The Midnight News

I'm not gonna blow smoke up your ass over the column & stuff. You've kept me entertained since the start, and that's all i'mma say. :) Enjoy whatever you choose to do next. I just wanted to say something... We've got more disease than we used to have, more crime, more perversion, more of everything that's "bad" than at any point in history... You thought the Internet would IMPROVE in 10 years? If nothing else is true, Hyatte, you are an optimist. :D Thanks for the metric fucktonnes of laughter. (I'm Canadian. We use metric fucktonnes, not U.S. fucktons).

Tyler C.

I sort'a HOPED things would improve... but they just got worse

I'm sure your inbox is going to be stuffed with emails from people saying a lot of things. How great you are, how much you suck, how much they don't want you to leave, how they wished you'd left sooner, how they've read you since the "Red Stripe Days" or have just discovered you when you came to DOI. Names like Scott Keith, Sean Shannon, Mark Madden,Al Issacs and Dusty the Fat Bitter Cat will be brought up, too. They'll say that you either owned them or they owned you. But, no matter what they say, they'll all have to agree on some level that you were entertaining. Sometimes you've been great, sometimes, well...not so much, but that's how it goes. But no matter what, I always looked forward to your column. So, all I can say is thank you and good luck. You did good.


I know I did. Thanks.

For Fuck Sakes... After a year and a half (or however long its been since he left Widehole and the insidepulsers), Don't I finally track down where Hyatte went to... and find out he's writing his last column ever... well, color me disappointed.... take it easy. thanks for the memories and the impure thoughts. Bitch. Although I'm certain in 8 months from now, I'll google "Hyatte" and "mop up" and be able to read your summerslam recap Keep it between yer knees,

Captain G

As one of your longtime readers I'd like to say thanks. Sometimes you made me wince. Sometimes you made me think. Sometime you made me see you as an incredible writer wasting his time writing about wrestling and porn. It probably is time to hang it up. Those of us in your demographic should probably quit reading about all this crap. It's men athletically dancing with each other in tights. We need to grow up. I'd like to think I have. I just found out that I will have a daughter in June. (please make no comment other than congratulations). I can't be a father who watches wrestling. That is lame. And I damn sure shouldn't read about it at work. Anyway, thank you and goodbye. I may occasionally check your blogspot, in case you write something of substance in the future. You should. Just not about wrestling.


I get a lot of suggestions that I should keep writing... and they ALWAYS say... rather grimly... "just not about wrestling."

Oh, and congrats... is she... hairless?

Chris: Like you I am a thirty-something that has been watching wrestling on and off since early childhood and reading your columns religiously over the last five years. I am also an attorney at a national law firm, so I am one of those secret "Hyatte Intellectual Cadre" I agree a bit of an oxymoron, but I digress. I won't go into the fall all over myself routine of begging you to stay but wanted to thank you for a hell of a ride. Your mission both to entertain and to get people to lighten the hell up was both damn humorous and also poignant. Without going onto a soap box, you were the only one out there saying in not so veiled terms "Kids, get a life and get over it, its just wrestling!" Your insight into the business and more importantly your insight into the Internet fandom was spot on. You held the mirror up to the fanatics and said "Look at yourself for God's sake". My hope and wish for your career was that to those that you held the mirror up to that they took a serious look because they need some perspective (lol).

Wherever the road leads Chris, as those who are hipper and younger than us both (which ain't hard buddy) might say "Peace be the journey". I leave you with a quote from the Bard himself which I have altered just for you. A prize if you can name the play, character, scene and act"
"I gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least Big Daddy Hyatte is going out while playing horizontal hokey pokey with Stratus on her back."


"The Tempest" Act IV, scene VII. Probably Ariel

If this really the last see of hyatte, there is one thing i will always remember as you run away from the internet. THAT'S NACHO CHEESE!!!!!!!! HAHAHA, thanks for the memories man.

Jason in Cincy

THAT'S NACHO CHEESE!!!!! Heh... greatest joke ever... because you can make it racist with just one adjustment.

Hey Hi-R8, Your gibberish Royal Rumble recap was done by Chad Matthews from Lords of Pain. (The only reason I knew that was I recognized his match rating and commentary layout, and I had just read his recap.) The language appears to be German. If I am right, I want the prize to be you writing columns for one more year. It gives us something to look forward to on Mondays. (Man that sounds gay.) Best wishes,


He was right... it was German and it was from some kid on the Lords of Pain... and he did get a prize... and he loved it.

Hiya douchebags. I'm Chris and this is the Midnight News. And... well... you know.

I had thought about sending out scores of e-mails to ALL the big time names here on the Internet, and from columns past, inviting them to say something about me with the promise that I won't respond or edit... but then I came to my senses and realized that Meltzer, Keller, Mitchell, Scherer, Johnson, or Al Isaacs wouldn't have bothered. Shit, I doubt even Rick Scaia or Scott Keith or Sean Shannon or even CRZ would've sent anything. And, as much as I know you would ALL love to hear what Flea or Josh Grut or Widro would've said... and I'm pretty sure Pat McNeill would have chimed in with something... it all proved to be too much of a hassle... and a waste of time.

THEN I considered asking Trish Stratus to write something... possibly telling her side of the story that I've been carrying on aboot for months... but she and I weren't talking at the time (we run hot and cold), so that was out...

So finally, I decided to just give you all a full column and then say my last words at the end. One more load of semi-entertaining crap before I head off to the old glue factory.

So, let's get this thing going...


I was going to do a thing about CM Punk here but...

Well, did you know that the WWE thinks he might be leaking info to PWInsider? Heh... wouldn't surprise me.

He should go back to the Indys... where he can horse around and mug for the camera and do promos where he mostly goes into business for himself and he can go back to his LiveJournal and all you lemmings can welcome him back with open arms. "YES!! PUNK IS BACK IN ROH!!! NOW HE CAN RESPOND TO WHAT WE SAY ABOUT HIM!!"

There's a way to be a wiseass and a sarcastic prick and NOT piss off people who CONTROL YOUR CAREER... if Brooks wasn't such a mark for himself and didn't buy into his own hype, he might learn this.

Fuck him... I hope the WWE Wellness Program NAILS him. I might even come back for that one.


And I'm not that impressed with Maria either... never was... so this isn't a jealousy thing. I hope they have a pile of adorable babies.

I don't buy the hype... never did. And he's chubby... except in his arms, which are gawky.


What a doofus.


And for the last time...

And now it’s time for the return of a visitor from the east… the all-knowing, all-seeing, sage, soothsayer, and Homicide's personal prison wife: here is HYATTEYAK THE UNINTELLIGIBLE!!!

Thank you, thank yo… WHOOPS (trips and wipes out)

Are you okay, oh great one?

I am fine… may Bruce Mitchell lecture you on why bullies never win!


May your last column go virtually ignored!

I hold in my hand several envelopes. An idiot mark of 24 could clearly see that they are
hermetically sealed. They have been kept in a jar on Funk & Wagnall’s porch since noon today… NO ONE knows the contents in these envelopes but you, oh Mighty Hyatteyak, shall divulge the answers without looking at the questions… are you ready, HYATTEYAK???

I am ready.

Shouldn't you have left this thing 5 years ago?

Just give me the first envelope please

The first envelope! Hermetically sealed

Yes, Pat McNeill sucks giant Puerto Rican cocks

In a jar


Funk & Wagnall’s porch


Since noon today.

Hyatteyak needs absolute silence.

Most of the time Hyatteyak GETS absolute silence

Eat me, jerkoff. [holds envelope to head] Armed and Famous




*rip… poof

What did the armless actor want to be when he visited the L.A. Plastic Surgeon??


What a stupid show... no one was famous....[holds envelope to head] Hacksaw Jim Duggan


*rip… poof

Who did my friend Hack see bussing tables in Newark last week?


May your career rest in the hands of Dave Laguna!


May a drunk Sean "The Mic" only talk to you when you're trying to do a column!


May an ex-WWE Diva go and get married but still wants to mess with your head!


[holds envelope to head] The front row of TNA Impact


*rip… poof

What is thirty feet long, has ten teeth, and smells of piss


[holds envelope to head] An ugly Orangutan


Oh shut up

OH SHU…oh.

*rip… poof

What do you get when you mix Melina with an Oragutan?


May you catch your only son jerking off to Jillian Hall


May you find Wade Keller funny


May your best friend be an 18 year old girl who finds you old and gross


[holds envelope to head] The Midnight News, the Observer, and Trish Stratus's marriage


*rip… poof

Name a dead horse, a news source, and an impending divorce!


May you spend your evenings on the phone with a moody drunk millionaire


[Holds envelope to head] MUSCLE BUSTER


*rip… poof

What does the IWC call a single sit-up?


[holds envelope to head] Aurora Snow


*rip… poof

What does Triple H call the cocaine he hides in his daughter's diapers?


May you find yourself YouTubing Lita and Edge's make-out sessions!

[holds envelope to head] Randy Orton, Lilian Garcia, and all Italians


*rip… poof

Name a Head Case, a Horse Face, and a Useless Race


[holds envelope to head] Hardy Boys


*rip… poof

What did Pat Patterson want for Christmas?


May Kurt Angle's neck shatter while you have him in a armbar!


[holds envelope to head] Benedict, KENTA, and Frank Goodman


*rip… poof

Name a Pope, a Slope, and a Dope!


May Tom refuse to be a buddy on your MySpace!

I hold in my hands the LAST envelope

[Audience roars]

May you only get aroused by loud Puerto Ricans with three kids, herpes, and a huge ass

May your entire family bloodline rest in the hands of a son who spends all day watching old wrestling tapes

May you spend hours trying to convince people that you have no ego

May April Hunter constantly tell you that you have no shot at her!

[holds envelope to head] Hulking Up, the Great Khali, and Stephanie's Genitalia


*rip… poof

Name a Big Pop, a Big Flop, and a Big Slop!




Brings tears to the eye...


Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Retire-8
Hyatte: Oh yeah, which ones?
Flea: Stephen King, George Orwell…
Hyatte: And?
Flea: (takes a long, drawn-out, desperate pull from his bong – followed by a nice, generous sip from his glass) and… whoever.
Hyatte: Whoever?
Flea: Yep
Hyatte: Who the fuck is whoever?
Flea: When you know, then you’ll know


So, Wader Keller, the creepy little sexually repressed fagola who runs PW Torch, has brought on another full-time staffer. His name is Sean Radican and since he gets a LOT of ROH DVDs, and since he's safe, quiet, and a highly bland, miserable writer... Wade pegged him as the Torch's resident ROH expert.

AND... like 99% of every writer/Netfan out there, he is bald, fat, white, wears glasses, and has a gay smile.

He also started a book club in his message board forum. When I saw it, I was preparing a 134 page ass-rip on him.

But then I read what he suggested... and laughed, then got sad, then felt relieved that I was done with all this.

Radican's first book review was that he's reading Bischoff's book and the new Stephen King book.

As luck would have it, elsewhere on that board, we had Derek Burgan, who tends to suck up to Dave Meltzer so he gets his crappy photoshop stuff posted. He posted about getting a new "Alex Cross" book and was SO HAPPY!!

Right around then my head exploded.

First... if you're going to do a book club gimmick for wrestling fans... YOU DON'T HAVE TO STICK ONLY WITH WRESTLING BOOKS... even IF wrestling is your fucking fat ass LIFE.

Second... recommending Stephen King is like recommending bottled water as a beverage. WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT????

THIRD... James Patterson wrote his first book while he was a President of some Ad company... a very successful one. You all know of Alex Cross because Patterson had his own ad company jam the god damn book down your throats. He isn't a good writer, not by half. I understand he hires a ghost writer for the second and thrird drafts anyway... so don't be so proud that you're reading him. He's a con man.

So Radican is another asshole who sucks hard... but my book selection this week is a WRESTLING book! Uh oh, am I about to be exposed as a HYPOCRITE???

No. This last selection is, in a way, what I've been waiting for for a looooong time.

Every 3 months, SOMEONE puts out a wrestling book that is either A: from a fan who doesn't know shit or B: from a wrestler who won't, if his life depended on it, talk about what REALLY goes on backstage. The people in the A category are just marks. The people in the B category are just wrestlers or promoters who want to WORK the marks. We've all been seeing this happen for years and we've all been waiting for someone to talk about the TRUTH...

Well, someone did, in 2000. His name is Ben Peller and he was a wrestler. You didn't hear of him. He was just a jobber. Didn't last very long. But he trained, he toured, and he saw and heard a LOT...

And he took his story and the stories he heard and his experiences and turned it into a book.
Now here's the catch,
Living the Gimmick by Ben Peller is a work of fiction. He created new names for VERY familiar characters and people and incidents and built his imagined story around them. It's a story, not a true one... but DEFINITELY inspired by true events.

That's part of the fun... identifying the REAL people that Peller uses here.

Living the Gimmick, Peller's character, "Michael", falls in love with wrestling at an early age, defies his mother and goes to California to enroll in a wrestling school, learns the trade, does the local houses, then goes to a territory in Memphis, run by local Memphis wrestling LEGEND Billy "The Prince" Rampart, then goes to the "WWO" where his boss is the ultra-slick, third generation, power hungry Thomas Rockhart Jr, and where he feuds with "The Million Dollar Baby", Chuck "The Stud" Beastie (and his Manger/valet/real wife Mimi), the "Soultaker", and finally the champion, the "American Dream" Sonny Logan. Peller doesn't leave any guesswork here.

Hell, he even has a character who is a "WWO" (World Wrestling Organization) agent by the name of "Rob Robertson" who has a taste for young men...

And through his journey, which isn't just a tell-all as Michael must also deal with some serious personal demons of his own, we get a true taste of what the business is like... the drugs, the rats, the way they look at the fans (it's really and "us vs them" mentality and god DAMN I got the sense that no matter how much of a Super Smark you are... you're still a mark) and the way the business eats you away just on the unGodly road touring. If you don't like the story, you WILL enjoy the snapshot of what this business was like in the early 90's.

The excerpt I have for you involves a character based on the late Bruiser Brody. Micheal is in Memphis, working for Billy "The Prince" Rampart and was just hired to join the WWO (and we got the full treatment of what meeting someone who is A LOT LIKE Vince McMahon for the first time is all about). "The PRince doesn't take kindly to the news (this is the late 80's, asfter all) and books Micheal - who's Memphis gimmick is "The Wandering Wildman" - into a special match for revenge. Check this out...

"Crusher Crews" was a living legend, known throughout the pro wrestling business as the last of the true mercenaries. Both the WWO and ICW wanted him, but he sneered at rhe idea of selling out and staying in any one territory for too long. He wrestled independently, going wherever the dollar was highest, and in the process acquiring a reputation for brawls with fans and fellow wrestlers as well as for his extraordinarily bloody matches. Throughout locker rooms across the world, wrestlers spoke in awed tones about the time Crews had once wrestled a bear on a card in the Pacific Northwest, beating the animal in less than three minutes. Some stories had him choking the bear into submission while others gave credit to his softball-sized fists, which they said he had used to pummel the bear's face in. All versions ended with tearing the unconscious bear's head off and parading around the ring with it impaled on a sharpened cedar branch.

The night after my talk with B.J., I pulled into the parking lot of Mid-South Coliseum and was jarred by the marquee's message of:
Tonight: Special Appearance of Crusher Crews vs Wandering Wildman in a Steel Cage. Alarm ripped through my body, I tracked down Rampart in his dressing room.

"I'm supposed to be wrestling Jesse James tonight," I told Rampart. "What gives?"

"Crews was coming through," Rampart said with a shrug. "He wanted to wrestle, I figured it would be a good experience for you."

"Experience?" I shouted. "For what, a prison riot? The guy never sells a move, and you want me to go into a
cage with him?"

"You still work for me," Rampart smiled, "and I'm the booker. That clear?"

"As a fuckin' bell," I snarled. Wildman was taking over. I stomped into the hallway where I collided with none other than Crusher Crews.

"Watch it!" he shouted, glaring down at me as though I were something distasteful he had just stepped in. He was at least 6'5" with the kind of frame that could fill an entire doorway. His shoulders and chest thrust out from his body like the head of a hammer. Stringy black hair fell back from a forehead littered with long jagged scars from razors, beer bottles, and (if one particular rumor was to be believed) a restaurant plate glass window through which he had thrust his head when he was told the restaurant was closed.

This creature appeared very capable of ripping a bear's head from its shoulders. I found myself scanning his body for scars which might belong to a bear claw. "Mister... Mister Crews." I extended my hand. He glanced at it with flickering disgust. "I'm Wildman." I coughed and found the rough tone I was looking for. Wandering Wildman," I repeated.

"You're the punk that's goin' to WWO, huh?" he sneered, "Rockhart's a fag. Logan's a fag. They're all fags up there. They must be lookin' for some young boys to molest."

With that, he stalked into Rampart's dressing room and slammed the door. I went into the other dressing room and sat, pressing my back against the two walls meeting just behind me.

As the time for my match approached, Jesse came by and kneeled down beside me as I laced my boots, "Hey Wildman," he said quietly, "be careful out there."

"Yeah," I snarled, trying to get into character, "I can handle Crews."

"I shouldn't be tellin' ya this..." He sighed, speaking with a quiet urgency. "But this has happened before. There was this young dude once... Pud Gatorbear... Indian gimmick. Rampart gave him a real nice push. Six months later, Gatorbear announced he was goin' to Japan. Rampart got a little pissed."

"Rampart sounds like he has some attachment issues." I commented.

"Uh... yeah," Jesse replied blankly. "So, he brings in Crews and sends the kid against him in a dog collar match. He tells Crews that Gatorbear's gonna go over. That pisses Crews off."

"I'll bet."

"So Crews broke both Gatorbear's arms, then laid down in the middle of the ring and pulled the kid on top of 'im for a three count." Johnny said.

"Fuck this." I launched up with my boots still untied. I grabbed the torn straightjacket that I wore to the ring and threw it on. The mirror on the wall featured a jagged crack in it, and I positioned my face safely away from it so I could have a clear uninterrupted reflection of my snarl. "I'm the Wandering Wildman," I reassured myself.

When I barged into Rampart's dressing room, he was in the process of shaving his forearms. "What the hell?" he yelled. "You never come in here without knocking!"

"What the hell's the idea, Billy?" I shouted back. "You wanna see me crippled?"

He set the razor down as his lips wandered into a cocky grin. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Crews," I intoned. "You brought him in here to try and take me out, didn't you, asshole?"

"Just a second, you little prick." Rampart stood. "I made you what you are. That Wildman gimmick was
my idea!"

"It's mine now!" I shot back.

"Like hell it is," he sneered. "You're already actin' like a WWO clown. If you're such a wildman, get in the fuckin' ring with Crews and stop whinin'."

"The guy wrestled a
bear for chrissakes!" I yelled, ashamed of my reference to a tale that was most likely untrue. "He's gonna shoot on me and try to tear me apart!"

"Then I suggest you shoot back," Rampart drawled. He picked up a towel and began wiping the shaving cream off his forearm. "Hard," he added.

My entire world broke into a maddening buzz. "Fuck you!" I howled, shoving him to the ground. The action felt good, igniting the same improbable wonder I had when I approached the ring before each match. I picked up the stool and slammed it against the mirror. Pieces of the room's reflection erupted and fell to the floor, revealing a patch of unpainted wall.

"Put down that fuckin' stool, you asshole!" Rampart's voice pulled at me. I turned to face him while I licked the saliva running down my chin. In his hand was a small dark pistol. He had shown it to me once before, bragging that he sometimes pulled it on overeager marks. From the way he was aiming the gun at me, I was certain that he was going to pull the trigger. Fear spurred me in his direction. Before he could move, I snatched the gun out of hishand, then swung it back in an arc and slammed the handle into his left temple. He collapsed to the floor in a moaning heap. There was a scraping behind me.

I whirled around and trained the gun on Crusher Crews, who was busy righting the stool. He sat down and gave me a bemused look. "Don't try anything," I growled. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Then why are you holdin' a gun on me?" he asked simply.

It seemed a fair enough question but I only snarled: "Don't try and stop me!"

"I won't," Crews drawled. "I know you're scared enough to shoot me." I felt more eyes from the doorway and saw that several of the wrestlers had gathered there. Crews had insulted Wildman in front of all of them.

Pull the fuckin' trigger and take these assholes off the earth! Wildman screamed.

For a terrifying instant my finger tightened sharply. Then a wave of fear consumed my body like a fever, and I snapped the gun down to my side. All the guys at the door backed away hurriedly as I charged out of the dressing room. The hallway went by in a blur, and then I was outside in the parking lot. A swell of cheers cascaded into the humid night through the walls of the arena. There was a winner being announced, but I couldn't decipher the name. I pointed the gun in the air, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

All that resulted was a sharp momentary click. I opened my eyes and regarded the empty barrel of the gun in amazement. After a minute or so, a door slammed behind me. I looked over, feeling a dull certainty that it would be Crews brandishing a bloody bear's head on a stick. B.J., his hair matted with sweat, rushed up with my duffel bag in hand. "I heard what happened," he panted. "They told me about it as soon as I came backstage."

"Forget it," I croaked. "I'm outta here."

"So am I, doc," he laughed. "Rampart knows we're buddies. He'd try and fuck me over to get revenge for you cracking him."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Damn," he said, grinning. "Did you really clock him over the head with that thing?" He pointed at my hand. I looked down and was surprised to see I was still holding onto the pistol.

"Yeah," I replied, then hurled the thing into a pool of darkeness just beyond the marquee's dull blaze.

"Damn," he repeated wistfully.

"I've got to get outta here." I winced, blinking back tears.

"We better take my car," B.J. suggested. "Rampart was talking about going to the cops. And he knows what your car looks like."

"He knows your car too."

"He didn't see me leave, though. It'll take him a little while to figure out I'm gone."

Thirty seconds later we were pulling out of the parking lot in B.J.'s car. We drove in silence as he sped along the road that would lead us back to Tower 99.

"I'm quitting," I blurted out.

"Duh," he said, laughing, "but you gave Rampart something to remember, the cocky litt..."

"I'm quitting wrestling," I announced. "Period."

These words were flung out with defiance. A silence followed, during which every bump and rattle became unsteady pulses. I glanced over at B.J.'s impassive face. I knew I wanted a response, but I wasn't sure what kind.

It came. "Whatever it is..." he said, "if you quit now, you're gonna let it win."

what win?"

"You know what." He smiled, perhaps to put me at ease, "You've got something. I don't know why you do the things you do. Touch yourself and what not. Tap things. But whatever it is, it's gone away since you've come here."

A bewilded shame invaded my chest and soon spread to my forehead. The only time B.J. had pointed out my habit to me was during that one workout, a year ago, in southern California. But he had obviously been watching me throughout our time spoent together. How many others had noticed and never said anything? Had Shawna?

Probably. People rarely reveal all they know.

B.J. was staring at me now. His eyes held a relief I wanted to share. I turned to the houses and mailboxes hurtling by. I tried to imagine who they belonged to and what their families did every year at holidays or whatever, but they were going too fast and I eventually surrendered to a gentle weariness. I was tired enough to be honest.

"It's still there," I told B.J. "It's like I've got this thing inside me - inside my own body. Myself. It'll tell me to touch this or that. It'll tell me to look at things a certain way. But when I'm in the ring, when I'm someone else, it's got no power."

B.J. stopped at a light and turned to me. "That is a fucking trip," he said. Then he started laughing, but quickly stopped himself. "Sorry," he said, "but..."

"It's all right. I know it sounds silly..."

"Don't ever say that. It sounds
real. And when something like that is really happening, it's not silly. I'm sorry for laughing."

"B.J." I swallowed. "B.J., I was so fuckin' scared tonight. I'm still scared. What the hell am I doing going to the WWO? I can't..."

"Bullshit," B.J. spat out, putting the car in motion. We drove in silence until he turned right on our street. He stopped the car abruptly. A police car sat parked in front of the Tower 99 front entrance. "Wonder who they're looking for?" B.J. sighed, his face daedpan. We cruised slowly past the car, and from my slouched position I could see it was empty.

"Probably inside waiting to beat the shit out of me," I said grimly.

B.J. stopped the car. "If you're gonna quit, you might as well do it now, doc," he said.

"What're you talking about?"

He hit the horn. The blasts hammered the night, attacking the still darkness of the street so arrogantly that they might as well have been the preceding notes in a calvary charge. Even the stars seemed to dim in response to the disturbance. My mouth tried to form words: "Wha're yu..."

"What's it gonna be, Mike?" he asked in a sing-song manner. "You gonna strap on a set of balls and hit the WWO, or are we gonna end it right here?"

He mashed the horn again. In a manner of seconds four cops would be storming out of there. The police car itself was tingling ominously only six feet away from us. A flash of movement to my right made my heart jump. It was an old man walking a dog.

"I've got the Wandering Wildman down here, officers!" B.J. shouted at our building. The street was suddenly alive with motion. Leaves chuckled in the wind, electric wires bulged on the verge of explosion, and shapes spun in and out of Tower 99's windows.

"Damn it, let's go!" I shouted at B.J. "I'll go to WWO! I'll go, all right?"

"You promise?" B.J. demanded, shifting his voice low.

"Yes, I promise! I swear to..."

B.J. was already pulling away, I exhaled but still watched anxiously as Tower 99 and the police car were sucked deeper and deeper into the rearview mirror until B.J. turned the corner. Then the mirror blinked and our old street was replaced by another.

"Well, it was nice to get that settled," B.J. said, smiling.

I shook my head at him. "I think
you're the one that's nuts, brother."

"Fuck it," B.J. said, laughing. He seemed happier than he had been in weeks. "What do we have back there?" he asked.

After thinking about it for several seconds, I joined in B.J.'s laughter. The truth was I had nothing back there. Though I had purchased numerous decorative additions for my costume I wore to the ring as Wandering Wildman, I hadn't accumulated one piece of furniture to add to the basic furnishings the apartment had come with. The only things I brought into that apartment were wrestling magazines, bottles of Valium, and beer. I either ate on the road or had take-out delivered once a week. The oven and stove were as clean as the day I moved in; I had wandered through that apartment like a displaced ghost.

"Nothing," I answered B.J., "nothing really."

"All I got are some pictures of Terri and stuff. Since I'm gonna be seeing her again in person, they're not that important anymore." B.J. shrugged. "So let's get outta this state before Rampart has us lynched. And remember," he added, "a promise is a promise."

"I know," I said, squeezing my forearm even though I knew B.J. was watching. "I'm going. I'm going to the WWO."

And he does, and he meets up with ALL the stars... and even though he changes up the names, he doesn't hide the gimmicks. You'll recognize them.

He also includes sub-plots like the WCW Talent raid... and the climax involves an incident that looks A LOT LIKE Montreal, 1997.

Living the Gimmick isn't the best book I've ever read. Ben Peller can use a better editor, if I'm to be honest, but his heart is in the right place and he does VERY well with his character's search for his own identity... beyond the wrestling gimmicks.

And he captures the mentality, and the lifestyle. He also clues us into a fact that NO ONE seems to understand... something that all the columns and all the message board posts and ALL the "insider reports" can NEVER admit...

That in the locker room... if you watch the show, you're a mark to them. We are marks... no matter how much we "know", no matter how many Observers we read, no matter how much carny we use. We're marks. We were born to be conned.

The greatest irony of all time is that after years of searching for a "real" book on wrestling, one that captures the ACTUAL life... after YEARS of Scott Keith's books and James Guttman's book, and RD Reynolds, and all those WWE approved wrestling books, and EVERYTHING... after years of hollering for a book that stays true to the business, no matter how ugly it is... it turns out the book is out already...and it's a work of fiction.

So yeah, if you want to REALLY know what it's like being in the business of fake sport, you have to read a fake autobiography.

Living the Gimmick is not a GREAT book, but it's a good book. Wrestling fans should read it to see just how full of shit these "Authors of Wrestling" are and Wrestlers should read it just to make fun of Peller.

Then go read something else... and something else... then something ELSE... that's the whole point of this book club. I would throw out a few past suggestions but most of them are buried deep in the 411 mania archives and that asshole Widro went and DESTROYED all the columns I did for Inside Pulse. Way to go, jerk.

As for me, well, this is the last book review I'll be doing. And the only thing I can say is PLEASE... THERE'S MORE TO READ THEN JUST WRESTLING BOOKS!!

And to all you wrestling writers out there who think it would be NEAT to do their own Book Club.... don't be like that fucking retard, Sean Radican and hype Stephen King... go read something your readers MIGHT NOT have heard of.

I recommend hitting up on books by John O'Brian, Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer, Rick Reilly, Neil Gaimen, and Robert Parker... to name a few.

And James Patterson's "Alex Cross" series is what 8th graders should be reading... AIM HIGHER, YOU FUCKHEADS

My name is Chris Hyatte and I have spent the better part of the last 4 years trying to get you kids TO READ!


Since day one, Kevin Nash has been shat on by Internet marks everywhere. Well.... enough is ENOUGH!

This isn't going to change a damn thing, but I'm doing it anyway. Someone has to point out the obvious, SOMEONE has to defend the big guy, SOMEONE has to show the WRESTLING WORLD that Kevin Nash... maybe the greediest, laziest, sneakiest wrestler who ever lived, deserves a HEARTY round of applause... not for thumbing his nose at those who actually WORKED in the ring, but for doing it and getting rich at the same time. He IS the American dream... all 7 feet of him.

But is he better than YOU, John Q. Workrate? Bet'cha ASS he is... Why?

Kevin Nash Is Better Than You Because...

He's never heard of Chris Hyatte and he AIN'T gonna miss me.



*Since I started this clambake nine years ago, I've always done every single column in one all-night marathon session.*

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

Hyatte LIVES to inform.

Sort'a explains a lot, don't it.


Anyway... sometime over the last few weeks, I picked up a book filled with thousands of quotes, zingers, one-liners, and wisecracks from famous people. It's a really sweet time killer and I thought I'd share a few samples. Simple and amusing... the way I like things around these parts...

According to Wikipedia; Woody Allen (born Allen Stewart Konigsberg on December 1, 1935) is a three-time Academy Award-winning American film director, writer, actor, musician and comedian. His large body of work and cerebral film style have made him one of the most widely respected and prolific filmmakers in the modern era. Allen writes and directs his movies and has also acted in the majority of them. For inspiration, Allen draws heavily on literature, philosophy, psychology, European cinema and, most importantly, New York City, where he was born and has lived his entire life.

Anyway, What did Woody Allen think of...

-France? - "For some reason, I'm more appreciated in France than I am at home. The subtitles must be incredibly good."

-The Universe? - "The universe is merely a fleeting idea in God's mind - a prtetty uncomfortable thought, particularly if you've just made a down payment on a house."

-Crime? - "I think crime pays. The hours are good, you travel a lot."

-Success? - "Eighty percent of success is showing up."

-Death - "Death is a wonderful way of cutting down on your expenses."

-Traveling? - "It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, and certainly not desireable, as one's hat keeps blowing off."

-Time? - "Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once."

-Food? - "I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead."

-Love? - "My wife and I thought we were in love, but it turned out to be benign"

-Hollywood? - "Hollywood is not only dog eat dog, it's dog doesn't return other dog's phonecalls."

-Immortality? - "If man were immortal, do you realize what his meat bills would be?"

-The afterlife? - "There is the fear that there is an afterlife but no one will know where its being held."

-Fighting? - "I am not a fighter, I have bad reflexes. I was once run over by a car being pushed by two guys."

-Reading? - "I took a speedy reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involved Russia."

See, old New York Jewish perverts can be COOL... or at least highly witty.


-We are informed that TNA "IS Wrestling"... so all the people who just finished watching that UFC real fight stuff can RACE to the remote and flip the hell out of this. "WRESTLING??? NOOOOOOOOO!!"

-Last week, Sting ALMOST broke through the personal... TRAUMATIC inner walls that make up Abyss... until that no good SATAN Jim Mitchell foiled his plans... you think Sting and Russo sit around trying to out-Christian each other? Russo, "I gave a homeless guy a blanket and a Bible!" Sting, "I saw a couple of teenagers making out the other day and lectured them on abstinence before marriage!" Russo, "Yeah? Well I wrote a book telling people why I'm saved and they're going to burn!" Sting, "Yeah? Well I put out a DVD explaining why I was a SINNER but now I'm saved!" You think they're having this conversation in front of a pile of cocaine and a comatose, underage Korean hooker? I DO!!

-Nice thing about Christianity... we can do just about ANYTHING and just one trip to the Confessional makes it all go away! It's like our own, personal "Get Out of Jail FREE" card... and we never use them up!!

-AND THE PRIESTS CAN'T EVEN GO BLABBING TO THE COPS!!! We just have to hand them over our sons. Quite a bargain! THANK YOU GOD!!

-Opening theme... you can feel it... we are leaving the "Ah, this is nice not having Jeff Jarrett around to eat up time" zone and we are now entering the "Ahh shit, he's getting ready to come back" phase. Poor Kurt... he's going to have to put him over AND have Russo book it... fucked on both ends.

-Samoa Joe is taking on AJ Styles tonight... "IT'S A MAIN EVENT PAY PER VIEW QUALITY MATCH ON FREE TV!!" shouted a visibly tipsy Mike Tenay... Tony Schiavone used to shout that EVERY WEEK on Nitro... but he was referring to Buff Bagwell vs The Wall.

-I swear to God I saw a small hunk of vomit come out of Don West's mouth as he yelled.

-Camera peaks up So Cal Val's dress... backstage, Russo was shouting at the director... "Now, I am a SAVED, BORN AGAIN CHRISTIAN AND DO NOT CONDONE THE OBJECTIFICATION OF WOMEN... but if yous spot a little of the camel toe up in that chooch, I'll put a good word in with God for ya, capeesh! BLESSED BE HIS NAME!!"

-Backstage, Jeremy Borash smiles and shows how semen is a WONDERFUL tooth whitener. He is LIVE in front of Jim Cornette's office as a line of wrestlers patiently wait for an audience. Bob Backlund is there... possibly doing one shots until he saves enough money for the plane ride home. Chris Sabin comes out in a WALKER and proceeds to make fun of Jerry Lynn.... or perhaps Kurt Angle. He goofed on Pac-Man and these damn kids nowadays and how Jerry Lynn is too old for this shit... oddly enough, he doesn't make fun of Lynn's "roadie for Foghat" wardrobe/hairstyle.


-I swear, I've seen Jack O Lanterns that weren't a flaming orange as Jeremy Borash.

-Jay Lethal came to the ring. You can hear Jay Lethal say, "I hopes this piece don' last long... I wants to get me some muthafucking HIGH!!" Tenay called him the youngest X-Divisioner EVER. West accused him of going through his Buick Skylark the other day looking for loose change.

-Lethal got his wish, he and Alex Shelley and Jerry Lynn and Sonjay Dutt had a FEVERISH, HEART POUNDING, THIS IS THE X-GOD DAMNED DIVISION MATCH that lasted all of four minutes. In Ring of Honor, this EXACT SAME MATCH would've lasted 77:52. Sabin interferred after distracting Lynn by showing him his paycheck "Half my age and twice the zeroes!!! THIS FUCKING BUSINESS!" Whoops... roll-up.

-Senshi ends up clearing house. Is he a black guy? I always wondered.

-Christian Cage tells Tyson Tomko to do something... Cage's teeth are highly white too! And he DID look very uncomfortable kissing Trish Stratus a few years ago (although... umm... that might be entirely HIS fault... *coughdeadfishHACK*)


-The LAX went to an Italian restaurant in New York to choke out an Italian. And to possibly grab a nice kidney for Konan. Knives were involved. In this scene, Russo salutes Black History Month and NO ONE applauds him for it! Well I do! GOD BLESS YOU, VINNIE RU!!!

-Tenay DEMANDS THAT LAX BE SENT BACK TO AFRICA.... West adds, "And can they take a few jews with them?" Done and done.

-And right around here I fell asleep... missed the rest of the show.

-Heh... IT'S MY LAST COLUMN!!!!!!!!!! I DON'T CARE!!!!!!!!!


It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me
So, set 'em up, Joe, I got a little story you oughta know
We're drinkin', my friend, to the end of a brief episode
Make it one for my baby and one more for the road
I got the routine, so drop another nickel in the machine
I'm feelin' so bad, wish you'd make the music pretty and sad
Could tell you a lot, but you've got to be true to your code
So, make it one for my baby and one more for the road
You'd never know it but buddy, I'm a kind of poet
And I got a lot of things to say
And when I'm gloomy, you simply gotta listen to me
Till it's all talked away
Well that's how it goes and Joe, I know your gettin' pretty anxious to close
So, thanks for the cheer, I hope you didn't mind my bendin' your ear
This torch that I found must be drowned or it soon might explode
So, make it one for my baby and one more for the road
That long, long road

Well... guess what.

I wasn't joking. I'm leaving. And unlike the other 3 times I quit, this time I am NOT coming back. It's over. I'm finished with this.

Here's what a dope I am, I actually decided that if I was going to keep doing this column, then I wanted to get paid for it, so I emailed Sean "The MiC" my terms... which were pretty fair, I think... downright cheap in fact. He didn't respond. Apparently, DOI's new money-man... Jac Sabboth... isn't quite so generous with the pay-outs... Sean isn't getting paid so, of course, neither are his writers... even the SUPERSTAR...

Wow, trying to get money out of a small time Indy promoter and failing... what a SURPRISE!!

Good job, Sabboth... smart thinking. You want to sell your stupid DOI shoot dvds but refuse to even TRY to keep the guy who brings more than just people who follow New Jersey Indy feds. Way to narrow your audience right down the toilet. Good going. Another rocket scientist. Fuck you. And fuck you for not even mentioning me when you do the "State of the DOI" addresses. Fuck you for not even saying hello. Asshole. I hope you die.

Anyway, it's all for the best because... I'm done, man. And rather than give you an extended line of crap about "real life" or "my wife just had a baby", or "my job needs me" or some other self-serving line of bullshit, I'll be honest and straight with ya'

A couple of months ago, I decided to hatch a plan where I would start doing columns for the Torch under a different name. I even had a new e-mail address all set up. The plan was to climb up the Torch ladder, land myself a newsletter gig, then reveal all... including personal e-mails that I could hopefully get Keller to send. I had my new I.D. all detailed and even did a few practice columns to hide my style and my tone.

But the thought of not only doing straight wrestling columns for a full year, but also keeping the Midnight News going for as long as it took for the giant pay-off... the thought of it all just killed me. I couldn't do it. The truth just blasted me right in the face.

I don't want to do this anymore. Period. End of story. I just don't want to do it anymore. I put in a decade. It's over. I can't bring the rage anymore. I can't pick on people anymore. And I can't... I CAN'T talk about wrestling anymore.

See, I'm not even sure I LIKE wrestling anymore... and I KNOW that I don't care much for the Internet fans anymore either. I mean... I am playing to an audience that includes some asshole named "Green Lantern Fan" for crying out loud! No, that's his only name.

This is NOT a complaint... merely an observation... but when I started this gig (and for the record: Raw and Nitro recaps at "Scoops", "And Another Thing" at Scoops, Nitro and Raw recaps at "ScoopThis", The recaps and And Another Thing and then the Midnight News at 411, the Midnight News at "Inside Pulse", "Guide to Life" and "And Another Thing: The Taking of Triple H" at and finally this column here at DOI...) people knew how to have FUN. I pick on someone, they fight back, I got mad and they cried. People goofed on everything and everyone and NO ONE took ANYTHING too serious...

Then Meltzer discovered the Internet... and all the people I goofed around with either turned this into a way for them to make money or they quit... and suddenly, my audience spent the majority of their time on message boards doing serious discussions about what Meltzer was reporting and how much everything sucks... and how great CM Punk and Samoa Joe and ROH is... and Japan... don't forget about Japan.

Oh, and that audience (and I am NOT forgetting about the scores and scores and SCORES of you who surf the Intraweb but never post anywhere because you're all too busy NOT caring about how serious this business should be taken. You watch your Raw and the occasional PPV and that's it... you all can exclude yourself from this little tirade... because as usual, I'm speaking on your behalf as well) also likes to burn me and post about how bad I am... piss poor writer.

I'll get to the piss-poor writer part in a second...

So I don't want to do this anymore. The IWC is now focused primarily on wrestling news... and everyone who reports it are just DYING to be taken as seriously as Dave Meltzer is... with the exception of Bruce Mitchell... he doesn't try to be anything but who he is. God bless 'im.

And you know what... it's cool! The name of the game here IS wrestling... and if its time to stop trying to be a "Personality"... so be it. I just don't like the alternative... and since I'm toasted on the business and have no desire to get into ROH or FIP or New Japan or anything like that... I'm going to bail.

Back when I started doing this web thing, ALL the columnists acted like wrestlers. Now they're all acting like Meltzer and Alverez. Not a fresh idea in the bunch. One trip to the Death Valley Driver board will make ANY wrestling fan ashamed... unless, of course, you are a regular poster there.

But again... it's cool. Be as hardcore a fan as you like... just understand that this business wasn't MEANT to be taken so seriously... and Meltzer has little respect for you... he just wants your money.

So this is where I should thank people... but you know what, fuck them. This is where I say "You're Welcome!" That's right...

To Al Isaacs, for becoming the voice of Scoops who ripped up all of the assholes who used to rag on you... You're Welcome

To Bob Ryder, for not posting your home address of phone number when I had it... You're Welcome Oh... wait... I did

To Dave Scherer, for not revealing the problems with your junkie son... You're Welcome

To Scooter Keith, for not using your credit card to buy shit (a $500 limit, Scott? Oh you broke bastard!) You're Welcome

To Scooter Keith, for giving you that cool nickname that stuck... You're Welcome

To Rick Scaia, for sending that girl to seduce you only to break your heart later... You're Welcome

To Sean Shannon, for making you Internet famous, and a woman... You're Welcome

To CRZ, for not making as much fun of your manly wife as I could've... You're Welcome

To Todd Martin, for agreeing to not make fun of you when you wrote to me and asked me not to... You're Welcome

To Jason... or is it Justin, I forget, Shapiro, who sucked Martin's cock hard enough to get to fill in for him, oh You are SO Welcome for basically handing you the act that you steal. You really don't think you're fresh, do you, dickhead?

To Frank Goodman, for leaving your family alone when you wrote to me whining like a bitch... You're Welcome

To Ashish, for putting your site on the map and for leaving with Widro that forced you to actually take part in rebuilding your site (did a damn good job of it, too) ...You're Welcome

To Widro, for giving you the arrogance to break away from 411 and start your own site, and for telling you to hire Scott Keith, You're Welcome

To Josh Grut, for creating you, then for pretending you don't exist no matter how many times you tried to feud with me... which, had I taken the bait I would've made you my ultimate bitch... You're Welcome

To Eric S, for getting Widro to hire you... You're Welcome

To Flea, for being quiet as you carried on and on about how you are the REAL brains behind this column... You're Welcome

To Trish Stratus, well... you know... I don't even have enough column space to list the things you should be thanking me for... so You're Welcome

To Summer, for staying quiet as you went on and on, having no idea how close I came to busting it wide open... You're Welcome

To Tanya, same goes double... You're Welcome

To all the lesser writers at Inside Pulse who didn't say SHIT to me until I was gone, THEN ran off at the mouths like little punk fuck bitches... for me letting you go off without embarrassing you, You're Welcome

To ALL the losers out there who pinned me down as some piss poor writer with a 3rd grade sense of bad humor and tried to pigeon me down as nothing but a bad Howard Stern wannabe..., I remind you of my entire And Another Thing Library... you dumb fucks... you never failed to underestimate just how good I can be. You're Welcome

To ALL the readers who want to play nostalgia... here is the The 411 Midnight News Library. I WOULD include the Inside Pulse library but that idiot Widro seems to have lost them all. Great site... should'a never left Ashish....You're Welcome

To all the wrestlers who read me over the years... hey, I never tried to act like I knew more than I did, and I always just tried to be a fun read... You're Welcome

And to every single reader who stayed with me from the red stripe days... who followed me as I bounced around like a overgrown orphan... or who picked up on me just a few years ago, and stuck around through all my bullshit... web wars, online girlfriends, Tammy Sytch Imposters, the whole Stratus thing, bad columns, good columns, etc... etc... etc...
You're Welcome THANK YOU!

Anyway... the IWC as I know it... is dead. Whatever we have here now is tiny bits of creativity buried under reams and reams of message board posts and unoriginal, bland, safe "news reporting" that is too afraid to say anything that might hurt people's feelings. It seems to be the way everyone wants it, so who am I to fight it.

So now that its buried, its time to leave. I'm turning out the lights.

This has been the IWC, good night.

And this
has been Hyatte Oh FUCK THIS....

This is the reason you logged on monday mornings...

This is the man who made Sean Shannon a fucking emo chick...

This is the man who had Turner Security scare the shit out of Al Isaacs...

This is the man who made it cool to bring Internet writer signs to wrestling events

This is the man who made Mark Madden cry like a BITCH...

This is the man who made more Internet writers than anyone else... and destroyed them just as fast

This is the man who tore more new assholes with just his words than ANYONE ELSE...

This is the man who gave the world Bob Ryder's phone number...

This is the man who exposed Dave Scherer as the posing fraud he is...

This is the man who pointed out that Wade Keller is the creepiest man alive...

This is the man who never cared HOW bad he portrayed himself... so long as it was entertaining...

This is the man who talked to April Hunter over the phone... a FEW TIMES.

This is the man who showed you it was OKAY to read something other than WRESTLING BOOKS..

This is the man who made loudmouth Indy promoter Frank Goodman BEG him to stop attacking...

This is the man who nearly fucked Trish Stratus... (shoot)

And this is the man who still may... just as soon as she smartens the fuck up (SHOOT)

This is the fuckhead, the bad ass, the hoodlum, the douchebag, the site breaker...

This is the most feared motherfucker who ever wrote about wrestling

This is the guy NO ONE wanted to fuck with. Oh, NOW they will, now that I'm gone.

This is the most entertaining motherfucker who ever wrote a wrestling column...

Oh... and this is the guy who ALWAYS knew just how full of shit he was... ALWAYS...

and... err... this is the guy who half-assed it for many, MANY a column...

And like a fucking mantra... I am fucking Hyatte.... I am fucking Hyatte... I am fucking Hyatte...

This has been fucking Hyatte. May I rest in fucking peace.