The Midnight News 10.20.03 

Posted By Hyatte on 10.20.03

R.I.P., Tammy, Oh Mercy!, Reading Material, Shane, XX, Widro, Quotes, and Remembering Madden's Momma! 

Nothing better than posting flames from two weeks ago, guaranteeing that most of you forgot just what I said to tick everyone off!

you need help, and when i say that i mean that you have a disorder, get help, least go to WebMD or something, you're destroying your life...just get help 



Ever think that maybe, when you write all those mean things about Canadians, it hurts poor Trish's feelings?

Name that I deleted away before posting.

Not sure she cares, and the Trish imposter I talk to has never brought it up.

you're a piece of shit fuckin maggot for that stupid ass Owen Hart joke you're an asshole

Chris Varakis


Well, I had truly thought we'd gone "live and let live". Guess I was wrong.

Enjoy your moment in the spotlight. One might say you've earned it. One ALSO 

might say you're a tool.

Either way, fleeting fun is better than no fun at all...

Have a good one, Chris.

I know that I will, in just a few days, by the looks of it.

Oh, you thought I'd try to do this PUBLIC? Ehh, I ain't EVER broken 411 bannable rules, I ain't gonna start with YOUR sorry ass. To THINK....I was COOL with it, fuck it, I'd forgotten and didn't click on your shit. Figured you'd done the same.

Guess I was wrong. Have a nice run, bro....and I'll TRY not to be TOO 

slagging on you when I return.

LOVE ya, Chrissy... 

Tomas Gidean

The funny (yet sad) part is that I truly have no idea who this is. 

Hello spoonrats. I’m Chris and this is the Midnight News. I wasn’t here last week because I got a spot of bad news that not only ruined my day, but also my week AND my year so far. Don’t ask. 

I’m back now, a little shaken, a little bugged out, a little depressed, a little sad, but ready to slap some stuff together and put together a little entertainment for you… or at least try. 

Oh blah, blah, blah… poor me, poor me, poor me another one.. let’s just get to it.


There have always been tag teams in the business, and really, the Samoans were the first to be pushed as “unstoppable”

But the Road Warriors took it to the next level.

When they were first booked out as Heels, they were damn near terrifying. When they became Faces, fans couldn’t wait to see how the Heels would be able to stop them.

Nevermind breaking Dusty’s ankle, when this new group called “The Four Horsemen” needed to get themselves over as a legitimate force, when they needed a powerplay that would shock the audience into silence, they went right after the most feared team in history. They piledrove Animal on the concrete then had Flair slap Hawk’s face dead center in the ring as Ole and Arn held him. They handed the Road Warriors a major league ass spanking and became THE dominant Heel group of the 80’s. 

The WWF never did come up with an alternative to the Horsemen. They did counter the Road Warriors with “Demolition”, who did have some success… until the Legion of Doom actually entered the WWF… Ax and Smash didn’t last much longer after that.

But, Father Time and his cousin Uncle Excess proved to be a more powerful tag team… the 90’s made the Road Warriors more human than anyone would’ve liked to see. Animal was never much of a wrestler anyway, but Hawk was… until that belly of his refused to quit expanding.

That’s the sad part… most of you will probably remember the Hawk who floundered for most of the 90’s… the one who showed up on RAW drunk and accusing Droz of being “The pusher man”. They weren’t the team you should remember. They were two guys living on reps. They were coasters.

Mike Hegstrand died last night in his sleep. He was 46.

Road Warrior Hawk died ten years ago. He was one bad motherfucker.

Let’s hope Hegstrand is at peace. Let’s keep our memories of Road Warrior Hawk from fifteen years ago alive and clear. The monster who made people piss his pants. He’d like that, I think.

This has been a mini-AAT from a guy who can still sometimes remember why he watches wrestling… if he squints real hard. 

Now back to our regularly scheduled jaded view on everything…


And after a full MONTH (more or less) of blowing it off, I’ve FINALLY shown up with a brand new Guide to Life column at Flea’s site. The questions on tap for this week deal with a fairly varied list of topics such as “How do I know she likes me”, “Should I go for it”, “Am I going insane?”, “What web sites should I visit?”, “Why aren’t I writing Stories Anymore?”, and “My daughters driving us CRAZY!!”… plus I have a special GUEST who rolled in for an assist on one of them. Plus, Flea has written something too, which is pretty good as well. Lots of fun over at 1ryder Better read it now before he and I stop talking to each other (I never keep a friend for much longer than a few years.) 


And yet, one crane kick was all Daniel-san needed to win the respect of the Cobra-Kai

I didn’t see the PPV because I’m a RAW guy… I’m sorry, but I am. RAW has Flair… RAW has Trish… RAW has HBK… RAW has Jericho… Smackdown has Stephanie. 

Sorry, no contest. I have to agree with pretty much everyone here. They are shoving Stephanie down the fans’ throat. They clearly do not give a fuck that 90% of the audience does not like her one bit 

And I’m not just talking about the net crowd either, nope… they’ll just put company made/handed out signs in the crowd and focus the cameras on them. Toss in a little crowd sweetener and PRESTO… EVERYONE loves Stephanie!!). 

Nothing anyone says will keep Stephanie from being on TV… but I sure as shit won’t buy anything that features her. It’s called a boycott

Anyway… here’s what happened, according to 411’s Chris Pankonin (who gets pissy if I forget his name)

-Remember Hiroshima? The Japs do, which is why two of them assisted Tajiri into beating Rey Mysterio for the chooserweight title… no one bothered to remind them that the only bombs Mexico have ever dropped are Quesada induced farts during siesta-time… those poor, confused Japs.

-Benoit beats A-Train… dippy mark fantasy of Mr. Personality winning the title countdown has BEGUN!!!! (Get real lamos… it ain’t ever gonna happen)

-How many legs does one need to beat Matt Hardy? ONE!!!

-How fruity does Bradshaw look with that new hairstyle? Fruity enough to be booked to lose against the BASHAM BOYS

-Vince beat Steph… Jesus died for this?.

-Why is John Cena getting shoved to the moon while Chris Benoit jerks the curtain? Because Cena has MIC SKILLS!!! Cena has CHARISMA. Of course, Angle beat the kid, but Angle’s on borrowed time anyway. How do you like THAT, marks? The WWE actually DOES push the smaller guys… when they see POTENTIAL… in order to HAVE potential, you have to have the FULL PACKAGE… Benoit can out-wrestle anyone… but he’s can’t act to save his life… and since his last name ain’t McMahon… well, figure it out.

-The Big Show beat Eddie for the title. GOOD! That was a big Fuck You to you. Eddie’s over, he doesn’t need two straps. 

-It took about 4 people to help Lesnar beat the Undertaker. Which sort of exemplifies exactly why I didn’t order the PPV. In fact, damn near every match had interference. No one wants to just lay down anymore. I blame Hunter.

I can already tell this column will be more serious than normal. It’s just how the mood is. It happens.

Well, with all this negativity going around, (and more to follow, booya) how about we enjoy some commentary from a true FAN’S point of view… someone you ALL know…


Maybe it’s my charisma! Maybe it’s my attitude! Maybe it’s because I’m just a wee bit cooler than anyone else (including YOU!!). Whatever the reason, Tammy Sytch is going to start trying to do regular commentary in this column. I say “trying” because she has no mandate with me. If she feels like writing something, she’ll have all the space her she wants. If she doesn’t, my door is always open for her.

She’s a sweet gal, and, by God, she’s a goddam WRESTLING FAN!! You want some POSITIVE commentary? Fine, here’s some from an EXPERT!!

“I've decided to contribute to Hyatte's column as much as I can. I had some tidbits here and there last week, but with his column AWOL no one has heard from me a for a few weeks, which depending on who you are might excite you. I really didn't have anything to contribute to this week's edition, until a scuttlebutt come around here, and a very interesting vibe begin to come around.

Jeff Jarrett attacks Hulk Hogan in Japan.

Before I get into this tirade, I want to make it known to all the cynics out there, I am by no means looking to get hired by TNA. In fact, I have a job and am very happy where I am. I have one last good run in me, but when and where it will happen is not in question here. I want to point out, some of the reasons why the wrestling fan should be excited by the rise of the NWA, and by the potential of Hulk Hogan joining up with them could be.

Lets face it, when was the last time someone has done something overseas that impacted the United States. A sneak attack if you will, from one member of a federation, to another, 1000's of miles away. Its something that created a international incident. Press from all over saw it, and for once, and not sense perhaps the nWo was spawned has something really generated such good angles. 

Lets face it, Hogan and Jarrett have a good past. A weird angle in WCW that has a "work/shoot" stigma around it. Both were great champions, and now, they have been essentially penciled to face one another in a match at TNA's first, Supercard. What more could you ask for? Well rumor is Tiger Mask will also wrestle on this show. A show that is potentially the first Starrcade, or the first Wrestlemania. Its the beginning of a new era. So are you ordering it? Well if you are a wrestling fan you should be.

Maybe you should order to see Hogan/Jarrett. Maybe you should order it to see Tiger Mask in a rare U.S. Appearance. Maybe you should order to see the great X-Division, which is LEAGUES above that wonderful cruiserweight division everyone still raves about. Maybe you should order it to see some young fresh and very good talent PUSHED, instead of buried. Maybe you should order to see Piledrivers, Moonsaults to the outside, Top rope DDTs and insane bumps that WWE has outlawed. Maybe you should order it so guys like Raven, D-Lo Brown, Shane Douglas and AJ Styles are able to continue to wrestle in this business, where if there was no #2 they wouldn't. Or most of all, maybe you should order it because you need to send a message to Vince, that hey, there is a alternative out here, they may not do EVERYTHING that I want, but it is a alternative, and they are doing things you aren't. 

After all, they did bring back Sting, they gave Hall a few chances, they made what is essentially a cruiserweight in AJ Styles, WORLD CHAMPION. They've allowed Low Ki, Christopher Daniels, AJ Styles, Jerry Lynn and countless others the freedom to have 5 star matches.

Hulk Hogan may have 50-75 matches left in his career. If we are lucky. Yes you read that right. Most everyone in this business got in because of Hulk Hogan. He's kept himself high profile, WWE tried to abuse him, and he got out keeping his legacy in tact. Lets face it, Ric Flair has been reduced to getting Maven over. That’s fine, but Flair will likely never get his one last chance to shine. Hogan should, and perhaps with TNA he will. Dusty Rhodes got his last chance at the NWA world Title last week. The match wasn't great, but the storyline into that, is one that will be remembered for years. Could the legend pull it out one more time?

Hey you can sit and complain about Vince and WWE all you want, or you can do something about it. If there was only Coke to drink, and as time went on their product started tasting less like Cola and more like piss....and then Dr. Pepper came along, and hey Dr.Pepper might not be the exact taste you like.....BUT, it was the only alternative...wouldn't you buy some Dr.Pepper to knock Coke down a few notches and say LOOK I want a better tasting Cola or by god I'm gonna make Dr.Pepper #1.

That may be a weird example, but if you want change order TNA once a month. Do it for the Styles, the Ravens, the D-Lo Browns and the Jerry Lynns. Every $10 you spend goes to pay those guys checks and make them a real national alternative......Every $35 you pay to WWE a month, goes mostly to Vince McMahon. You have to have a alternative, you have to, and for once we do. I'm hoping Hulk Hogan helps TNA make a difference, but most of all, I'm hoping the Wrestling fans do.

I work in wrestling, but I'm also a fan. From a fan standpoint, I like a lot of the things NWA-TNA is doing. They are giving a lot of my friends good chances to shine in the sun one last time, they are giving a lot of people who need a break in this business to get in, and they are giving a lot of legends one last good ride they deserve. 

That’s my bitch,

Tammy "Sunny" Sytch

And as a bonus, she sent me something two weeks ago, but as usual, I bailed out on that week… (no, really, I had good reason to this time around)… so here is what she submitted… in convenient nugget form!

-Dirty Dutch Mantel WAS in WWF as Uncle Zebikiah, he managed Bradshaw and Jacob & Eli Blu. Albeit not for long on either, he was in fact there for a few years. He has a brilliant mind for the business, and has untapped potential, he did some awesome stuff in USWA, and he'll only serve to help NWATNA even more.

-I got to watch Raw a few weeks ago and was treated to 3 sets of commentators, 1 set that has been doing Raw for years, 1 set that has been doing Heat for months, and 1 guy who has never broadcasted. Yet Chris Jericho was better then both King & JR and Coach & Snow. Odd isn't it? While I don't envy their job, cause the brief run I had on Shotgun Saturday Night was a lot more challenging then it looks, the broadcast team desperately needs a shakeup. I think they should go to a 3 man booth, since JR won't step down, and toss in someone young, hip and who can shut up Ross and Lawler and call the match.

-I love Terri, she's a total darling, but if she's going to be totally wasted on Raw as a subpar interviewer, shouldn't she at least wear some sexy outfits? She's pretty much wasted in her role there, she should have a segment kinda like I had, or like the Highlight Reel, or at the very least dress sexier, since she's only there for T&A; anyway.

-I continue to be totally impressed with Trish, she takes some bumps that a girl that pretty shouldn't take. I just wish she talked more, WWF used to really work on helping people with promos and such, I don't know if they still do, but it doesn't seem to have drifted into the women's division if they do.

-Lastly Evolution needs a woman, a great woman manager, who could bring some grace and sex appeal, yet still be a legit heel. Not that I'm offering myself, although I think I could do it, I'd love to have been the babe at Flair's side in his heyday, or anyday, we could have been a awesome tandem.

Thanks for the space Hyatte,



You’re welcome, sweet pea.

I like the fact that she took the time to properly spell it “nWo”… I, like all of you jackals, always blew it off and just wrote nwo or NWO… it’s a small touch, but it speaks volumes for the respect she has for the biz.

And she is fielding questions too 

… about anything you want to ask about the business from the inside, about her experience, about anything (yes, including THAT topic)… whether she answers them or not is up to her… but she will read them… maybe she’ll answer them in private, or maybe here in the column if she’s stuck for material. Totally up to her. She has no rules here. I’m cool like that.

Yeah, like I’d lay some doofy rules.

Anyway… I’m sure Tammy and Trish are both goofing on that loser Hyatte… just like High School. And college. And yesterday. And a few hours ago. Frickin… chicks… all of yous…bah. 


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hi-Betr8ed

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


Want to see one of the most graceful, moving introductions ever written?

Here it is, a retrospective exhibition of the shorter works of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. – and Vonnegut is still very much with us, and I am still very much Vonnegut. Somewhere in Germany is a stream called the Vome. That is the source of my curious name.

I have been a writer since 1949. I am self-taught. I have no theories about writing that might help others. When I write I simply become what I seemingly must become. I am six feet two and weigh nearly two hundred pounds and am badly coordinated, except when I swim. All that borrowed meat does the writing.

In the water I am beautiful.

Funny thing is, the book that passage is from (on the very first page, no less) isn’t even the book I’m selecting this time around. That book is Welcome to the Monkeyhouse, an interesting collection of short stories from an interesting guy, who wrote another book which is this week’s selection.

A few years ago, someone recommended Kurt Vonnegut to me. It took me a while to give him a try, but I did and I am pleased. I hope the person is reading this and smiling. Hiya kid! 

People say Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty Dance with Death is THE anti-war book by which all others are judged. They may be right and they may be wrong. Really, it’s up to the reader to decide.

See, the book isn’t exactly a “Damn-This-War-is-Hell” type of book. It is a deconstruction of an unraveling mind, said mind unraveling because of war. The main protagonist: a rather sappy, unassuming guy named Billy Pilgrim, is put through something that a man like him has no business going through – waging war (the second world war), getting caught, and experiencing life as a prisoner of war in Dresden, and it affects him throughout his life. The narrator is Vonnegut himself, who also found himself at Dresden. Vonnegut goes easy on the brute, physical torture aspects and instead focuses on the mental torture, and how Pilgrim deals with it.

In the book, Vonnegut establishes that time has no meaning. He does this by having Billy kidnapped by an alien race called the Tralfamadorians, who can travel through time. It’s a nifty trick, allowing Vonnegut to jump into different times in Pilgrim’s life without losing the books linear flow while also breaking down Pilgrim’s fragile psyche. He also uses this device to show how much death Pilgrim witnessed and how desensitized he became to it. Whenever someone dies in this book, Vonnegut attached the sentence, “so it goes” after. See, with the Tralfamadorians, death is nothing to cry about. Not when you can simply go back in time as much as you like to see the person before he entered this death state.

Or perhaps it really did happen and Billy Pilgrim was kidnapped by space aliens.

Or maybe this is 100% fictional bullshit. Again, it’s all up to the reader to decide.

What I can definitely tell you is that Vonnegut is a brilliant writer. His prose is as elegant as it is natural. He makes his points without beating you over the head with them, and without getting in the way of the story. In Vonnegut’s world, war IS hell, but it’s effects aren’t as obvious as we’ve been led to believe. In fact, it’s effects are rather personal.

The excerpt I’ve picked here juxtaposes Pilgrim’s hallucination with the reality that inspired it. Billy is first taken captive by the Tralfamadorians, then jumps back in time to his ten day voyage to the prison camp. From the flying saucer to a packed freight train and back again. Trust me on this, it’s good stuff:

The saucer was one hundred feet in diameter, with portholes around its rim. The light from the portholes was a pulsing purple. The only noise it made was the owl song. It came down to hover over Billy, and to enclose him in a cylinder of pulsing purple light. Now there was a sound of a seeming kiss as an airtight in the bottom of the saucer was opened. Down snaked a ladder that was outlined in pretty lights like a Ferris wheel.

Billy’s will was paralyzed by a zap gun aimed at him from one of the portholes. It became imperative that he take hold of the bottom rung of the sinuous ladder, which he did. The rung was electrified, so that Billy’s hands locked onto it hard. He was hauled into the airlock, and machinery closed the bottom door. Only then did the ladder, wound onto a reel in the airlock, let him go. Only then did Billy’s brain start working again.

There were two peepholes inside the airlock – with yellow eyes pressed to them. There was a speaker on the wall. The Tralfamadorians had no voice boxes. They communicated telepathically. They were able to talk to Billy by means of a computer and a sort of electric organ which made every Earthling speech sound.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Pilgrim,” said the loudspeaker. “Any questions?”

Billy licked his lips, thought a while, inquired at last: “Why me?”

“That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?”

“Yes,” Billy, in fact, had a paperweight in his office which was a blob of polished amber with three ladybugs embedded in it.

“Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.”

They introduced an anesthetic into Billy’s atmosphere now, put him to sleep. They carried him to a cabin where he was strapped to a yellow Barca-Lounger which they had stolen from a Sears Roebuck warehouse. The hold of the saucer was crammed with other stolen merchandise, which would be used to furnish Billy’s artificial habitat in a zoo on Tralfamadore.

The terrific acceleration of the saucer as it left Earth twisted Billy’s slumbering body, distorted his face, dislodged him in time, sent him back to the war.

When he regained consciousness, he wasn’t’ on the flying saucer. He was in a boxcar crossing Germany again.

Some people were rising from the floor of the car, and others were lying down. Billy planned to lie down, too. It would be lovely to sleep. It was black in the car, and black outside the car, which seemed to be going about two miles an hour. The car never seemed to go any faster than that. It was a long time between clicks, between joints in the track. There would be a click, and then a year would go by, and then there would be another click.

The train often stopped to let really important trains bawl and hurtle by. Another thing it did was stop on sidings near prisons, leaving a few cars there. It was creeping across Germany, growing shorter all the time.

And Billy let himself down oh so gradually now, hanging onto the diagonal cross-brace in the corner in order to make himself seem nearly weightless to those he was joining on the floor. He knew it was important that he make himself nearly ghostlike when lying down. He had forgotten why, but a reminder soon came.

“Pilgrim -” said a person he was about to nestle with, “is that you?”

Billy didn’t say anything, but nestled very politely, closed his eyes.

“God damn it,” said the person. “That is you, isn’t it?” He sat up and explored Billy rudely with his hands. “It’s you all right. Get the hell out of here.”

Now Billy sat up, too – wretched, close to tears.

“Get out of here! I want to sleep!” 

“Shut up,” said somebody else.

“I’ll shut up when Pilgrim gets away from here.”

So Billy stood up again, clung to the cross-brace.

“Where can I sleep?” he asked quietly.

“Not with me.”

“Not with me, you son of a bitch,” said somebody else. “You yell. You kick.”

“I do?”

“You’re God damn right you do. And whimper.”

“I do?”

“Keep the hell away from here, Pilgrim.”

And now there was an acrimonious madrigal, with parts sung in all quarters of the car. Nearly everybody, seemingly, had an atrocity story of something Billy Pilgrim had done to him in his sleep. Everybody told Billy Pilgrim to keep the hell away.

So Billy Pilgrim had to sleep standing up, or not sleep at all. And food had stopped coming through the ventilators, and the days and nights were colder all the time.

On the eighth day, the forty-year old hobo said to Billy, “This ain’t bad. I can be comfortable anywhere.”

“You can?” said Billy.

On the ninth day, the hobo died. So it goes. His last words were, “You think this is bad? This ain’t bad.”

There was something about death and the ninth day. There was a death on the ninth day in the car ahead of Billy too. Roland Weary died – of gangrene that had started in his mangled feet. So it goes.

Weary, in his nearly continuous delirium, told again and again of the Three Musketeers, acknowledged that he was dying, gave many messages to be delivered to his family in Pittsburgh. Above all, he wanted to be avenged, so he said again and again the name of the person who killed him. Everyone on the car learned the lesson well.

“Who killed me?” he would ask.

And everyone knew the answer, which was this: “Billy Pilgrim.”

Listen – on the tenth night the peg was pulled out of the hasp on Billy’s boxcar door, and the door was opened. Billy Pilgrim was lying at an angle on the corner-brace, self-crucified, holding himself there with a blue and ivory claw hooked over the sill of the ventilator. Billy coughed when the door was opened, and when he coughed he shit thin gruel. This was in accordance with the Third Law of Motion according to Sir Isaac Newton. This law tells us that for every action there is a reaction which is equal and opposite in direction.

This can be useful in rocketry.

The train had arrived on a siding by a prison which was originally constructed as an extermination camp for Russian prisoners of war.

The guards peeled inside Billy’s car owlishly, cooed calmingly. They had never dealt with Americans before, but they surely understood this general sort of freight. They knew that it was essentially a liquid which could be induced to flow slowly toward cooing and light. It was nighttime.

The only light outside came from a single bulb which hung from a pole – high and far away. All was quiet inside, except for the guards, who cooed like doves. And the liquid began to flow. Gobs of it built up in the doorway, plopped to the ground.

Billy was the next-to-last human being to reach the door. The hobo was last. The hobo could not flow. He wasn’t liquid anymore. He was stone. So it goes.

Billy didn’t want to drop from the car to the ground. He sincerely believed that he would shatter like glass. So the guards helped him down, cooing still. They set him down facing the train. It was such a dinky train now.

There was a locomotive, a tender, and three little boxcars. The last boxcar was the railroad guards’ heaven on wheels. Again – in that heaven on wheels – the table was set. Dinner was served.

At the base of the pole from which the light bulb hung were three seeming haystacks. The Americans were wheedled and teased over to those three stacks, which weren’t hay after all. They were overcoats taken from prisoners who were dead. So it goes.

It was the guards’ firmly expressed wish that every American without an overcoat should take one. The coats were cemented together with ice, so the guards used their bayonets as ice picks, pricking free collars and hems and sleeves and so on, then peeling off coats and handing them out at random. The coats were stiff and dome-shaped, having conformed to their piles.

The coat that Billy Pilgrim got had been crumpled and frozen in such a way, and was so small, that it appeared to be not a coat but a sort of large black three-cornered hat. There were gummy stains on it, too, like crankcase drainings or old strawberry jam. There seemed to be dead, furry animal frozen to it. The animal was in fact the coat’s fur collar.

Billy glanced dully at the coats of his neighbors. Their coats all had brass buttons or tinsel or piping or numbers or stripes or eagles or moons or stars dangling from them. They were soldiers’ coats. Billy was the only one who had a coat from a dead civilian. So it goes.

And Billy and the rest were encouraged to shuffle around their dinky train and into the prison camp. There wasn’t anything warm or lively to attract them – merely long, low, narrow sheds by the thousands, with no lights inside.

Somewhere a dog barked. With the help of fear and echoes and winter silences, that dog had a voice like a big bronze gong.

Billy and the rest were wooed through gate after gate, and Billy saw his first Russian. The man was all alone in the night – a ragbag with a round, flat face that glowed like a radium dial.

Billy passed within a yard of him. There was barbed wire between them. The Russian did not wave or speak, but he looked directly into Billy’s soul with sweet hopefulness, as though Billy might have good news for him – news he might be too stupid to understand, but good news all the same.

Billy blacked out as he walked though gate after gate. He came to in what he thought might be a building on Tralfamadore. It was shrilly lit and lined with white tiles. It was on earth, though. It was a delousing station through which all new prisoners had to pass.

Billy did as he was told, took off his clothes. That was the first thing they told him to do on Tralfamadore, too. 

A German measured Billy’s upper right arm with his thumb and forefinger, asked a companion what sort of an army would send a weakling like that to the front. They looked at the other American bodies now, pointed out a lot more that were nearly as bad as Billy’s

One of the best bodies belonged to the oldest American by farm a high school teacher from Indianapolis. His name was Edgar Derby. He hadn’t been in Billy’s boxcar. He’d been in Roland Weary’s car, had cradled Weary’s head while he died. So it goes. Derby was forty-four years old. He was so old he had a son who was a marine in the Pacific theater of war.

Derby had pilled political wires to get into the army at his age. The subject he taught in Indianapolis was Contemporary Problems in Western Civilization. He also coached the tennis team, and took very good care of his body.

Derby’s son would survive the war. Derby wouldn’t. That good body of his would be filled with holes by a firing squad in Dresden in sixty-eight days. So it goes.

The worst American body wasn’t Billy’s. The worst body belonged to a car thief from Cicero, Illinois. His name was Paul Lazzaro. He was tiny, and not only were his bones and teeth rotten, but his skin was disgusting. Lazzaro was polka-dotted all over with diamond-size scars. He had had many plagues of boils.

Lazzaro, too, had been on Roland Weary’s boxcar, and had given his word of honor to Weary that he would find some way to make Billy Pilgrim pay for Weary’s death, he was looking around now, wondering which naked human being was Billy.

The naked Americans took their places under many showerheads along a white-tiled wall. There were no faucets they could control. They could only wait for whatever was coming. Their penises were shriveled and their balls were retracted. Reproduction was not the main business of the evening.

An unseen hand turned a master valve. Out of the showerheads gushed scalding rain. The rain was a blowtorch that did not warm. It jazzed and jangled Billy’s skin without thawing the ice in the marrow of his long bones.

The Americans’ clothes were meanwhile passing through poison gas. Body lice and bacteria and fleas were dying by the billions. So it goes.

And Billy zoomed back in time to his infancy. He was a baby who had just been bathed by his mother. Now his mother wrapped him in a towel, carried him into a rosy room that was filled with sunshine. She unwrapped him, laid him on the tickling towel, powdered him between his legs, joked with him, patted his little jelly belly. Her palm on his little jelly belly made potching sounds.

Billy gurgled and cooed.

And then Billy was a middle-aged optometrist again, playing hacker’s golf this time – on a blazing summer Sunday morning. Billy never went to church anymore. He was hacking with three other optometrists. Billy was on the green in seven strokes and it was his turn to putt.

It was an eight foot putt and he made it. He bent over to take the ball out of the cup, and the sun went behind a cloud. Billy was momentarily dizzy. When he recovered, he wasn’t on the golf course any more. He was strapped to a yellow contour chair in a white chamber aboard a flying saucer, which was bound for Tralfamadore

“Where am I?” said Billy Pilgrim.

“Trapped in another blob of amber, Mr. Pilgrim. We are where we have to be just now – three hundred million miles from earth, bound for a time warp which will get us to Tralfamadore in hours rather than centuries.”

“How – how did I get here?”

“It would take another earthling to explain it to you. Earthlings are the great explainers, explaining why this event is structured as it is, telling how other events may be achieved or avoided. I am a Tralfamadorian, seeing all time as you might see a stretch of the Rocky Mountains. All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take a moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.”

“You sound to me as though you don’t believe in free will,” said Billy Pilgrim.

“If I hadn’t spent so much time studying Earthlings,” said the Tralfamadorian, “I wouldn’t have any idea what was meant by ‘free will’. I’ve visited thirty-one inhabited planets in the universe, and I have studied reports on one hundred more. Only on earth is there any talk of free will.”

Talking about great introductions, Vonnegut lays it all out very matter-of factly before we get into the story:

People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore.

I’ve finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be for fun.

This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt. It begins like this:


Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

It ends like this:


And the trip in-between is something to see.

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Don’t be scared of it. It’s brilliance.

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


Word has it that Shane Douglas spends most of his time prior to the NWA taping sitting alone in his car in the parking lot. This is worrying people.

Well, let’s recap…. In a sort of chronological order as clear as my fuzzy memory will allow

He trained with Mick Foley in the same school.

He started out as a “Dynamic Dude” with a guy who is about to end up with Jim Ross’s WWE job.

Won the WCW tag team title with Ricky Steamboat.

He took advantage of WCW splitting from the NWA by winning the NWA belt and throwing it on the ECW floor

Went to the WWF, became the Dean… was handed the Inter-Continental title. Held it for about as long as it took me to write this sentence. Left the WWF and spent the rest of his career bitching about Scott Hall and the rest of the Clique.

Back to ECW where he won the title four times, and cut endless promos.

Off to WCW where he was pushed and pushed and pushed some more, and really, did anyone care?

Made the dumbest career move in his life and hooked up with that ridiculous XWF Porn federation.

Now is in NWA and is basically praying that he gets to stay a’while.

He managed to do all of this while having about as little pure wrestling talent as a man of his experience can possibly have.

Has abused his awesome mic skills with endless, rambling, 99% pointless monologues that are famous for taking the scenic route and still getting nowhere.

Here’s a guy who has made pretty much every wrong choice a guy can make… who is THISCLOSE to 40 and is just starting to realize that he is one more fuck-up away from being virtually unemployable in the US.

Yeah, sit in that car, Shane…. Sit there and stay quiet… because you really do suck at politics.


To most people, 411’s Widro is an easy-going, funloving guy who just wants to be loved! 

To most people… Widro is a kind, benevolent dictator who is to be feared for his power… yet respected for his kindness. 

To most people… Widro is happy-go-lucky. Nothing can faze him. Nothing can touch him. He takes everything in stride. He is untouchable… he is invincible!

Heh… wanna see Widro with his buttons pushed all to hell? Wanna see him embrace his Jewish heritage and go all “suffering” on me? It’s really a site to behold.

See, I asked Widro to make me an Administrator on the 411 Forums just on a whim. So he said he would.

Then I got to talking to current Administrator Mike Watters and told him that since Widro said I could be one anyway, he might as well go ahead and give me the power. So he did.

Then, as Administrator, I hit the forums and posted this… specifically to raise unholy hell and to drive the kids batshit. so it did:


I told Mr. Watters a long time ago that when he limited my mod power, it would be temporary at best.

All I needed was to grab Widro at the right time and whine like a bitch.

Say hello to your new Administrator!

Now, let's start things off with style, let's kick off the regime with some pointless, rampant displays of power, shall we?

Carlos is no longer an Admin until he learns the value of RESPECT! When I want someone BANNED, C-Los, I expect them banned!

Speaking of which, have a nice life Ano... anona... oh you're Bad Boy and you've been begging for this for years now. So long, you ain't coming back.

And Coren? You're gone because I don't like your face.

Even Flow Pete, this is what happens when you get into a pissing contest with me... I win because I NEVER forget. You can stay, but you get no more mod power. Quite the shag pisser, aye mate?

Who else? Hmm, let's see... Twisted Brown or whoever your name is... zap, you can fake wrestle with yourself from now on. No reason other than I feel e-feds suck... mod power OFF.

Nemesis. Before I chucked him, I had Carlos unban you... now you're banned again... you can come back after you raise some more Hell at weinerville... make it the sort of Hell that gets CRZ all sorts of steamed and you're re-instated. This isn't a punishment for you, it's a mission... go create a little chaos at CRZ's little board and you're back in. 

That should do it. The rest of you feel free to chirp away and say whatever you want. You'll find me a rather laid back God... I'll hardly do much more than random bannings from time to time. Then I'll get sick of it and you'll forget I'm here. Feel free to look around and continue your usual activities. Don't try my temper and I won't mess with your fun. Basically, continue as normal!

Just know, I'm petty, vindictive, AND an asshole. 

And I'm watching YOU

Then I went to bed, got up the next day, and went to work. 

I came home 10 hours later, ate, played with my parrot, showered, masterbated, did normal stuff… then went online and checked my e-mail.

It seems Widro had a very busy day:


i'm not sure what exactly is going on... maybe you can help me out... last week you and i spoke about you being an admin on the forum as part of your HR thing. i told you i would talk to mike and carlos, and that's where we left it.

fast forward to this morning... after a long night of drinking, i wake up to see chaos on the forum... apparently you went to see mike and told him i told him to make you a mod? why would you do that? then you fired carlos? or he quit? then other mods are fired?

i'm not sure what your obsession with the forum is, but it gets as many hits as all the other non-wrestling zones COMBINED. i might not like posting there, but 100s and 1000s of 411 readers do. i have bent over backwards to accomodate you lately, and it seems like you are trying to torture me by creating extra work on the forum, and extra work dealing with all the forum admins, mods and posters on IM and email. 

please come on AIM or email me back with some kind of explanation that doesnt make me feel like you are trying to play me for a fool


Then apparently, Widro got in touch with Carlos, the OTHER Forum Adnministrator, who was IN ON THE WHOLE THING with me, including the demotion of his powers. 

Upon hearing from Carlos… Widro got the joke and we all had a big laugh… NOT!!

so i talked to carlos, seems like it was all a big joke... ha ha ha... 

i'm sure you'll mock my other email now, and laugh at me or whatever... but i spent about 4 hours or so talking to mike and other mods on IM and on the forum, posting on his mod-only forum, trying to figure out what happened... trying to fix what appeared to be another big problem. 

so i'm glad you had fun with it, but once again the loser is me - hours of added work on a site where i already am working overtime lately to pander to everyone's needs. i thought i had earned some kind of respect that your jokes wouldnt be ON ME or cause me hours of needless stress and work, but i guess not. 

thanks again


HAW!! Oh that poor, poor Chosen One…. God Bless ‘im… 

Really, don’t you just want to hug the little guy.

So the end result… I was demoted, then weaseled my Admin powers back… which I plan on doing nothing with other than screwing with one guy who is a total whiney baby… (and trust me on this one, little guy, this will go on for a long, long time).

Hey, I have to get my kicks SOMEWHERE… ain’t like being a NetGod PAYS well.

And the online fun didn’t stop there… oh no it didn’t!


No, this has nothing to do with that silly book or that silly man (who now has a Blog site to comment in more detail on what he eats and watches on TV. A truly, fully- rounded individual). This is about yours truly. Don’t worry, it’s quick.

You should sue whoever told you were talented.

Quit wasting people’s time with your lame-ass comedy bits. Just stick to doing stupid commentary, chubsy

That e-mail was written by ME and sent to Pat McNeil of the Torch because he did a horrible parody of “Kill Bill” involving Bill Goldberg and then posted another column with four big letters from people telling him how funny he is. It’s one of the gayest things a person can do and it set me off.

I was drunk at the time. I always do dumb things while I’m drunk and online. Including writing letters to former girlfriends who have made it clear that they want no part of me anymore.

Sad thing is… I really NEVER read McNeil.

No, that’s basically it. Except if Pat pulls gay fucking stunts like this one more time I’m going back to busting on his dead MOMMA!! (And Pat, pay VERY close attention to the last segment of the column for a true taste of what I’m capable of here)


Since it’s quite clear I really don’t have much to give this week… let’s do some rhetorical thinking… why not?

Here’s my dream card for Wrestlemania 20:

Brock vs Goldberg

Austin vs Hogan

The Rock vs Savage

HBK vs Sting

Triple H vs Kurt Angle

Vince McMahon vs Bret Hart

Undertaker vs Kane

Ric Flair vs Mick Foley

Zack Gowan vs His Pants.

Randy Orton vs Chris Benoit

Kevin Nash vs The Big Show

Chris Jericho vs John Cena

Trish Stratus vs My Penis

Thank you.


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.

I will choke you out Tazz

The only thing you can choke is Jack Victory's limp dick.- Steve Corino and Tazz

You know JR, no one gives a damn where anyone played football it only matters what they can do in the ring. Now tell us about Prince Albert.- Lawler

Why don’t you tell us about him King? That’s right you can’t ‘cause you don’t know a damn thing about anything.- Ross

Later in that same match (SummerSlam 1999)

Ok JR tell us about Bradshaw's football background.- Lawler

I don’t want to. My feelings are hurt - Ross

This? Why it’s a strap-on. Just relax Christopher, I’m not going to hurt you. I think you’ll like this. That’s right baby, flip over.- Trish Stratus

Brian Pillman and Alex Wright have a lot in common, Brain

Yeah, they’re both punks!- Heenan and Schiavone

You know Hot Rod they say an old man like me can die at any moment and I almost died on top of Buff's girlfriend last night.- Flair


One thing that’s good about Triple H’s absence… the Nature Boy gets to run wild!

It’s amazing! Look at Flair beat on Maven with a broken leg!!- Lawler, last week on RAW


I was about to wrap up with a big, huge “Across the Boards” message board thingy… but I’m running out of space here…. Besides, you know what this column needs? It needs some old school SAVING…


Note to Tammy… I know you like the guy, hun, so it might be wise if you log off now… this gets brutal real quick.

What inspired this is the fact that I’ve been told that mark Madden makes semi-regular appearances on the Torch VIP message boards… and has yet to make as single post that DOESN’T include his entire resume. You know, the one where he started out a hotline lemming , then became a “Net God”, then was a WCW Color Commentator… and we are all jealous of this fact. 

Of course, coming from a true “Net God” like me… I must point out that posting two columns at Wrestleline and making a very rare update at a half-ass home site that lasted about 6 months does not exactly make you a Net God… but I digress

Anywhoo… while I was doing the Mop-Ups, I kept looking for a hook with him. Since he was annoying the crap out of everyone on Nitro… he pretty much begged to be goofed on. I didn’t want to go for the weight issue because everyone else did that. I wanted something fresh, unique, something that would separate me from the pact.

So I started having sex with his Mother.

The gimmick took off… 

Then Madden was tossed off Nitro and I decided to throw him a farewell party… but instead of using MY material, I let the fans speak out… the following is a classic Mop-Up bit that was (at the time) the sickest thing I’ve ever posted… enjoy: 


Hey Mark! You worthless fat piece of dog cum, I just thought you might like to here what a few of the Internet readers think of you, and the little jizz tank of a female that produced you! Of course, these people don't KNOW your Mother, and we are AWARE that she is probably a sweet old gal... but since YOU choose to play up the "Internet Heel" and badmouth the Internet visiters during your infrequent postings, I have a few friends you would like to return the favor and assume the worst about the she-cow that made you. After all, just like YOU made assumptions about how we are all just jealous of you for being in the business, WE took one look at your sallow, pimply, obese, pasty body and made some assumptions of our own. Hey, since we ALL know that you really DO care about what people think... let's hope these little fantasies from the Net is enough to throw you into a fit of despair.


1) Rick Lucas says, I could have been Madden's father, but the line was too long and the guy in front of me had exact change.

2) "Mr G" involves some wrestling and suggests... Have Rikishi sit bare assed on Madden's face until he passes out, then staple mom's lips to Madden's anus and have Rikishi jump on his stomach. Everything that comes out will go directly into mom's mouth. Sidenote: It may be a good idea to plug Madden's mouth and nose so nothing is wasted or escapes the wrong way. 

3) Terry Anderton went the methodical torture route... You first tie her up, then you carefully gouge her eyeballs out so that everything is intact, then you slowly, (over several days), stretch them out of their sockets so the nerves are still intact, and so that she can still see and feel everything that happens to her. You can play around with the eyeballs a little, as long as they survive in the end. Next thing you do after that is you turn her little eyes around and first point them at her head, You let him see how butt ugly she, and just when she's about to cry, you place her eyeballs on some stable area, turned towards her stomach, then begin making cuts. Her shirt is, obviously, off. The cuts aren't lethal, maybe a little stomach-gouging, some rib removal, fairly safe stuff. As long as she doesn't bleed to death, it's okay. Find the largest stomach wound, and open it wider, all the while maintaining care. Rig a couple pocket flashlights to shine in there, and let her eyes soak in there for a while. Let him see what she's done to herself, and tell her to enjoy the peace, and leave her there. The next morning, she should be randomly shouting nonsense, such as "Snootchie-Bootchies!" and "Spinerooni!" She will also be hungry, as seeing a digestive system at work will have gotten her appetite up. Give her a feast. She will be thoroughly disgusted, seeing all this food enter her stomach, and will be compelled to throw up. Be careful - it will be monstrous. Her hurling will set off a chain reaction of "I saw myself eat, which made me hurl, which I saw, which was so disgusting I hurled again..." and so on. She will soon disgorge his entire digestive tract, and will never be heard from again.

4) Mr 44 keeps things simple... chop off all her fingers with a hatchet, and shove them up her ass.

5) As does Paul... I'd take a linoleum knife and make an incision around Mark Madden's mother legs, just below the knees. Then I'd pull the skin down like a sock

6) Barrett has a few... pop both eye balls out and then have them look at each other", "chop off her legs and then tie her up in suspended chair. Lower her down so her p**** can perform a spinerroni on your c*** as you twist her around and around", "F-her earlobe so she can hear you coming", "open up her skull cap and hit pressure points on her brain until you can see her arm move. Maybe this will be the exercise she really needs.", "Wire her eyes open and play every embarrassing thing that madden has said and done while on wcw", " Vlad the Impaler....put a pole in her pooper and then lift her up so that all her weight is on it. Lower her down slowly until she dies"," Build a time machine and go back in time when maddens mom and dad are f-ing....throw his father off and screw his mom. Come back to the future and give him TWO reasons why he has to call you daddy", "The Hydro Test....3 guys take every opening and test her for leaks."

7) Eric Jackson goes for poetic irony, The only fitting punishment for Madden's mother is to shove Mark,ass first, back into that foul hole he came from.

8) So does Alan Redding, I think it would be both funny, and educational to see Madden's mother gang-banged by every midget in every parody skit done in WCW/WWF. Kinda signifying Madden's life in a full circle perspective.


9) Keith Hunter has and idea... I will pluck out your mama's eyeball, skull f**k her and make you eat her brains off my d**k.

10) Kris gets confused about certain things... but finishes strong, I actually see Madden's Mom being accidently impregnated during one of her sodomy sessions. Nine months pass and the time has come for Mrs. Madden to perform the miracle of birth in the hospital. She's not quite ready and the doctors leave Mark alone to comfort his mother. Yet Mark see's an opportunity. Desparate now to know the orifice of a human female, Dr. Mark visciously performs ceasarian on his writhing momma and inserts himself into the soft spot of the writhing fetus. And though she should be experiencing terror, she loves it! Alas the child was male and Mark is foiled again.

11) Kurt Osterlund keeps it simple, Can you imagine having to give birth to that festering fat lump of dung all over again? The thing is, if that happened maybe the cow could get something right this time around. And that would be a sloppy third trimester, self done abortion with a rusty coat hanger.


13) and FINALLY... J. Villiard gets some friends and... I stripped her fat ass naked, grabbed a couple of leather straps, and tied her to a bed. Then I called up about twenty of my friends, and they came over. You know what? She did us ALL! That's right! Madden's mom was the queen of the gang bang in Minnesota, last night! She kept it up all night long, too! She couldn't get enough! Sometimes she was doin' us two... three... four... even FIVE at a time (one in the front, one in the pooper, one in the mouth, and one in each hand... It was f-in' incredible, man. I couldn't believe an ape like her could have that much coordination. You had to see it!)! We blew EVERYWHERE! In her mouth! Up her slot! On her chest! Up her booty! In her eyes! In her ears! EVERYWHERE! She was squealin' the whole time, too! The b**ch was squealin' like a pig! The most amazing thing, though... was SHE WAS LIKING IT! Damn straight! The cheap slut was actually getting off on all of it! Hell, she was BEGGING us to do it more to her! Hell, when we got done, she begged us to do it to her, AGAIN! On one condition... we all had to sh** in her mouth each time we got done! You heard me right! We had to take a big, fat, sloppy SH** in Madden's Mom's mouth after we each got done! We didn't even have to ask if we could do it either! No, SHE... ASKED... US! That's right! TWENTY... count them.... TWENTY men, all banging Madden's mom, one (and sometimes MORE) after the other, and then each taking a dump in her mouth.... AND THE STUPID BROAD LOVED IT! SHE SWALLOWED EVERYTHING WE PUT IN THERE! Hell, I even took pitty on her and pissed in her mouth so she could rinse her dentures out... SHE SWALLOWED THAT, TOO! IT WAS UNBELIEVEABLE! I thought the old woman was going to kick off on us every now and then, too, she was going at it so hard. Every now and then, her eyes would roll up in her head and she'd start foamin' at the mouth. Hell, I brought a car battery and some jumper cables in just in case I needed to jumpstart her pacemaker. But she kept going right through the whole damn line.

There you go Mark. NOW you have a reason to bitch about the Internet.

Of course... I'm SURE your Mother is a very nice girl... think of this as... symbolic hatred.

And I’m done. Next week, more of the same yet different.

Hey assholes… look over this column again… other than the movie thing, the Book thing, and the Widro thing it was ALL rasslin’ related!


Oh… and fuck the Marlins and FUCK the Yankees… this’ll be the most boring, lowest rated World Series ever. No Cubs + No Sox = Back to Watching Football!!

This is Hyatte