick home, Macon confided. He was going to barbecue some chicken and vegetables, laced with protein powder – only bodybuilding foods, he assured me. I promised I would join them as soon as I finished my own workout.

It was while I was on the seated calf machine that day that I first heard the ruckus. My head was down, my face contorted in agony. I’d been at it for a full hour, painfully isolating my soleus and gastrocnemius muscles. To really “get into” them, I was, of course, using the usual visualization procedure, in this case seeing my calves as gigantic spinnakers close to bursting from the force of a raging sea squall. My concentration was broken by the roar of a deep voice.

“In the final arena, there will be no judges, only witnesses to my greatness!” proclaimed an immense figure in a New York accent, hopping over the turnstile at the front door. He proceeded to do “the Walk” over to the squat platform. And oh what a walk he did! I had never seen quads thrust so far apart in the eternal battle against chafing, or arms suspended at such a distance from the body. And the majestic motion – so slow it took him a good 45 seconds to travel 30 feet.

He wore a silk do-rag over his head, a kind of colorful kerchief popular among minority women and gang members in depressed urban pockets of the United States. Over his massive and heavily acned torso, he sported a Gold’s Gym tank top and sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was ripped just enough around the collar to reveal a jutting and greasy pair of trapezius muscles. On his legs he wore, direct from Marrakesh, billowing genie pants the color of orange sherbet. The outfit was completed by purple socks and black Reeboks.

“Oh yes!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, nodding his head up and down dramatically. “Oh yes, we have come to train today! May we say it?” Without waiting for an answer, he burst forth with “Yes, I think we may. This is serious business!” Most of the other lifters, especially the smaller ones, gave him wide clearance.

“Do the right thing, buddy, do the right thing!” the hulk bellowed to himself. He shook his head from side to side, revealing the feathered earring that reached down to tickle on of his traps. Tightening his belt and wrist straps, he strode to the mirror to arrange his do-rag. He lingered for a moment at the mirror before rushing to the deadlift bar to warm up with 225 pounds for 15 lightening-quick reps. On his last rep, with a great clatter, he threw the bar from him in disgust, and did “the Walk” to the water fountain. There he lollygagged to slowly lick his flexed bicep for Tara and Xandra.

Xandra shrieked and hid under the counter. Tara, bolt upright, mouth slightly open, hips pressed forward against the counter’s edge, didn’t take her eyes off him.

On his way back to the platform, the hulk caught a smaller man eyeing him with distaste. Walking right up to him, he sneered, “Yeah? Don’t break your pencil case, geek. Why don’t you go get Raoul, huh? I spit on both of you, you little closet shits!”

The target of his vehemence turned completely red, and fled in fear to the locker room. Clearly, it made the hulk’s day. His heavily muscled arm was raised in triumph, he flourished his clenched fist. He did “the Walk” back to the squat platform, where for ten brutal repetitions he deadlifted 405 pounds.

“Make haste slowly,” I reminded myself, resisting the urge to run over and join him. His act was familiar to me. It reminded me of the free-weight section back at the Y. But it was clear that it didn’t go over well in this California gym.

No wonder. Back in New York, lifting had been about war. Here, judging from the conversations around me, it was about networking. The hard-core builders were there, true, the Axles, the Bulldozers, the Guses (the usual nerds were in attendance as well – the Norberts and Nestors). But they were all swamped by the corwd of Kips and Corkys and Alistaires who flooded through the door after five o’clock. And that went for the women too. The Ramonas, Desirees, and Dulcies were now few, the Catherines, and Jennifers, and Victorias many. Back at the Y, “opportunities for advancement” had meant the squat rack and the bench press. Here, it seemed to mean vocational choices and personal investments. The air was heavy with speculation on the vagaries of CDs, IRAs, and prime rates.

The one throwback to an earlier era was this blustering bully. As I watched, he skipped from the water fountain to the deadlifting bar. He sang the following ditty at the top of his lungs, while he chalked his palms and fingers and adjusted his wrist straps in preparation for the lift:

One, two, three, four,

Every night I pray for war!

Five, six, seven, eight,

Rape, kill, mutilate!

As if it were nothing, he picked up the 500 pounds on the deadlift bar and brought it up to his hips, repeating the movement for 10 strict reps. I was amazed. His face bore a rapt expression, as if nothing could please him more than being here and doing this. When I did it, for one pathetic rep, my whole body shuddered from the pain.

“We’re talkin’ big man muscles, goddamnit, I mean, serious muscles, I mean, we’re talkin’ big!” he yelled at the mirror again, his straining, screaming face one inch from the glass. His face and upper back bore the deep pits and craters of endless acne bombardments. His bulging traps were decorated with gigantic boils and cysts. He looked as happy as a pig in slop.

The workout as operatic drama, with all the peaks and sloughs known to each. In body and performance, he was light-years beyond Sweepea and Mousie. Here was joy. Here was fierceness.

I couldn’t restrain myself a second longer. I did “the Walk” over to the dumbbell rack, and imitated the master. As a sign of the extraordinary purity of my own muscle isolation, I wailed like a banshee through my reps to the astonished stares of even the biggest builders present. My shrieks simply recapitulated a gloss from the book Pumping Iron. Gaines and Butler observed Arnold during his workouts and noticed that he made a great deal more noise than his training partners during his exercises. They attributed it to the essential purity of Arnold’s lifting movements. Since his form was impeccable, his horrible cries and tortured looks were the result of really knowing how to isolate and exercise the muscles without resorting to the cowardice of cheating. The magazines called this “Muscle Integrity.” Accompanied by the sonic booms of the hulk’s deadlifting, I sang a little melody of my own while I did my arm curls:

“I saw a bird on the window sill,” I screamed, pausing in my lyrics until I had completed a 60-pound dumbbell rep with one arm.

“Singin’ fine and sitting still,” I continued, doing another rep, this time with the other arm.

“I coaxed him in with a piece of bread!” Another rep.

“Then I crushed his little head!” I sang, fortissimo, completing verse and set. A feeling of contentment spread through my body, I was at peace with myself, my pump, world.

The hulk had heard me singing from his side of the room. He came striding over, his do-rag flowing in the wind.

“Hey, uh, yo, like uh, you from England or somethin’?” he asked, tilting his head and hiking up his pants.

“No, New York,” I said. It sounded more prudent than Princeton.

As soon as the words passed my lips, the hulk clutched me to his breast in friendship, repeating over and over again, the words “Semper Fi, Mac, Semper Fi.”

Of such moments are bonds made. On my very first day, I had found a training partner, and his name was Vinnie. As soon as he released me, he hiked up his pants again. Looking down, I saw beneath his weight-lifting belt what appeared to be a white plastic retaining liner partially hidden beneath the fabric of his genie pants.

It didn’t click then, but it should have. The hulk was wearing Huggies, the superabsorbent diaper built to contain any accident, no matter how extreme. I later learned that during the rigors of his deadlifting sessions, Vinnie had need of several per workout (he fastened two pairs together with, yes, safety pins). Thus equipped, he could concentrate solely on the lift at hand. No embarrassment, no failure. His record was a full box for one session – one record I didn’t want to break.

Later on, he sleeps over Lamar and Macon’s “house”, which stays in the gym parking lot so they can start working out first thing in the morning.

And there is a very brief romance with a female bodybuilder which, while suffering from the suspected “great editing”, will definitely make you think of how Triple H and Chyna used to bump uglies.

Muscles: Confessions Of An Unlikely Bodybuilder is an entertaining biography that won’t bore you to death. It’s a detailed look into a world that I’m sure interested you (obviously, I’m not talking to Scott Keith here).

And it’s NON-FICTION… so you snooty pussies have no excuse.

Except for one thing, the book – Fussell’s one and only - was published in 1991. Now, I didn’t check my local Borders to see if it’s available, but I have to assume it’s a hard to find item. So if you hit your bookstore and can’t find a copy, no problem, Amazon’s got you covered.

I am fucking Hyatte and by God I will MAKE YOU READ!!!


A few columns back, I BROKE THE NEWS of how Jerry “The King” Lawler had found a new bride… she’s from Rhode Island and she’s the ripe old age of 21!

Basically, I used the story to do some high-brow comedy material on Rhode Island Italianos… those short, extra-hairy, extra adorable wannabe tough guys.

Well, if any of you c-suckers DOUBTED me… feast yer eyes on THIS two-three week old interview the King did with some losers…

Lawler mentions that he has a new girlfriend, and Phantom is happy for him. “You’re not as nearly as happy as I am,” Lawler says. It took him a long time to get back into a serious relationship after his difficult divorce. Lawler did a RAW show in Providence Rhode Island in January, “It’s tough to interact with any of the fans….I’ve been with the WWE since 1993 and have never met a girl at one of the shows….before the show ever started there was a young lady unfortunately with a guy, and we made eye contact and I became infatuated with her. Matter of fact I was paying so much attention to her…I wasn’t paying attention to the match and said to JR look at that chair shot, when someone hit someone else with a championship belt.” JR looked at Lawler with a questionable look, because Jerry didn’t want him to know he liked this girl, because “JR wants you to be focused…but I couldn’t help it.” During a commercial break Lawler mouthed to the girl, is that your boyfriend? And the girl shook her head no, to which Lawler then asked for her phone number. At another commercial break Lawler asked the floor director to get for a pen and paper, and the director’s response was “Why you want me to get the number of that girl you’ve been looking at all night.” Lawler has been with her ever since, Sir Adam then starts to give Lawler hell for not going to the HHH bachelor party. “Don’t give me that ‘I’m not on the Smack down roster’, your new girlfriend won’t let you go.” Lawler confirmed Sir Adam’s belief, saying “I’ve been told by her I’m not allowed to go to the bachelor party.”



Hyatte 10000, the rest of you nitwits 00 GOOSE EGGS BABY!!!!


The following conversation took place on Sept 18, 2003 at approximately 8:23 p.m.:

Flea: The Forbes 400 list came out this week, Hi-Weight!

Me: Oh yeah? You on it?

Flea: Nah. Let me see here.

Me: I imagine Bill Gates is number 1

Flea: Yup. Warren Buffet is 2

Me: Makes sense. Then maybe the guy who created Apple?

Flea:No. Paul Allen. Then it’s all people from the Walton family.

Me: Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense. They run a big food conglomerate.

Flea: (audible sigh)

Me: Don’t they own a bunch of different food compa…


Me: oh…


Yo, yo, check it out now. Check it out…

You jive ass honky turkeys, Hyatte’s here to say

That you be ill if you think John Cena can play

Bitch don’t rap, no speed to his game

Wigga be trippin if he thinks his rhymin’ ain’t lame 

White boy be slow, talks like a child.

His rappin’ be slow, simplistic and mild.

Momma’s boy ain’t a homeboy. It all be a front.

But white people thinks he’s gangsta, white people who never smoked a blunt.

Boy be slow, likes to pause between rhymes.

That ain’t OG style, bitch can get shot for these crimes

Just ‘cause white boys like Scherer, Keller, and Keith think Cena be street

Don’t mean shit. Just means they be ‘fraid of dark meat.

So don’t call Cena a gangsta. Boy’s got the flava of white rice

He’s ain’t got the skill. Damn, he’s even ain’t Vanilla Ice!




Forgive the indulgence, but anyone who’s read my latest Guide to Life column (and since you have already clicked there to check out Tammy’s goods, I’m sure I’m reaching 100% of the audience), and if you read the introduction segment before I burned into the questions, then you know that I am currently infatuated with a certain Spanish senorita with a smile that (and I swear to Christ Himself here) LIGHTS up the room (she’s not at TRISH’S level… but who is?).

Anywhoo… forgive the indulgence here, but I need the practice… BIG TIME… sooo… this goes out to any and all Hispanic ladies out there:

Mi corazon es para ti y te pongo el cielo a tus pies


She’s waving to me regularly now… as soon as she walks in alone, I’m going for it.

Whisper a foreign language in my ear, ladies… I don’t care if it’s the goddam bus schedule, just do it in a sexy voice and I’m melting like butter in the desert


So, no one has much to say about Triple H’s bachelor party, eh? BULLSHIT!!! HYATTE’S GOT THE SCOOP!!!!

Say you are a male female stripper. Because of whatever kindness God a local plastic surgeon smiled down on your loser ass, you have been blessed implanted with a gigantic enchilada rack of yammie bites. No, really, girls men see you and faint buy you things… guys girls see you and applaud make catty remarks behind your back… you almost faint whenever you get aroused get them hard because the rush of all that blood to one two place(s) makes you light-headed. 

It’s They are big.

So, early on, you realize what a treasure you have and see to it that the rest of the package is presentable. You maintain blow lunch in order to keep a 6 pack of abs, a deep pair of pecs, swollen arms, shoulders, legs clitoris, 0% body fat near perfect except for that thigh cheese and saggy ass, your hair is styled and trimmed and current dyed blonde.

So you live in Vegas Raleigh… where the girls men are either high class or scum class hicks or… no in-betweens there actually, they are all hicks and you are making decent money performing at clubs and at parties and it’s all well and good. Very occasionally, you’ll get to be molested by a hottie Arab terrorist, but for the most part, you’re dealing with middle-aged housewives with three chins and an ass the size of a slot machine fat old hillbillies in bib overalls and drooling tobacco juice. Often you wonder, as we all have: Is there more to life than this? Is this all I’m ever going to be? A boy toy for lonely, fat, smelly, pigs with wrinkles? why is water wet? What’s the number to 911? 

You consider suicide, possibly by choking to death doing a porno while in the midst of self-fellatio by letting a horse give you deep anal.

Then something happens… something wonderful.

You get booked for a typical bachelorette party Your club is booked for a bachelor party. The tips’ll be great, but chances are, you’ll get manhandled by some chick loser who looks like Wilford Brimley Scott Keith. You know you’ll have to smile, laugh, and act like you’re having the time of your life… it’s hard work having a huge monster in your trou set of basketballs playing hell on your back.

You show up at for the party, ready for whatever beast-things await you in the room… and look who you get:

Torrie Wilson Triple H

Trish Stratus (Bet'cha ass she showed)

Stacey Keibler Test

Dawn Marie The Big Show (okay… eww)

Sable John Cena

Ivory The Undertaker (okay… BIG EWWWW)

Nidia Rey Mysterio

And Victoria Many, many others.

All hot, all drunk, all in the mood for some cock pussy… YOURS

And even if it’s only Ivory Ric Flair who wants some private time… still, she he ain’t bad… is she he?

Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to go to bed tonight knowing that sometimes the sun shines just a bit harder on you when you’re feeling down and out. Sometimes God does smile on all of us: the wretched, the abused, the unwashed… and I want you to remember that even guys with massive peckers twits with massive bonzongos need a break sometimes… and sometimes they get it.

Unless, of course, the stripper who worked Torrie’s bachelorette Triple H’s bachelor party was a homo bull dyke… I hear most of them are. Then they get what they deserve… GIANT PENISES DO NOT BELONG ANYWHERE NEAR HAIRY, SMELLY, MALE ASSES!!! THEY JUST DON’T!!!! NO, NO, NO, NO!!! Hot chick on chick action rules, except if one of them looks like Roy Orbison. 

Shit just ain’t right. Hell no, that ain’t good at all.

And there you have it… Triple H’s bachelor party, fully covered


Great job and many thanks to all who sent out quotes for this and for movies. Keep ‘em coming.

*note: some of these may be wholly imagined.

Are you telling me Robert Gibson puts the rock in Rock and Roll?- Ric Flair

I'm not gonna let a guy like Triple H, a guy that tore his quadricep... I mean he was out for eight months! I tear my quadricep all the time! I tore it this morning, I'm fine, I'm here, I'm jumpin' around- Kurt Angle

Ooooh God Ohhh Mr. Hyatte, you were so right… size really DOESN’T matter!- Trish Stratus.

...And look out! The Texas Tornado Punch outta nowhere! And a count of three - Vince McMahon

Wait a minute! That is a closed fist! That's an illegal move, McMahon!- Jesse Ventura 

I didn't see a closed fist- McMahon 

What do ya think? He slapped him? - Ventura with McMahon during Kerry Von Erich's debut, Saturday Night's Main Event 7/28/90

With the exception of Angle AND Flair, ain’t nothing EVER tops old school… oh, and Nash too, when they give him an open mic… which they never do anymore… pricks.


You know, like with the wrestling quotes you guys are more than welcome to send in favorite movie quotes too… just make sure they are accurate.

So, will I see you again? 

Sorry, baby: you know there ain't no positive black females in these movies. -Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood

Spare some change, mister?

“Neither a beggar nor a lender me.” (smiles patronizingly) That's Shakespeare.

”Fuck You." That's David Mamet. -The Toxic Avenger, Part II

Oh that Barney Rubble. What an actor.- Night Shift

Ahhh Night Shift… when Michael Keaton knew how to take care of business

Hey, do you like the Stones?




But, of course, as reader Joe pointed out… there is no other quote that means a damn thing when compared to this:

And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking unto me, 

and saying in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? It is 

hard for thee to kick against the pricks.- The Bible: Acts 26:14

Now whoever wrote THAT should jump to the WWE PRONTISIMO…. They need the help.


Only very vaguely does the title have anything to do with the story, but any excuse to get the phrase “doggy style” in the column…

Recent survey says that Americans HATE RASSLIN’ 

WHAT? But the Net is so goddam POSITIVE about the sport!!! How can any fan NOT love the sport after such luminaries as Meltzer, Mitchell, and… (not really a luminary) Scott Keith spend page after page extolling the VIRTUES of the sport!?!?! HOW???

Anyway… rasslin’ finished SECOND, right behind dog fighting as the most despised “sport” in the land…I hear Hunter is trying to blame Rob Van Dam… and Vince is LISTENING!!! (why do I have the feeling this isn’t the FIRST time that joke has been written since the story broke?)

Well relax kids… I saw the list that the people polled were given… there were many, MANY pseudo sports NOT included that I’m SURE rasslin’ was WAY MORE POPULAR than… 

Which sports are that, Hyatte? I can hear you out ythere asking… well, I’ll tell you, hunker down, kids…here we go..

Rasslin is WAY more popular than…

-Full Contact Penis Sword Fighting

-Who Can Recap the most Rasslin Shows in a week

-Canadian Football

-The XFL

-Flame Mailing


-Running From Black People

-Marathon Masturbation

-GangBanging Grandma

-GangBanging CRZ’s Fiance

-Being Laughed at By Trish Stratus After Asking Her Out

-Squandering Your Whole Life When You Reach 30

-Find Your Penis With Tweezers (a fat people only sport)

-Who Can Stay A Virgin The Longest!

-Feeding Fatsos

-Who Wants To Work For A Cheap Millionaire

So you see… there are TONS of sports that are WAAAAY less cool than rasslin’?

Feel better now? Good. 

I guess we can wrap it up for now.

Oh, right… I promised to bring this up at the bottom, and here we are. Okay then…

Ahem… I STRONGLY recommend that Widro and Ashish both put SOMEONE in charge of “interviewing” potential writers. Someone who can cut through the bullshit and properly separate the talent from the crap (Eric S would ROCK). 

I FURTHER recommend that both owners of 411 CUT THE SHIT AND STOP BRINGING IN FUCKING LAME IMITATORS OF ME!! One of whom even goes so far as to make stupid PATTERSON JOKES. 

These watered down, LAME ASS copycats do NOT make the site better. They make the site look WEAK. (and if said person/people are reading this… don’t bother me… just fucking STOP) 

I know my ego knows no bounds… but the truth is I bring an AUDIENCE… and I really do NOT ask for much… but the style is MINE… I spent 3 years developing it and 3 MORE years trying to season it. It’s bad enough Mojo fucking Bruce Mitchell and Scooter Fucking Keith are trying real hard to emulate it… now I have little unknowns being handed a forum to do it too? ON MY OWN SITE??

Thanks guys. Good job. Well done. 

Maybe I’ll just bitch and bitch and keep blasting away until I make my point… and if not here, maybe at Flea’s site… and maybe some other writers will join me. I mean, God knows you have plenty of guys who can wing right up and replace me on Mondays, right boys? I’m washed up… all done. Pretty much worthless. I don’t even DO Patterson jokes anymore… so let’s bring someone who DOES! 

I need to think on this a’while. (but you all had better bookmark Flea’s site, just in case)


This is Hyatte