The Midnight News

Hello children, I'm Chris and this the Midnight News. I've packed this column. PACKED IT!! And not all wrestling studff either... nope. There's a book review in here... and some major league self-fellatio! But I earned it... oh, how I earned it this time.

But really... I've PACKED this friggin' column this week... it'll take a great many of you many, many, MANY hours to read this... or you'll scroll through most of it and then move along. That's fine. I have your unique impression... I have your "hit"... you lose. HA



Ugh.... ridiculous title.

They probably know WHY Randy Orton was suspended for 60 days (if not forever), but the "insiders"... Keller and Meltzer but more Meltzer... are being their usual vague selves about it... the dickheads

ANYWAY... the general consensus is that no one will miss Randy... which basically means he was suspended for being an asshole.

Does this make him THE BIGGEST asshole EVER in wrestling? Well... no... there are a few people ahead of him... like Johnny Ace, Vince McMahon, Kevin Nash, Stephanie McMahon, Billy Gunn, Triple H, Scott Hall, Ultimate Warrior, Jimmy Snuka, Randy Savage, Vince Russo, Bill Goldberg, Jim Herd, Tony Schiavone, Pat Patterson, Terry Garvin, Bill Watts, Ole Anderson, Jerry Jarrett, Jeff Jarrett, Hulk Hogan, Chyna, Sean Waltman, Steve Austin, Shane Douglas, Bad News Brown, Kevin Dunn, Shawn Michaels (circa 1993-98), Jake Roberts, Bret Hart, Howard Finkle, Miss Elizabeth, Lex Lugar, Joe Pedicino, Bill Apter, anyone named Steiner, Sid Justice, Sid Vicious, Brock Lesnar, JBL, Dusty Rhodes, Jesse James Armstrong, Classic Chavo, Lita, Edge, anyone named Hardy, James Mitchell, Jim Ross, Bob Ryder, Billy Firehawk, Rob Feinstein, Gabe Saplosky, CM Punk, Jeremy Borash, Ed Ferrera, Juventud Guerrero, Christian's wife, Jim Cornette, pretty much anyone in the business who is Jewish, Dynamite Kid, Teddy Hart, that dude Nailz, Test, New Jack, and of course Randy Savage. ALL of them, at one point or another, have been bigger assholes that Orton could EVER be...

What EXACTLY did Orton do? Well, using my blinding brilliance... I came up with a few theories...

-Looked the Undertaker in the eyes.

-Was seen being friendly to CM Punk

-Patted Kurt Angle on the back and paralyzed him for most of Thursday

-Mentioned that TNA "wasn't so bad"

-Forgot to remind Hunter how great he was.

-Made Steph swallow.

-Made Shane swallow

-Made Shane's son, Declan James swallow

-Was caught making drunken phonecalls to Juventud Guerrera whispering, "I miss you so much, little buckeroo!"

-Ran around with a syringe filled with his Dad's blood and demanded a win on Sunday "or else".

-Revealed to Mancow that the sport is scripted.

-cock breath

-Made a bet with Vince over who could pick up the most rats in one night and didn't let Vince win.

-"Crossed swords" with Laurentitus while doubeteaming Melina.

-Wasn't in a big hurry to UNcross swords with Laurentitus while doubeteaming Melina.

-Mentioned to Stephanie that maybe Cena isn't the best babyface to shove down the fans' throats.

-Was seen taking the Wellness Program seriously.

-Mentioned that this Wrestlemania didn't feel like Wrestlemania.

Could be one of these... could be a combination of many... could be ALL...

SOMEONE will finally spill the beans


Well, by now you know that the Hall of Fame ceremony, broadcast live on AND the USA network went off without a hitch...

or did it?

See, what NO ONE is reporting is that the warm-up act... the man they hired to get the crowd ready and fired up and in a good mood for the gala... well... they made a bit of an error.

Vince felt a professional could come out and tell a few harmless jokes and get everyone's mood nice and relaxed and hapopy... PERFECT for the good vibes of the proceedings...

The problem is... he hired Hal Jotsky... who is an 80 year old, old school vaudeville performer... from a different time... a different era... an era where political correctness meant you let the hooker splash water on her face before throwing her out. Vince hired Jotsky because Jotsky is known as a "Wrestler's Comic"...

If Vince just listened to one of Jotsky's sets... the ugliness wouldn't have happened.

I received the tape of Jotsky's warm-up act... here it is... in its entirety... with analysis from me peppered in.

This got all sorts of ugly, folks... prepare...


Polite applause... so Jotsky went to work...

A roomful of wrestlers! Quick, what's the difference between a wrestler wedding and a wrestler funeral? There's one less drug addict at the funeral! KILLAMOJO!!!!

And how about this Wellness program, huh? I hear that the first time the Doctor asked you all for a sperm, urine, and stool sample you all tossed him your underwear! ZOINK!!!!!!!!

Look at all these wrestlers in here. Now I don't want to say that WWE Superstars are DUMB but the other night, twelve of them were about to rape a German rat. She started yelling, "NEIN, NEIN!!" So three of them left. GETBACKHONKYCAT!!!!

You can hear some growling and booing on the tape, so Hal changed up.

Whattacrowd, whattacrowd! Hey look, there's Lillian Garcia! Hi Lillian? Why are you so sad? What's with the long face?.... BOING!!!

And... oh my, Jerry "the King" Lawler and his young bride! I asked Jerry if he set up a trust fund for his young chippie in case he died. He said he has! But she can't touch it until she turns 13! SCALLAWAGAWOOWOO!!!

And then there's the Nature Boy, Ric Flair! WOOO! With his young girlfriend! You know what happens when Flair walks into a wall with a hardon? He breaks his NOSE! CRUNKETYCROCKCROCK!!!

This got some laughs, so he continued with the Divas

Who else is out there? Oh, hey Trish! TRISH STRATUS, LADIES AND GERMS!! Looking fetching as always! Hey, did any of you see Trish's new shoes? Well neither has she!.... BOZUMBO!!!

I don't want to say that Trish has seen some ACTION down there but her boyfriends now use her belly button to hold the tartar sauce!! RAZZAMATAZZ!!!

And look, right next to Trish is Torrie Wilson! Beautful, exotic creature! She could put on a few pounds though! She's so skinny that the last time she had a yeast infection the locker room nicknamed her "The Quarter Pounder with Cheese" CHICOCHICKCHICK!!!!

And the lovely Candice Michelle! I was talking to her husband backstage and he said Hall, do you know the difference between my wife and a bowling ball? I can only fit three fingers in a bowling ball! RATATATAT!!!!!!

Oh and there is Melina, the Mexican Princess! How is Melina different from an American Princess? Her jewelry is fake and her orgasms are real! JUMJUMJOOJOOJO!!!

And... awww the charming Victoria is in the audience! I don't want to say that Victoria is HOMELY but... well... she's a lot like a moped! They are both fun to ride until your friends catch you! HUMDINGER!!!!

How do you make Victoria moan? Put sand in her vaseline! GONG!!!

Poor Victoria! She can't get any breaks. The other day I spotted her at a grocery store buying a bottle of Coke, a tube of toothpaste, a small bag of chips, and a frozen pizza! The cashier said, "You must be single." Victoria said, "How did you guess?" And the cashier answered, "Because you're fucking ugly!" BOOMSHAZZABOOM!!!!

You all know the difference between Victoria and a Catfish, right? One has whiskers and smells bad and the other lives in the water. GIMMEALLYOUGOTTO!!!

Now I'm not saying Victoria is old and funky down there, but the last time someone was going down on her she let out a huge fart and the fellow screamed, "FINALLY, SOME FRESH AIR!" MRROBOTO!!!!!!!

Victoria could be heard crying, so Hal found a new target...

Boy it's great to see Special Delivery Jones isn't it? S.D. is so black, when he went to night school they marked him absent... YOWZAA!!!

I don't want to say SD Jones is DUMB but the REAL reason he retired in that he got hurt raking leaves! He fell right out of the tree! HUZZAH!!!!

Hey quick, what do you get when you cross S.D. Jones with Paul Heyman? A Janitor in a Law Firm! JEWEYJOOBJOOB!!!

And Tony Atlas! Boy isn't he something? He almost didn't make it to the Hall of Fame tonight because his car was in the shop. No, nothing was wrong with it, he was just having an extra-large glove compartment installed so he can have a place to put his watermelon... HO!!!

No, no... I'm joking. The REAL reason Tony Atlas almost didn't make it here tonight is that some jokester put Odor Eaters in his shoe and the sonafabitch almost disappeared!!! FLACKATTACK!!!

Tony Atlas walks his ten year old son to school every day! It doesn't mean he's a good father; he does it because they are in the same grade! JINGALINGLING!

And there is Booker T and his lovely wife Sharmel! Did you know that they keep a chicken in their back yard? When I asked him why he said, "So I can teach my kid how to strut like me!" BANG ZOOM!!!!

I asked Sharmel was she loves best about Booker. You know what she said? His lips! Isn't that great? I asked her if he was a good kisser. She said no, she just can't wait until he dies because those lips will make a great handles for her purse! HOLLAHOLLAHOOO!!!!

Booker T is a fan favorite! They even made a video game based on him! It's two big lips chasing watermelon through a maze! BUTIGOTTATELLYA!!!

At this point Booker may have produced a gun. Jotsky got off the subject...

And there's big, bad Mark Henry. Imagine him coming at you with a switchblade. The only thing scarier would be Randy Orton coming at you with a chipped tooth! POWPOOPYPOW!!

Speaking of Randy Orton, he almost called in sick tonight. Poor Randy has a fever. I asked him the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal one. He said, "The taste." GIGGETYGOO!!!!!!

Big laughs there... everyone loves Randy Orton jokes... feeling confident, Hal plunged forward...

Of course, we are here to honor the memory of Eddie Guerrero one last time... and Vince made sure to bring Eddie's family to this gala in true Mexican style! Instead of a limo he had them picked up in a Garbage truck with Mercedes hubcaps!! ZINKZINKZOOO!!!!!!!!

Huge boos... except for JBL who was cracking up.

Ladies and Germs... THE HITMAN BRET HART!! I tell ya', Bret's stroke didn't kill him, but it did affect his libido! Poor Bret's so bad in the sack, when he masterbates his hand falls asleep! WHOOSHAHOOHOO!!!!!

More laughs now... Hal started getting comfortable and made a CRUCIAL mistake...

And over here we have Stephanie and Hunter! The happy couple! Of course, every rose does have its thorn and it's no different with these two! Now you didn't hear this from me but Stephanie is so bitchy that the difference between her on the rag and a rabid pit bull is LIPSTICK!!! FRICKETYFRACKETYFOOFOO!!!!!

I don't want to say Stephanie is sheltered but she still thinks Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company!! BUENOSNOCHES!!!!!!!!!

I don't want to say Stephanie is uptight but last night Hunter suggested a menage a trois! So she started using both hands to masterbate! MONKEYMONKEYMOOMOO!!!!

I don't want to say married life is HARD on Hunter and Stephanie but these days their version of oral sex is standing across the room and yelling, "Fuck you" at each other! SHOCKALOCKADINGDONG!!!

I don't want to say that Hunter and Stephanie are now an old married COUPLE... but their version of Doggy Style is Hunter begs until Stephanie rolls over and plays dead!! POPPYCOCK!!!!!!!!!

At this point, Hunter started screaming and cursing at Hal. Stephanie started to cry and call him horrible names. This is where Hal lost his cool...

Calm down Stephanie! You shouldn't get so upset in your condition! Ladioes and germs, as you know, Stephanie has a bun in the proverbial oven! Hey Hunter. What's small, screams, and can't turn corners? YOUR CHILD WITH A SPEAR THROUGH IT!.... HACHAAA!!!

Hunter started to rush the stage...

Don't like that? Okay then, what's red, silver, and crawls into walls? YOUR CHILD WITH FORKS IN ITS EYES!!.... RUMPUMPUMPUM!!!

And then there was a crashing sound... I heard Jotsky belch something about the love of his life being a lady named comedy and then he croaked out a "goodnight" before the tape went dead... days later, it arrived in my mailbox... a little slimey and smelling suspiciously like stale farts and melba toast. I have yet to hear from Mr. Jotsky. I pray he's alright.

They just don't make 'em like Hal anymore... yowzaa...


I love doing this... and have been waiting for the right moment...

It's been a while... so for the uninformed (and TRUST ME... this will interest you... don't scroll) let me explain...

Back when I was 411, my old webmaster Widro would routinely come to me all excited because of our Alexa numbers.

ALEXA.COM is one of the net's foremost ranking websites. Through use of a downloaded toolbar it monitors which users go where and how often, then ranks the sites according to popularity...

If that doesn't sound credible, then ask yourself... do you think the Nielson family monitors each and every TV screen from a huge satellite floating in the sky? No, morons, they send out a couple of million books to average joes and ask them to fill them in and send it back to them at the end of the week (I should know, I received a couple).

Now, assuming the people sent them in and ASSUMING their handwriting is legible, Nielson works the averages and ESTIMATES what the numbers are… this is a system that NOBODY here in rassle-land bitches about.

In fact, on more than a FEW occasions, Wade Keller has loudly BOASTED about the Torch being "the highest ranked wrestling site on Alexa"... Keller is all over this.

Of course... Keller hasn't gloated about the Torch being number 1 in a while...


Anywhoo... why am I doing this? I mean, ask ANYONE... I went from a HIGHLY ranked site... then went to a new site which was right up there... to this... this bottom of the barrel Indy site... WALLOWING to an audience of dozens, rather than thousands... why put my ass on the line like that? Why embarrass myself?

Take a wild fucking guess... but more on that in a minute...

Now, a big site, I mean the BIGGEST, would be … and fittingly, they are ranked at #452… they are in the top 500 websites. is way way WAAAAAY below their website is ranked at a paltry #15'007. And you WONDER why no one at WWE is losing a drop of sleep over these hillbillys., by the way, is ranked #8. Google is #2... the SECOND MOST POPULAR WEBSITE IN THE WORLD!! is #3. Yahoo is ranked #1... FYI

ANYWAY... where do all the IWC sites stand? Well, let's take a look... is ranked #14'512. That piece of shit Scherer... whatever he's selling you tools are BUYING!

Yeah, he's #2 among the biggies... only is beating him.

In case you're wondering... Pro is ranked #16'253. Which means fuckin' Scherer is even beating a site named AFTER the business he reports on!! Unreal. Why isn't he dead? is ranked #17,398, which is why Keller isn't crowing that loud anymore. Plus he moved to a new house which, from the sound of it, is located directly on runway 15 on Minneapolis's primary airport. The geek. The cherry. WHY AREN'T YOU BRAGGING NOW, WADE? HOW COME JAMES CALDWELL ISN'T BRINGING YOUR SITE INTO THE TOP 1000????

The Lords of Pain is ranked #17'836. These cats have been around almost as long as me... and I STILL have never found a reader of theirs! NO ONE says, "Hey, you hear what Mr Tito said the other day". How, in all good conscience, can ANYONE go a site called The Lords of Pain?

411mania is ranked #24'710. My old stomping grounds never did take a big hit when a bunch of us walked out two years ago... but STILL they WERE ranked #6895 once upon a time. Larry Csonka is no Scott Keith and Steven Randle is CERTAINLY no me. That's for sure.

The Wrestling The home of all things Meltzer... YOUR GOD is ranked #25,446. That's disgusting. Here's a small suggestion, Dave... A: send your fucking newsletters out in a timely manner and B: Quit using Justin Shapiro as Todd Martin's Raw recap fill-in. Martin may be a cranky bitch most of the time but he's still 10000X better than Shapiro... who has not met an asshole he couldn't suck dry. He ain't funny, either.

The DVD message board is ranked an ASTOUNDING #30,201… when did they get so high and mighty popular? They used to wallow deep into the 6 digits! The fuck?

A1Wrestling is ranked #43'611. This is a menu site with nothing original and one of the lamest message boards around. I had a huge chuckle when they forgot to pay up their server fees and were shut down for a weekend! HA! I laughed and laughed and laughed. I hate those pompous fucks. is ranked #52,842. And that's with Joey Styles, Bill Apter, and Bob Ryder... those pop-ups man... they'll kill you HARD.

Inside This is the site I was at before coming here. They are now ranked at #58'393. They also have server crashes about once every other day. All I wanted was to be treated like a Superstar... was that too much to ask? Alex Lucard isn't the answer. He's another cocksucker.

Funny side note... one of the sites that alexa has linked to Inside Pulse is something called Amanda 'n which has NOTHING to do with me but is a MAJOR inside joke which deals with a girl from my past... when I saw that linked site I cracked up... especially since I have a VERY good idea who provided the link. is ranked #64'047, which basically means more people READ about CM Punk from other sites then go to ROH and order his DVDs.

Online Onslaught is ranked #74,492… once upon a time, Rick Scaia was a big, big deal... writer main star or a TOP site... now look at him... LANQUISHING in the same basement he's been languishing for years! Not even worth my words anymore. Not even a little.


Wrestlecrap is ranked #122'807! GOOD!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! These fucks can drop dead too! Everyone carries on about how great this site is yet no one goes! No one ever goes! Here's my cock, Reynolds... suck it hard and suck it long!!!

PWBTS 2000 is ranked #237'197. Nothing personal, but this site is now my direct competition... and once upon a time, we were neck and neck with them. Then something happened. Yeah, you still need some time to figure out what? Hang on...

The Other is ANOTHER message board that thinks they are influencing opinion. The only thing Frank Jewett and company are influencing are their stinkholes as they jam their thumbs up them. They are ranked at #843,195. 843,195! I don't think they've ever broken out of the bottom part of 500'000... EVER.

And finally...

The Declaration of Independents This site... my site. We are ranked at #94'418. Go ahead... laugh. Have a party. Go for it. All of you. Everty one of my enemies. Go nuts.

Because last October, when I first debuted, this site was ranked at #226'987.

In the last 6 months... we leaped... no... fuck it... let's tell the truth... I TOOK THIS SITE UP 132'569 SPOTS!! ALL BY MYSELF!!!

You motherless fucks... still laughing? I've more than... Jesus H... in just 20 columns I YANKED this site OUT of the DEEP 6 figures and into the 5's....

Still laughing?

I told you... on day one I told you that I DELIVER... I told you that I'm taking the challenge to BUILD a site into respectability and get a WHOLE new audience while bringing in NEW readers! You didn't believe me, did you? Hyatte fucking sucks, right? He lost it, RIGHT?? HE NEVER SHOULD'VE LEFT 411, RIGHT????

Well look at what I did in 6 months... imagine what I'm going to do in the next six???

Yeah... have your laugh. GIGGLE that poor old untalented Hyatte who sucks and is no good and is a joke now can't bring the thunder anymore... have a good giggle...

132'569 spots from the moment I started here to today.

One day... one day you'll realize that NO ONE does what I do and NO ONE does it as well. And NO ONE could pull off this comeback like I did, and am doing...

And if all goes well... next time I bring this segment up... next time I do an Alexa review.... heh, imagine who's ass I'll have kicked then. Who's going down now.

I am FUCKING HYATTE!!!!!!!!!!!

So what better to celebrate being the sole owner of the greatest fucking wrestling column ever? Why, by doing a non-wrestling BOOK REVIEW!! HA!


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hi-Dr8
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


I tend to stick with fiction books. I like my stories to have a beginning, middle, and end with plot twists and cool characters and inner dialogue and crazy occurences. But sometimes, when the mood hits, I like to get into non-fiction. I like a good real life story when the story is interesting enough.

This time out, not only do I have a real-life autobiography, but it's one that WRESTLERS LIKE MANY OF YOU may be interested in.

I first heard of this guy when he showed up on Letterman one night. His name is Dean Karnezes and he is, by far, a psychopath... but a nice one.

Imagine running. Imagine jogging for hours and hours and hours. Imagine jogging for so long that your body threatns to shut down if it doesn't get fuel in it. Imagine refusing to stop so you call a pizza place and arrange for a delivery to be made while you are still running. Imagine being so starved for fuel, and having no inclination to stop running, that you order a large Hawaiian pizza AND a cheescake. Now imagine running into the delivery guy, buying the food, and eating it while you still run. Does this sound normal?

Ultra Marathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner is Dean Karnezes story and he doesn't screw around. You get his childhood and his introduction to running as a teenager and his running career in high school and a quick outlay of his upbringing and a few pages on how he balances running with a full-time corporate job with being a good father/husband. But then you get the nitty gritty details of the four most intense races I've ever heard of. See, it isn't enough that Karnazes runs two or three marathons a week. It isn't enough that he uses his lunch hour to blitz off a fast four mile jog. It isn't enough that he'll run a half-marathon just to get to the starting line for the REAL marathon and then run an extra ten miles just for kicks. All of that is crazy enough.

This guy runs extreme marathons.

Karnezes, who portrays himself as a very nice guy, builds this book around four major races: His first 100 mile mountain run, an 135 mile race through Death Valley in the middle of the summer!!, a marathon at the South Pole (where you need to breathe through a tube because the Antartic air will freeze your trachea), and then... as a finale, a 200 mile relay race where he is the only participant who ran alone. (RELAY means passing a baton). He did them all, several times. We get to read about his first time in each.

Karnezes views Iron Man competitions as a warm-up. He writes about running until his body is at near collapse, but continues to push himself. The level of punishment he puts on himself is astounding, borderline suicidal. Crazier than the most insane wrestler you've ever heard of. Insane. Loopy.

But a nice, easygoing fellow, Karnezes doesn't confess deep, dark, evil sins here. He just talks about running. And it turns out to be pretty interesting.

The excerpt I have for you is, of course, from one of the big four races he partakes in, and obviously an extreme run. After running his first 100 mile race, Karnezes writes about hungering for a new challenge, something to REALLY push his body and mind to its limits. Something that should, by ANYONE'S rational, kill him.

So he decides to run through Death Valley. Take a look:

Twenty-four of us were about to embark on what is called The World's Toughest Footrace - a 135 - mile trek across Death Valley to Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States. While the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run had been grueling, Badwater is widely considered the ultimate test of endurance and human resolve. Or just plain insanity. It can go either way.

Athletes have traveled from across the globe to take on Badwater. The fittest of the fit have come here to push the body to unthinkable limits in hopes of reaching the finish within the official cutoff time of sixty hours. Unlike Western States, Badwater is a road race held entirely on paved highway. But there are still plenty of hills to contend with along the route, even before the road begins its twisted ascent up Mount Whitney.

Scanning the starting line, what I saw was the most elite squadron of extreme endurance athletes on the face of the earth, They were clad in white desert suits, muscles taut underneath, preparing to embark on the utlimate physical challenge. And there I stood among them, heart pounding in the sweltering heat, ready to rumble.

I'd spent the entire year training for Badwater, adapting my routine in preparation for the harsh conditions by running in a wool sweater and ski parka, attempting to simulate the desert heat. In talking with some of the other competitors around the starting line, it sounded like my training might have been light. many of them trained inside a sauna.

With a chorus of boos and primordial screams from the racers and support crew (I didn't see a single spectator in the crowd), the race began. The heat was like nothing I had evert encountered before, completely otherwordly. Undulating waves of solar radiation rose from the pavement in massive sheets as we made our way down the long, straight, featureless highway. A runner in the distance quickly became engulfed by the mirage that distorted everything on the horizon.

Because the route we followed was entirely along the roadside, I'd decided to rent a motor home as a crew vehicle. Bad choice. As we'd cross the desert in it on the way to the starting line, the alternator had fried, leaving my family and newly arrived daughter, Alexandria, stranded in a 125-degree immobile motor home. it was a risky decision bringing Alexandria, at six months old, to this event. Most guidebooks advised not taking children to Death valley in the summer months. But I didn't want to leave her. Luckily, I had Julie, my folks, and my Uncle George along for support.

Fearing for Alexandria's safety, and ours as well, we hastily abandoned the broken-down RV and fled for shelter, leaving most of my running gear, food, and supplies inside.

Thankfully a park ranger found us shortly after we'd left the vehicle on the roadside, and he drove us to shelter. With the RV cooked, Julie, my mother, and Alexandria got a ride with the ranger back to a hotel near the end of the race in a little town called Lone Pine. Uncle George went with them and picked up his Mazda sedan that he'd left in town when we met. I would now be supported during the race not by my entire family in a motor home, but by a skeleton crew consisting of my father and uncle in a compact car. We had only salvaged one small cooler from the RV, and we had very little ice. it was far from ideal, but out in Death Valley you take what you can.

The ordeal on the way to the start had been unsettling, but I tried not to let it break my composure. Every inch of my flesh was covered with a white UV protective suit - like a running mummy - to prevent the sun from searing my skin. I needed to focus on staying cool, on not overheating inside the suit. There wasn't a tree in sight, not even so much as a rock to crawl under for shade.

The asphalt quickly grew so hot that it literally melted my first pair of running shoes within an hour. I didn't see it coming, the soles just disintergrated. I switched to a second pair. Watching some of the other competitors, I learned to run down the white line that edged the roadside, which reflected enough heat to keep this new pair from melting, at least for the time being.

Even running down the white line, the inferno radiating off the road surface was like a blast furnace. Within twelve miles, my feet developed blisters. By 15 miles, blisters formed on top of my blisters. We stopped and cut huge swaths out of my shoes, reducing them to makeshift sandals. It helped a little.

We'd been adviced to carry a plant mister to help me stay cool, and we'd brought one. But without ice, the mister was useless. As hard as I sprayed, most of the mist evaporated as it came out of the nozzle and never reached my body.

Earlier this year, a European tourist had roasted to death in the mudflats beside the road. Apparently, he had walked out to take some pictures. The coroner's report noted that the corpse's feet were severly disfigured. Poor bastard had stepped through the narrow surface crust into a layer of molten-hot mud. Trapped by the ankles, he'd literally baked to death. he, too, had been carrying a water mister - a lot of good that did him...

Furnace Creek is the most remote outpost along the course, seventeen miles from the start. There is a small service station - which was closed - and a hotel, and lots of scorching red sand blowing across the road. To conserve our limited supplies, I guzzled from the gas-station hose before noticing a small placard next to the spigot: NON-POTABLE WATER.


The vomiting started at mile 30. Severe dehydration and cramping followed. i was less than a quarter of the way into it, and already things were going haywire.

"How about trying some food?" my dad asked from the Mazda window.

"Sure, I'll try anything."

He lowered the window and handed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich, I ran with the sandwich for perhaps a hundred yards, trying to stave off the nausea enough to take a bite. When I finally chomped into it, I found that the bread was toasted.
That's strange, I thought to myself, Why would we bring a toaster to Death Valley? Then it occured to me: I was running in a toaster.

It was 1:00 a.m. as we made our way to Stovepipe Wells, 42 miles from the starting point of this godforsaken race. The road was dark and silent as I ran, except for the whistle of the wind howling across the barren expanse of desert and the periodic tumbleweed bouncing along the way. It was pitch-black when we arrived - the middle of the night - and the temperature was 112 degrees. Birds had fallen from the sky earlier in the day.

Stovepipe Wells had a single hotel, with a small pool. I ran straight to it and jumped in. Unfortunately, the water was as warm as a Jacuzzi. As I climbed out, another runner ambled up to the pool. He was dry-heaving continually, and, under the pale-yellow glow of the naked bulb illuminating the area, I could see him lurching uncontrollably. he stepped feetfirst into the pool without removing any of his running gear, shoes included. He was still dry-heaving when he clambored back out, dripping wet. He passed his crew in a daze.

"Did it help?" one of them asked.

He shook his head and staggered past them, straight into the hotel. That was the last we saw of him. Game over.

Exiting Stovepipe Wells, I was hallucinating vividly as I trotted along. The farther I progressedm the more delirious I became. At one point an old miner appeared in the road ahead of me, gold-dust pan in hand. "
Water," he croaked. Feeling sorry for him, I filled his pan from my bottle. it was only when the water splashed and steamed on the road that I realized he was a hallucination. Or a ghost.

Then came hallucinations of rattlesnakes on the road. "Look out!" my dad and uncle screamed, flashing the headlights and honking. The snakes were real.

Besides the rattlesnakes, there were scorpions and big tarantulas to watch out for on the dark road. My vision wasn't very focused, and my mind was in a haze. I plodded along recklessly, unable to remain mentally attentive. My guard was down at a time I needed to tread cautiously.

At four in the morning, along with the vomiting came severe diarrhea. My stride was so shaky that I could barely make it to the shoulder of the road to yank down my shorts and expel wretchedly from both ends simultaneously. The next remote outpost, Panamint Springs, was at mile 72. I needed to get there soon, if only for a roll of toilet paper. We had run out long ago.

My dad and uncle were with me straight through the night. They would pull the car some two miles up the road - looking for critters - and then they would wait for me to saunter by, always ready to help. Although I'd stopped eating and drinking long ago, for fear of ejecting the products, they kept up the support all the way through.

The toughest footrace on earth was kicking my ass. The official finish at road-end on the side of Mount Whitney was still 63 miles away, and I had no intentions of stopping there. With my newfound spirited determination, I wanted to make an extreme endurance event even more extreme by blasting through the finish line and running eleven additional miles up the trail to the summit.

Call me a masochist. Plenty of people were starting to.

I was thinking that myself as I staggered into Panamint Springs, hunched over like an ape. My head was spinning and I saw stars, though it was now daylight. Someone decided I needed fruit and stuffed a piece of warm, limp, cantalope in my mouth. I threw it up immediately.

"Is he all right?" I heard a man ask my crew, it was Ben Jones, M.D., the local doctor, surgeon, obstetrician, pediatrician, psychiatrist (Lord knows they need one out here), and mayor of Badwater.

"We're not sure," my dad answered.

"Would he like to use my ice bath?"

Behind his car, Dr. Jones was towing a coffin on wheels filled with ice water.

I shook my head, There was no way in hell I was crawling into a coffin, even for an icy cold bath. The prospect of ending up in one for good seemed all too real.

I could dimly make out the doctor consulting with my dad and uncle. They sounded like a bad transistor radio, complete with static and irregular volume. I looked up; the sun appeared to be pouring down in a molten red mist that swirled around the distant dunes and then weirdly evaporated back up into the sky, I took a step forward, veered sideways, took another wobbly step half-step, and collapsed in a heap on the burning ground.

The man is a lunatic.

Does he finish the race? Does he even LIVE? Well, yeah. This isn't a depressing book. It's an inspirational one. Karnazes tells great "road stories"... REAL road stories and isn't lacking in detail.

The only real problem with the book is all the other stuff in it. His wife, for instance, Karnazes portrays her as a fully supportive, happy-go-lucky partner. That rang false to me. Nowhere in the book does he admit to having a good ol' fashioned fight, or even an argument, about all the time he is running, how he is killing himself with every insane race. Doesn't she worry? Doesn't she care? According to Dean, no. Everything is hunky-dory at home.

Which is fine. This isn't supposed to be a heavy autobiography. The meat and potatoes here are the four races Dean writes about. Everything else - how he started running, the death of his sister, the 15 year lay-off before he started running again - it's all garnish. It goes by quickly.

And only in a self-amused way does Karnazes admit to being screwed up in the head for his hobby.

Also in the book (paperback only) is a FAQ section where he addresses the major questions that people asked him during his book tour. He also includes a menu of what he ate when he first went for a 199 mile marathon. (which he then writes about being cheerfully dragged to a rollercoaster by his kids immediately after completion... and then off to work the next morning... all of which smells awfully fishy to me)

Ultra Marathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner by Dean Karnazes is a quick book. Even the dullest of you will be able to blast through it pretty quickly. And it might just inspire you, especially you wrestlers out there, to train just a little bit harder. It can be done, you can run forever. This guy does.

Actually, he's a lot like many of you wrestlers. You're ALL tapped in the head.

Plus, this guy could probably wrestle a 90 minute Broadway. CAN YOU??

My name is Chris Hyatte and I won't rest until every professional wrestler LEARNS TO READ!!!


*The human heart beats roughly 500 million times per year*

And just like that, you're smarter than you were three seconds ago

Hyatte LIVES to inform.

Half a BILLION???... a YEAR???!! Jesus.... every stop and think just how IMPOSSIBLE it is that we're all still living?


Whenever we talk, I can always count on Flea to give his opinions on just about anything.

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

The following is 100% true... more or less:


Katie Couric?

She ain't cut out to deliver bad news.

Flea: Who once met Paul Reubens at the movies.


Oh hell why not... because this column isn't OVER-STUFFED ENOUGH!!

-clips from last week's spectacle, focusing on Abyss's attack on Christian Cage AT HIS OWN HOME!?!?!?!. I'm pretty sure the focus of Abyss's rage was when he saw the indoor pool. This is WRESTLING... who other than Hulk Hogan gets a goddam indoor pool? Poor Abyss has to chase fatso Billy Firehawk down for $50 while a lifelong spot on the WWE midcard gets you an indoor POOL??? Abyss should'a sodomized him with the damn pool vacuum.

-opening theme. Why don't they just fill the theme with images of Sting and rename the show, "Sting's Thing Starring Sting with a special guest appearence by anyone willing to talk about Sting"?

-Don West quickly tamps out his cigarette and Mike Tenay sloshes back a knocker of gin and both mourn the death of Christian Cage. "We haven't heard from him all week," slurs Tenay. "Our champion is DEAD!." (nah, just his career)

-Out comes Abyss led by that imbecile James Mitchell. They have the nerve to list Abyss at 364. The motherless fuck is about 5 foot 6 without his lifts and looks to be a respectable 38 inch waist. He's got a better chance of getting laid without paying than he does at being 364.

-THE MONSTER ABYSS WEARS ELEVATOR SHOES!!! Just wanted to make sure you registered that.

-Before Tenay could demand that Abyss be hauled to jail for MURDERING THEIR WORLD CHAMPION...

-Out comes AJ Styles... who pauses to lift his hood and play "peek-a-boo" with the crowd. Listen hard enough and you can hear three morons shout, "I SEE YOU, AJ" when he lifts. Has it come to this?

-Tenay shouts that this is a "pay per view QUALITY match you're getting for FREE".... heh, someone's been watching old Nitro shows on WWE 24/7. Schiavone used to shout that all the time... and it usually involved Hulk Hogan.

-They locked up. West lied about having wanted this rematch for a whole YEAR now. Ironically, I've been waiting for Trish Stratus to give me a phonecall for around the same length of time too (I keep e-mailing her my damn number!!!).... WHY God decided to give that smelly chickenfucker his wish yet refuse to grant me MY desire is beyond me. LET'S GO, GOD!! GET THE GIRL'S FINGER DIALING!!! HAVEN'T I EARNED THIS ONE THING?? HAVEN'T I BEEN A GOOD CATHOLIC???

-I'm living a long, healthy life NOT paying attention to Abyss, so forgive me when I ask if this move he does where he keeps looking at the camera after every slam... is this a recent new trick? Is it his way of silently saying, "Look assholes!! See what I'm doing?? See how athletic I am? I AM NOT A KANE RIP-OFF!!! I AM A MONSTER!! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!" Silently, of course...

-Ugh, he's a dickhead.

-And Mitchell... who, at one point was seen hunched over and gawking stupidly as Styles did what he does.... I don't use goofy pictures to HIGHLIGHT the look, but rest assured it's yoiur standard, classic, "Waitaminute, something large just plunged up my asshole" expression.

-Abyss applied a deadly NECKTWIST on Styles... twisting his face so it's awfully near his crotch. The dude wears a gay mask and has a permed whitefro.... aiming male faces near his crotch isn't exactly a SHOCKING observation, people.

-somewhere in there, Tenay shouted that we would all have a heart attack from ALL THIS ADRENALIZED ACTION unless we are hauled off to the night's first set of...


-Mitchell had to set his karaokee stage for a bar mitvah in West Palm Beach later that night, so he called for the "click... DOOOOOOOOOMSDAY" finish... which is supposed to set Abyss off in a RAGE (ofsuplexesandbodyslams). Abyss went for the "Black Hole Slam" (FURTHER proof he doesn't mind the male face near his unit.... what straight dude names his finisher the "Black Hole Slam" and NOT expect to be shitting semen for a week afterwards?) but Styles countered and went for his "Styles Clash" (which is a really BAD finisher for a guy who spends most of his matches flying around like porn gizz.

-In one segment I referenced semen twice... but Abyss is the homo here.... right.

-Styles hit the "Pele" kick... which is UNREAL!! Triple H should steal that one.

-Suddenly... a big pick-up truck rolled in... perhaps an Explorer.... or a Yukon. TNA JUST SIGNED STONE COLD!!! MY LORD, THE NEW WRESTLING WAR HAS BEGUN!!

-Oh... it's just Christian... who stormed out of the truck without shutting the door... he might as well put on a sign that reads, "My owner is Canadian... steal me!"

-Before Tenay could mention the irony that CHRISTian has apparently RISEN FROM THE DEAD so close to EASTER... Christian charged out to the ring with a tire iron and chased Abyss away. He threw the tire iron at Abyss... then jumped out of the ring to chase him... then turned around to grab his tire iron... then realized that he'd look like a douchebag picking up a damn tire iron... plus some yokel in the crowd took it already and he wasn't about to chase the fan around Orlando for the damn weapon while the fan hooted, "COME N' GET IT, HYUCK!!" So he went after Abyss without a weapon. Was Christian always such a tool?

-Security blocked Christian's path. Christian went back to the ring and said he was willing to DIE in the cage if it meant getting his hands on Abyss. He also muttered something about going from working Tables, Ladders, and Chair matches on the GRANDEST stage of them all in front of MILLIONS to working with a midget monster-Foley-Rip-Off with a faggy perm on a PPV that not even his mother will order. Then he started to sob. Can you BELIEVE this guy used to fuck Trish Stratus? Girl has no taste.

-Backstage, Jeremy Borash LOADED up on the bronzing cream and listened to Brother Buh Buh try to paint Canada as this century's Nazi Germany. No, really... Borash must have gone through 3 tubes to get the fake tan going. I swear, if the opportunity arises I'm going to slap that guy right in the cocksucker.

-This whole "Canada vs the USA" is SO played out. It's been DONE... a HUNDRED TIMES already... and ALL DONE BETTER THAN THIS FORCE-FEEDING!!

-The only thing Patriotic about this promo is that Brother D-Von did nothing but his standard "Testify" scream while the fat white guy did all of the talking.... *sniff.... of thee I siiiiiiiiiiiiing


-Konan and Homicide come out to put over the unfailing arm strength of a 90 year old man. Because SOMEONE down there is watching Raw and is thinking, "Hey, we might not be able to book Vince McMahon but we can book BOB ARMSTRONG!!!!"

-Armstrong comes out with Bad Ass and Road Dogg. The funniest story I've heard all week is how Road Dogg fumed over how Billy Gunn makes more money than him... so TNA told him to ask Gunn to take a paycut or else get bent. Billy Gunn went whining to TNA about taking a paycut and TNA said, "Well, if Road Dog quits then we have nothing for you and you'll be kissing Frank Goodman's fat ass for work." Billy Gunn accepted the paycut and now both of these idiots make the same amount of money. Meanwhile, Bob Armstrong gets paid in Black on Latina porn DVDs. All true.

-The ref threw out Homicide AND the James Gang. Tenay bellowed on about how "THIS IS HOW YOU SETTLE THINGS IN THE MARINE CORP!!!!" Then he called Nixon a Communist.

-They had their little arm rasslin' nonsense... classic stuff (and not in a good way... more like in a "who the fuck is DREAMING this bullshit up" way) where Konan has Bullet Bob (with arms about the size and shape and firmness of a two month old butternut squash) JUST ABOUT pinned when Bullet Bob... DEFYING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS (not to mention common sense and the intelligence of anyone who made it past the 6th grade) pulled K-Dawg up and OVER to his side...

-Then some shmo I've never heard of showed up and slapjacked Bullet Bob all to hell. Tenay called him "Hernandez" and acted like we sould know who he is. The James Gang ran back out, thoroughly shamefaced that they were caught looking like assholes... AGAIN... for the 456th time) and chased Konan, Whonandez, and Homicide away. Homicide was seen yelling, "DAYAM!! I should'a settled my beef with Mafia on the ARM RASSLIN' TABLE!"

-There was nothing about this segment that made me want to keep living.


-Backstage, Larry Zbyszko talked about the "World Cup" gimmick that no one cares about, then went into his storyline with that goofy bald referee that NO ONE cares about... although the payoff seems to be the return of Raven. Let's hope he's been using his time to study up them big words he likes to drop.

-Simon Diamond sat with West and Tenay as Elix Skipper and David Young got ready to mess with Sharkboy (how does that cocksucker breath out of water?) and Norman Smiley. Tenay pulls out the recent Sports Illustrated where Ozzie Guillen of the White Sox chaired him up. Tenay had the balls to say, "All of Chicago has been talking about this all week!!" Well, no he didn't... but he came close.

-Then Jarrett and Steiner and the AMW kids came out and Steiner kicked the living shit out of Norman Smiley. Jarrett and Tenay started yelling at each other. "STOP THIS!! WE'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE A MATCH!!! (pointy finger) "YOU'RE OUT OF CONTROL, JARRETT!" Followed by, "YOU SHUT UP, TENAY!!! AND YOU TOO, WEST!!" Steiner Reclined all over Smiley... and dear god, every bad memory of Nitro I ever had just came rushing back to me.


-We see Smiley get hauled away in an ambulance. Tenay fumed about how only Sting can save us. West pointed out, "Well, at least Steiner went after the DARKIE!" Good points all around.

-Three guys had an X-Division match and one of them won.

-Sting came out and cut a promo about how he did NOT come back to TNA for the money... "I came back because I LOVE WRESTLING... OWWWWW". Then his nose shot out and banged the camera.

-The promo was the promo... but the worst part was how TNA piped in some of the WORST audio sweetener I've ever heard! Jesus, they can't even engineer a decent pop right.

-Team Jarrett came out... then various TNA Faces came out to back Sting's play. Tenay sputtered, "THE WAR ISN'T OVER!!! THE WAR HAS BEGUN!!! RON KILLINGS FATHERED STEPHANIE MCMAHON'S BABY!!" and....

-the show ends.

On one hand, the show went quicker than usual. On the other hand, it took me 5 hours to Mop this Up. (I had a HUGE nap somewhere in there)

And as for Thursday night TNA.... maybe.... from time to time I'll recap it... but my heart belongs to Letterman... and I'm pretty fried on this silly sport during the week I don't even watch Smackdown... I'm busy getting lap dances and shaking my head in disgust when the Strip Club's ATM machine charges $5 per withdrawal. Well... disgust and admiration... it IS A nifty move on their part.... those clubs KNOW I'm not going anywhere... and they KNOW nothing is gonna stop me from pulling out an extra $100 spot so I can get the 3 song special... plus there's my obligatory attempt to bribe the DJ into playing something like Freebird so I can REALLY get some quality ass shaking in my face. Genius.... whoever thought to charge $5 per withdrawal... absolute genius.

Okay... had enough? I have too. Good fuckin' Christ I jammed this shit up this week... all these segments... must have about 10'000 words here. And all that horn tooting.... all that Alexa back patting.... whoa.

I'm going to take next week off... so don't come here for me... come for the INDY NEWS! Come see who stiffed who and which TNA star half-assed it in Bumblefuck, USA for the UXWFAA (Unlimited Xtreme Wrestling Federation's Associating Alliance) for 25 fans. Then go to the message board and see who's pussy will be shown. Fun, Fun, Fun here at the HUB of Indy feds...

I'll be back in two or three weeks... rip roaring, baby.


Deal with it, assholes.... Hyatte brings IT.


This is Hyatte