The Midnight News 06.03.04 

Posted by Hyatte on 06.03.2004 

Secret Messages, Hogan, Trish, Vince, Reading Material, Flea, Passing Gas, and Recycling 

I’m Chris and this is the Mop-Up Omega. What was just a smattering of segments has turned into a nicely sized smattering of segments. There ya go and here you are.


I should’ve took THIS week off, because the Monday column, which featured Sting, a Zack Gowan update, and up to the minute ALEXA rankings was gangbusters!, yet a lot of folks may have missed it because people at work like to kill a few minutes reading me instead of staring at the latest spread sheets and office memos and what not… so if they weren’t at work on Monday… ipso, opso, defacto, then they missed the column.

I just should’ve taken the week off… DAMN my work ethic!

One person who DID read Monday’s column is someone who REALLY should read this next segment…


Hey ladies… help me out here.

No matter how much you love someone, are there some names that you cannot bring yourselves to scream without feeling like a tool?

Example: Picture this intimate moment: “Ohhh… ohhhhh. OHHHH…. OHHHHHH….OHHHHHH CHAZ!!!!! OHHHHHH CHAAAAAAAAAAAZ!!!

Can you REALLY see yourself shouting that without feeling like a moron? I’m just curious.

Anyways… good luck, kiddo. Tell him the “Amish Fagola” look is a bit lame… and Atkins ain’t just for housewives ;)

IF I feel like it, and IF I am really hurting for column filler, I’ll tell the rest of you douchebags just what I’m going on about. It’s a great story, featuring the GUSHIEST love letter you will EVER see. One day I’ll share, when I’m in a self-abusive mood and feel like humiliating myself. 

Chaz… oh what the CHRIST,,, Chaz… heh… heh heh… HA! Chaz…. Haw… good catch there… way to go…. Oh man…. Keep them sights aimed nice and low… bye bye greatness, hello CHAZ! Ha!


Current Midnight News contributor (his latest piece is exactly two segments down) Vincent Kennedy McMahon was on the “Off the Record” show in Canada and admitted that Hulk Hogan had reached out to the WWE, maybe even Vince himself (I’m SURE he has Vince’s number on speed dial) and announced that his knee is feeling great and he is READY to come back!


Haa haa haa

So, let me ask you this…. What would piss you people off worse, watching Hogan pin Benoit for the title or watching him pin Guerrero? Because that crafty sumbitch will somehow, someway, con his way into one “last” title reign!

Ooooh, I PRAY they feed Benoit to him… if only to watch the IWC IMPLODE in an fit of pure outrage!!

I see Hogan on Raw no-selling Randy Orton’s “RKO” and shouting, “The Hulkster ain’t putting over the son of some mid-carder who used to flit around with a pink cowboy hat, BROTHER!!

That sumbitch WILL con his way into one last title run… just you see. You may THINK you know Hogan’s political savvy, but my friends, you don’t know SHEEIT.


You know… I understand how the press works.

I understand that when it comes to WWE press conferences, the press who asks questions really can’t ask stuff idiots like Meltzer would, because most of the people who might pay ttention wouldn’t have a clue as to what anyone was talking about.

I ALSO understand that Trish Stratus is a Toronto native who was sitting quietly during a big Summerslam prtess conference the other day while Vince, JR, and Hunter did most of the work.

I UNDERSTAND that Trish is a real “Girl around town” in Toronto… she goes to a hocvkey game and it gets press… she it makes sense that the media would ask her at least one question during this conference.

I understand all of that… but Jesus CHRIST, people…

The Press: Trish, you’re from Toronto. How does it feel to be home?

Trish: Uhhh, it feels good?

What kind of retarded question is that? What could she have POSSIBLY said? Ugh, I’d rather snap a mousetrap on my CLIT than be in this stinkhole!!

Fucking Canada… even your MEDIA is run by nitwits.


Smackdown is on later tonight. I hear it’s a good one.

NWA/TNA was on last night… Flea recapped it and you can see what he thinks. (“I’m doin’ half a Mop-Up, half a Rant, Hi-Rate!!! HEEEEYUCK”)

However, I would like to take this time to announce that my eventual goal is to sneak a syringe filled with heroin into Goldylock’s sweet ass and have some EVIL sort of sex with her. 

And somehow, I get the feeling that she wouldn’t mind. Oh, she’d have a MAJOR problem with doing it with some asshole who couldn’t do a THING for her career… but the actual act itself… nope, can’t see the girl complaining about it one bit.


He is the owner/chairman of the whole World Wrestling Entertainment empire. There is precious little that goes on within the company that he doesn’t have input and final approval on. His day begins at 5 am and ends at midnight- 7 days a week. His day to day responsibilities is mind bogglingly hectic. He never takes a vacation, never takes a rest, and is always, ALWAYS thinking about his next 20 moves.

Plus, he keeps a hard-core body-building schedule that is a full time job in of itself.

So how… how and WHY does he contribute a few words to MY little, stinky column? I do NOT know… I can NOT say… but he does, it’s HIM and I think he LOVES the fact that no one is paying attention to the fact that I have Vince McMahon contributing to my column! Which is, I think, precisely why he selected my column as a forum.

It’s been a while since Mr. McMahon had something here… mostly because I haven’t done a Thursday column in over two weeks. I did have something he wrote saved from a few weeks ago, but he sent me something new and told me to get rid of the old one. So here it is. Enjoy:

An Attack from the McMac

No rest for the ambitious

Greetings, my smelly little cash registers,

I am dictating this while flying over the Atlantic Ocean towards Canada. Our destination is Montreal for the latest episode of Monday Night Raw. The building is sold-out, the crowd promises to be hot, and our superstars are coming off a mammoth tour of Ireland and the United Kingdom. Morale is high, my people are feeling good. Everyone’s ready for a great show. We’re all on our game tonight. My assistant, Karen Seaver, who is busy taking down my dictation here on my handheld receiver is scowling at me because she doesn’t think she’s paid enough. She is always scowling at me. I just hope she doesn’t think I’ll pay for her botox treatments once those frown wrinkles become permanent. 

Ah, now she’s smiling. Everyone is in a good mood today. Myself included.

Its moments like these where things that would normally anger me serve only to amuse me. Things that I would usually find frustrating - maddeningly so - now slide over me as if I had Teflon-coated skin. Were I in a bad mood, I would use this forum this week to explain to you, using the smallest words I can, exactly what is going on with the Smackdown brand and why you all continue to prove yourselves to be hopelessly clueless, would-be armchair quarterbacks who refuse to even fathom the idea that we have a long-range agenda for Smackdown that will revolutionize sports entertainment and take it to the next level. If I was in a bad mood, I would do all that and more.

Fortunately for you, I am in great spirits tonight. And, although my time is limited, I feel like expounding a bit.

So what should I discuss this week? The delicate art of in-ring storytelling? Should I use the recent holiday to lament and applaud our fallen heroes? Perhaps I should discuss my curious relationship with such stars as Hulk Hogan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, or Bret Hart? To properly discuss each one of these men would take several pages. All complex men, all of whom I owe a debt of gratitude.

Perhaps I can take this space to discuss the Undertaker. The soul of the locker-room. A team leader in every regard and my perennial “go-to” guy for any one of a hundred situations - both on-camera and off. Certainly, my friend the Dead Man deserves a novel’s worth of commentary here, and one day soon, I’ll deliver on that.

Actually, now that I’ve allowed my mind to wander a bit, I can now focus on what I’d like to discuss. It’s something that I’ve had some time to dwell on, briefly, in small increments of quiet moments. It’s a subject that is actually connected to the amount of time I’ve had to dwell – a circle, if you will. It involves Mr. Hyatte here, and others of his ilk. In short, it involves you Internet writers.

I remind you, I’m in a grand mood tonight, so there will be no name-calling on my part. Rather, I’d like to point out something that saddens me to my core. 

It’s not my place, nor my inclination, to tell you just who here on the Internet has any sort of talent for the actual writing of WWE storylines. I can see potential in a scarce few of you. I will freely admit to seeing potential in Mr. Hyatte’s work. 

Yet, Mr. Hyatte’s potential is off-set by a major flaw in his make-up, and most of yours as well. 


You all are some of the laziest people I’ve ever seen. None of you, even those with a semblance of potential, would last a day as a WWE writer.

Do you understand the concept of “work ethic”? I’m not so sure. Here I am, let’s face it, an extremely important and busy man, giving up extremely valuable time in order to assist this gentleman with his net column and supply a touch of incite for the hardcore fanbase, and he chooses to keep my thoughts buried in his computer while he casually flits away for the week and not produce anything. Laziness.

I hate lazy people.

I understand, he does this for free. I understand that most, if not all internet writers do this for free (and from what I hear, the dirt sheet editors pay their writers so little, it’s practically free labor there as well. If only they could hire themselves out as negotiating agents for WWE Superstars come contract time). I realize that they have “real lives” to attend to, a rent to pay on their roach-filled, one bedroom apartments; but have any of you realized, has Mr. Hyatte realized, that every time they put a column online about this great business of mine, they are reaching the eyes and attention of those in the business? If they were serious about their craft, if they were less lazy about it, perhaps, just perhaps their might be an actual paying future in the business for them? Instead of being on the outside looking in, they could reverse it?

Of course, I am speaking of pipe dreams and fantasy concepts. The WWE prefers writers with actual television experience, preferably in the field of soap operas. Ours is a nerver-ending show where chain-storytelling is crucial. We prefer fresh outlooks, not recycled “rasslin’ crap that was old when Haystacks Calhoon was but a waif child. The days of random, foolhardy feuds stemming from name-calling is long over in the WWE, you can get enough of that in the foolish, laughable Jarrett promotion. 

I am not thrilled with Mr. Hyatte for his lax attitude with this special forum I’ve provided for him, but I am not surprised by it either. I will continue to submit brief notes and essays as I see fit, or invite a WWE Superstar to submit something. Many of them have expressed an interest. It is almost a fad within the locker room these days. I know Test is raring to send in another one. I will try to provide updated commentary from week to week, and I will resign myself to the fact that Mr. Hyatte is simply made of less sterner stuff than I had hoped. As the rest of you are as well, I’m sure.

Honestly, it doesn’t bother me in the least, except when I spot a glimmer of potential in a writer. There are some Internet writers out there whose resume I would love to read. One of them, (who shall remain nameless), once sent in four resumes within a single calendar year. Two of them our Human Resource department uses as a barometer for what not to look for. One of them periodically makes its way within our offices whenever someone needs a good chuckle. The other one I personally wiped my ass with.

This writer is Canadian, by the way.

So the moral of this longer than I envisioned (I told you I was in an expansive mood, much to the dismay of Karen’s poor fingers) essay is to Mr. Hyatte and to the rest of you. Step up your game! Show me what you have. Give me all you’ve got. To steal a phrase from our reigning Raw Brand Heavyweight champion: Prove me wrong. I think very, very little of you, but I do see a hint of potential in some. You truly have nowhere to go but up now.

We are watching; impress us.

If you feel you have what it takes to be a WWE Diva, then the WWE wan5ts YOU, log onto our log onto our WWE Diva search at and submit your entry. Please, lazy people need NOT reply.

And that’s my Attack. Oh look, Karen is smiling again.

I had apologized to him up and down… I hadn’t realized he was so disappointed.

Wow, what a kick in the ass. I have potential. Man… he never fails to blow me away. is his e-mail. Let him know you’re reading.

I’m the luckiest asshole online.


*Shoes were made to fit either foot until 1850*

And just like that, you’re already a little smarter than you were 3 seconds ago!

Hyatte LIVES to inform.


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Fly-W8

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


This will be a quick edition.

Scattered throughout the pages of In the Hand of Dante is a really, REALLY cool premise for a book: A hard-core New York gangster learns of the existence of a HANDWRITTEN FIRST edition of Dante’s The Divine Comedy and sends his vicious, cross-dressing soldier, named Louie after it. 

This might sound like a bit of a lift from Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code, but it isn’t. For one, it came out before Brown’s book. For two, Brown’s book is good.

This book isn’t.

In the Hand of Dante by Nick Tosches tries to do too much. It actually is one part hard-edged violent story, one part historical narrative, and one part indulgence by the author to vent his frustrations.

You see, sharing chapters with Louie, the evil cross-dressing wiseguy is the story of Dante Alighieri’s voyage through life and how it inspired his poetry and books and… honestly, I just couldn’t pay attention.

The final story within a story is the ultimate sin in self-indulgence… only BARELY weaving his story into the main plot, the Author, Nick Tosches, puts HIMSELF into the book and uses it as a forum to vent his spleen against the evils of the book world and the bitterness that every struggling, non-mega selling author experiences. While it is sort of interesting to read, especially for aspiring writers out there, it takes away from the best part of the book… the terse, foul, tightly drawn Louie and his evil ways.

The worst part, of these three narratives, two of them combine into one story, and a couple of characters do not make it to the end. Guess who ends up getting whacked?

This isn’t a good book, but it COULD have been.

Instead of giving you a taste of what could have been, the following excerpt is an example of the author going on a soapbox for no real reason. In it, Tosches is in a Parisian airport, moving the story along nice and easy-like, when all of the sudden, something that we are ALL familiar with occurs, and he starts to ramble. Take a look: 

At the airport, the only other person in the smoking section of the l’Espace lounge carried a small black vinyl attachй case on which, in red, were the words EUROPEAN SOCIETY OF CARDIOLOGY. He was a silver-haired gentleman, and, as he sat there calmly smoking, I told him with a smile that I liked the image that he presented: the attachй case and the cigarette he was enjoying. He seemed only then to become aware of this juxtaposition, and he smiled in turn.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said in mock hushed secrecy.

He was returning from Stockholm, where he had delivered an address to an international congress of heart specialists. The doctors attending the congress had been given these attachй cases.

As our brief conversation drifted to its end, I asked him if his duties at the congress had allowed him any free time in Stockholm.

“Have you ever been to Stockholm?”


“Free time in Stockholm is like free time in Purgatory. There is nothing there.”

We sat and smoked awhile in silence. He asked if I would mind if he turned on the television to view the news for a few minutes. I did mind, but I told him I didn’t.

There it was: a United Airlines jet flying directly into one of those big ugly twin towers in downtown Manhattan.

We looked to each other in disbelief. Then, without being told, we knew. The will and wraith of Allah had descended.

“Fly the friendly skies of United,” I said.

Black billows of fuming destruction rose to engulf the sky. The second aircraft struck as we were watching. Then the doctor spoke, slowly nodding in grim affirmation of the new age to whose arrival we were now bearing witness.

“At least,” he said, “we can be comforted that the authorities in their care and wisdom protected those innocent lost souls from the dangers of secondary-smoke inhalation.”

He lighted another cigarette, then again he slowly shook his head, but now in negation.

“Welcome to the Apocalypse,” he said. “No smoking allowed.”

Louie, the angel of death, would have loved it. All that shit—all of it—going down in flames.

Those sounds amid the scratching of the rats in the hotel of the drowned: the noise of drunken Arabs and doped-up Tunisians fucking or killing each other—it was hard to tell which—in the adjoining rooms. The sound of monotheism.

Boom, boom, boom. The sounds of monotheism.

Monotheism. The root of all evil.

In forsaking paganism, in abandoning the gods and cleaving the sacred into Almighties, man had chosen, raised, and embraced under different names and guises long-sleeping Enyalion, the ancient Cretan god of war and destruction, and had begun to “go down,” to use the words of William Blake, “to self-annihilation.”

Enyalion. Ad nihil. Annihilation.

The artificial births of the one true God were the true genesis of the fatal disease that is the plague of Enylion: the death of the soul. Where once theophany billowed through soul and sky, there now billowed the black smoke of annihilation through soul and sky gone dead.

There are species of animals that have been known to kill their own kind, for food or for territory. But it is the pathology of religion that has made man the most unnatural and ungodly and self-slaughtering of species, men had always warred, and in their warring they had sought the favor of the gods. But they had not warred in the names of their gods. Helen of Troy was legended to be the half-mortal daughter of Zeus, and yet Zeus was legended to take no side in the Trojan War. It was the Jews who first killed in the name of God Almighty, in the third century b.c., in their war against the Greeks and the Jews who accepted the gods of the Greeks. But monotheism had been an evil of aggression from its beginning, more than a thousand years earlier, when it was imposed with force upon the many-godded Egyptians by Amenhotep IV.


Cross, crescent, six-pointed star. They were but weapons in the sash of Enylion.

For some time, I had not smoked a cigarette without feeling the murder on the trigger-pulling finger that touched my lips as I brought the cigarette to my mouth. Now I felt nothing but the good strong smoke.

Why had I killed? Not for any fucking bullshit God, not for any bullshit fucking Allah, not for any bullshit fucking Jesus Fucking Christ.

Why had I killed? I no longer cared.

And it no longer mattered.

It never had.

All I knew was that I did not occupy the throne of Satan, which is the throne of God.

So fuck it.

Just give me the old-time religion, the real old-time religion. Lay me down with Aphrodite, let Dionysus flow in my veins.

Fuck the Semite triad. Fuck all the sons of Shem.

The Levant—Jerusalem—the cradle of the Beast of all evil; the “holy city” of the three monotheistic religions.

Fuck these three Jerusalem cats, and fuck Jerusalem.

May the many true and sacred gods blow them and fucking Jerusalem from the face of this dying earth.

I light a cigarette, take a drag, let my forefinger linger on my lips.

A few hours later, I lie sleeping on the big plush couch of Suite 418 of the Ritz in London. I am awakened by the awareness of a softly stirring presence. A maid is changing the flowers in the room, and she apologizes for having disturbed me. I rise and part the voile sheers of the big window overlooking Green Park. I gaze out awhile, then I turn on the television. I see that those big ugly towers no longer exist.

I try to reach Michelle at her place in Brooklyn. Every attempt is met with a busy signal immediately following the country code or the city code, Only after hours of constant trying do I manage to get through to Brooklyn.

“Michelle,” I say.

“Oh my God,” she says, “Nick.”

She is all right, but she has been worried for me. I tell her that I am safe and well.

“The last time I called you. Did you tell anyone about that call?”

“No,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good. Now here’s the hard part. You know how we’ve always operated: never lie and never deceive. Remember what we always said? In a world of liars, honesty is the greatest and most feared weapon that there is. And it’s what makes us good and it’s what makes us strong. But right now you’ve got to lie for me. I want you to say that I’ve been acting strange and distant lately.

“Where’s the lie in that?”

“And that I had an early morning appointment today at the World Trade center. And that I wouldn’t tell you anything more about it. You figured it was with some financial guy or something. And that’s all you know, and you’re worried.”

She sighs anxiously.

“Why are you doing this?” she says.

“I can’t explain,” I tell her. “Just call Russ and tell him you think I was supposed to have this meeting this morning and you’re worried.”

“Why don’t you just have Russ do this? I’m no good at lying. I never was. I can’t lie. I never could.”

“It wouldn’t work with Russ. For one thing, it wouldn’t make any sense that he would know about any early-morning meeting having to do with my personal financial affairs. For another thing—look: fuck Ross where he breathes—just do it. Believe me, you’re the only one who can do this for me. You’re the only one. So, please, just do it. If you want, you can just say that you thought you heard me setting up a meeting for today with someone downtown, and that you haven’t heard from me since.”

“This is too much. I don’t get it.”

“Will you do it?”

“But why?”

“Because I need to be dead.”

Why does he need to be dead? Whom has he killed that no longer bothers him? What will he do with the manuscript? Is it authentic? 

And what does Dante himself have to say about all this?

If you can stick with this story that jumps all over the place, you’re a better, more patient reader than me. 

Here’s what I recommend: if you should ever find your fat, ignorant ass in a bookstore, especially if you are interested in being a published writer, pick up In the Hand of Dante, settle into a sofa or chair in the store’s cafй, and read pages 85-103, where he completely tears down the current publishing industry and explains the reality of the business to he uneducated… and according to Tosches, it ain’t pretty.

Other than that, there isn’t much to the book to recommend. The most interesting characters vanish almost midway through and the Godfather II-like secondary story is quite boring to sift through. Tosches is angry and he isn’t afraid to bitch—which he does quite a bit.

In the Hand of Dante had a lot of potential to be a really sweet, hard-boiled story, but the author couldn’t help but get in a little soapbox time. Damn shame too.

I am Hyatte and by the bloody Christ, I WILL MAKE YOU READ… just not this.



Whenever we talk, I can always count on Flea to give his opinions on just about anything. And those opinions are usually extremely fascinating to listen to. It also allows me to go to the toilet or something while he lectures on.

So, I decided to grab a pen and paper and start jotting down his thoughts. Everyone likes Flea.

The following is 95% true (there is some creative editing involved, mostly to protect Flea from death threats):


the rising cost of gasoline?

If it keeps the commoners off the road, more power to them. It’s vindication—VINDICATION—for making smokers leave the fucking restaurants and offices to smoke. Now it cost more for a couple of gallons than for a pack. Good. Fuck them assholes. All these people are pissed because they had to give up buying lottery tickets now. No one wins those things yet these assholes are crying the blues cuz their lotto money has to go into the gas tank. Simple minds. Fuck them. I never wanted an SUV—I like my Lincoln Town Car and I don’t pay attention to how much I’m paying to fill it up. I can afford it. Get off my cloud.

Flea: true treasure. Thank God I invented him.

And while we’re on the subject…


I’ve no clue what that means… but screw it.

You probably know this, but it does put things in a WEE bit of perspective…

(and I FREELY admit to taking this from a chain e-mail, so logic dictates that you’ve seen this already)

Think you’re paying too much for your unleaded? Well lookee here:

If your car ran on Diet Snapple, that’ll be $10.32 per gallon ($1.29 for a 16 oz bottle)

If it ran on Lipton Iced Tea, how does $9.52 per gallon sound? ($1.19 for a 16 oz bottle)

Gatorade? $10.17 per gallon. ($1.59 for a 20 oz bottle)

Ocean Spray?? Well, while it would be real cool to have CranGrape flowing through your engine, it’ll also soak up $10 a gallon! ($1.25 per 16 oz)

So, what if auto engineers found a way to run our cars on Brake Fluid? Seeing how it’s in our car anyway? Well, then we’d be paying $33.60 per gallon ($3.15 for 12 oz)

This isn’t a typo! If WHITE-OUT could make cars go it would cost us $25.42 per gallon ($1.39 per 7 oz bottle)

“this isn’t a typo”…. BAW HAW HAW HAW!!! HYATTE’S STILL GOT IT!!!

SCOPE!! It can clean your mouth and make your breathe rock, but put it in your tank and you’re paying $84.48 per gallon (.99 cents per 1.5 oz mini-bottle)

These gas prices making you SICK? Then have some Pepto Bismol!! Just thank GOD it doesn’t go in your car… a 4 oz bottle goes for $3.85. That’s $123.20 PER gallon


Vick's Nyquil MIGHT be the nighttime achey, coughy, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest medicine… but if it was fuel too, you’d be paying $178.13 per gallon ($8.35 per 6 oz bottle)

Now here’s the funny part… Evian Water… which no one REALLY knows WHERE it comes from… if WATER could replace gasoline, using EVIAN would cost you $21.19 per gallon ($1.49 per 9 oz bottle)

So… is gas REALLY that expensive… or are we just spoiled babies? Ohhhhh, I think this is a classic case of “a little from column A and a little from column B”…

How about we tell the government and big oil to go fuck themselves and start WALKING??? Or let’s bring back the horse and buggy!!! YEAH!!! WHO’S WITH ME????

“this isn’t a typo”….oh the wit… THE WIT, PEOPLE!!

Let’s close out the column and the week.


Like with the movie stuff from the Monday column, I lost about 5 weeks worth of quotes here. 

On the PLUS side, while digging through old files, I found a TON of new/old quotes from a year or two ago… I’m SURE I used them already, but it was a year or two ago… I fully trust that none of you have any sort of long term memory capacity… damn MTV-watching hippies! 

Anwhosits, even I remember most of these… so I added a bunch more just to balance things… you probably will remember these, but there is a lot more to look at… so it evens out.:

01): I want you to take the worst thing that you could ever imagine, and then multiply that by the number nine million, and then you multiply it with infinity and beyond, and itґs still going to be like one piece of sand in the Sahara desert compared to what I am going to do to you Hulk Hogan- Randy Savage, Nitro, 1996 

02): Mick, don't you miss the fans? The cheap pops?- Al Snow

Miss them? Heck no, I still get cheap pops -- right here - in my basement!! 

-Mick Foley, pressing a tape recorder of fans popping 

03): I know where you both live. I can come to your house...I'll slap your wives and kids around...and, by golly, I'll DO it. You'll PAY for what you've done !- Tough Tony Borne

04): On my tombstone it will read: here lies a man you still don't want to mess with.- Bruiser Brody

05): I ain't in this business for the girls. i got a fat wife and nine kids to feed- Stan Hansen

06): Hey McMahon I saw Tito Santana at Taco Bell the other day-Mr. Perfect

Now Perfect, there is nothing wrong with a man getting a burrito- Vince

He wasn't getting a burrito, he was paying his phone bill.- Perfect's response

07): Give that kid $50 and send him to the hospital. Tell him "Welcome to the business"-Arn Anderson, backstage watching a jobber get FLATTENED by Andre the Giant

08): Booker T? I hit that guy like 5 months ago and he just now remembers?-Scott Hall 

09): Who dat dere's gunna beat dat team? Who Dat? Who dat?-"Dirty" Dick Murdoch on teaming with Bill Watts & Jim Duggan 

10): The only good Injun is a dead Injun, and you're dead- "Big Cat" Ernie Lad after ripping up Wahoo McDaniel's head dress in the 1970's 

11): You know my saying that I have. You know "I'm the best there is the best there was and the best there ever will be!?" Well I'm thinking of adding a little whooo! to the end of it- Bret Hart on Nitro while he was feuding with Ric Flair 

12): He must be deaf. It takes him four tries to hear the roar- Jesse Ventura, refering to Hulk Hogan (doing the ear cup) 

13): I don't care if you want to call yourselves... Double Trouble Crap On A Stick!-Vince McMahon, to the tag team of the Big Show and Billy Gunn. 

14): I once again would like to give this award to somebody who's taught me everything I know, and has had me down on the mat more times than I could possibly remember--no Sunny, not you, sit down!- Shawn Michaels

15): If my head was another 2 centimeters to the right, I would have hit those monitors. I probably could have died. But hey, at least I'd get the Kaboom of the Night.- Mick Foley

16): You think you're tough? (spits on the ground) Well pick that up!-Jimmy Jack Funk to a backstage interviewer 

17): You're a big, voluminous man, Diesel!- Bob Backlund

18): You're quagmired in a sea of hypocrisy... and engulfed in a river of lies! - Bob Backlund

19): Ric Flair! The Macho Man says don't buy any unripe bananas! 'CAUSE YOU WON'T BE AROUND TO EAT 'EM!- Randy Savage

20: Just...just what do you think you're doing?!- Vince McMahon: after Randy Savage had ran down to the ring and placed a beating on Steamboat then ran up to the broadcast spot 

Commentary!- Savage screaming like only he can

21: Let ‘em take it all the way to the locker room and finish it in the showers if they have to!- “Superstar” Billy Graham,

22: Michaels and Helmsley are just like the sophomore class!- JR, trying to DX over as childish

Yeah -- the DEGENERATE sophomore class!-McMahon pushing the harsher "degenerate" label

23: Let me tell you something, Anvil, you don't want to play cards with me, because I'll cheat. Ok, I cheat. You want to play 21, I got 22. You want to play black jack? I got two of those too. You want to play aces and eights? Well, I got some of those too." - Jake 'the Snake' Roberts, dead drunk at the Heroes of Wrestling pay per view 

24: Lemme tell you one thing! I'm so pretty, I shoulda been born a little girl!- Marc Mero/Johnny B. Badd

25): Are you bilingual too?- JR to HHH as Chyna did commentary with the Spanish announcers

Well, I'm bi- a lot of things, but lingual isn't one of them-HHH

Wait a minute...- HHH, five seconds later

There. The LAST time you see HHH’s famous “bilingual” line in this column… EVER…. Consider it retired!

Annnnnd…. We’re done. Oh, I think 25 big quotes is plenty, don’t you? 

I also think this would have been the perfect week to take off, in retrospect… but I shot my wad a couple of weeks ago, so I guess I should stick around at least until Bad Blood…. Alors… ZOOT ALORS!! The things I do for you creeps.

On Sunday... well Monday… hmmmm…. Well, Across the Boards… Advice… oh, a lineup of famous actors and actresses who have HERPES!!! That’s be fun… some other stuff… and you kids like porn, so I’ll see what I can scounge up. 

The train just keeps rolling on… next stop: NOWHERESVILLE

This is Hyatte