geniusMoment

Ya. The Smackdown/ECW taping I went to Sep. 25th, he had a dark match w/ Kahli for the title. After the match, there was a kid (around 8) who had gotten a pair of black trunks to match Batista's and actually took his shit off and just wore the trunks and was standing up on his chair in the 1st row. When batista was posing in the corners of the ring, after he won the match and kahli had gone to the back, he got to the post by where the kid was and started to climb the turnbuckles, but saw the kid and fell back down laughing. He was pointing at the kid and told one of the security guys to get the kid and bring him up. The security helped the kid over the guardrail and got up in the ring w/ Batista. Batista posed with the kid for the crowd in the middle of the ring and shook the ropes with the kid. Then he handed him the belt and the kid posed w/ it in the middle of the ring and climbed the turnbuckles in the corner and posed with it. After all that, which lasted around 10 minutes, Batista walked around the ringside and gave fives to everyone who had their hand out. If he missed someone, he went back and made sure he got everybody. It was crazy. I didn't expect anything like that from him. I have a hard time respecting anyone who writes something like this. I don't give a fuck how many hands he has slapped. "Now, don't get me wrong, my ex-wife is the love of my life and I would never knowingly hurt her. However, while I was busting my BUTT on the road like a dog, she would sit around the house and do nothing. I mean, yeah, she had cancer, but she couldn't vacuum? And since the chemo made her "not in the mood", I had no choice but to have threesomes on the road. I mean, she's talented and I hated to see her waste her life like that when she could be a dancer, or maybe a nurse. But she's not a bad person and I take full responsibility for my actions, even though it was her fault." -From Batista's book

A couple of people on the torch forum were saying Santino should start using the stunner, acting like he invented it in his deadpan way. I think it's a great idea. What do you guys think?

I couldn't have been more disappointed in Davey, and feared he would end up making us both look bad. I remembered Vince asking me, back in Binghamton, if I was sure I could go on last in the main ­event. "I can promise you nobody will be able to follow us!" I'd said. And when I asked Vince whether he wanted me to run the finish past him, he told me, "I don't want to know; surprise me." I'd never, ever heard him say that to anyone else ­before-­or ­after-­but now I truly had no idea what surprises the match was likely to have in ­store. When I arrived in London, hundreds of fans poured out of the hotel lobby to chant my name in the streets. I set out to find Davey, but he was off somewhere with Diana and his family. I didn't see him until the required entrance rehearsal at Wembley stadium the night before the show. When I asked him why he hadn't returned my calls all summer, he wasn't able to look me in the eye. He fessed up that he'd been smoking crack with Jim for weeks and was now terrified. He'd gone back to being that same helpless kid I'd rescued from Dynamite ten years ­earlier. "Trust me, Davey, and I'll do all I can to get you through tomorrow, okay?" He nodded, and I sat him down for a crash course, going over and over our match and making him recite the moves back to me. It was now completely up to me to save our ­match. The following day we arrived at Wembley early. The sun hid high in an overcast sky, but there was a collective sigh of relief because it looked like it wasn't going to ­rain. Shortly before the show was to start I was summoned to a meet and greet with a room full of fans, most of whom had been given British Bulldog ­T-­shirts as part of a promotional contest. There was one little boy wearing a Hitman ­T-­shirt confidently arguing to some of Davey's ­grown-­up supporters that I was going to win. As he held his dad's hand, he politely asked me whether I could give him my glasses when I came out. I tussled his hair and said, "If I can find you, they're yours." In the dressing room Hawk gave me a sour smile as he casually popped three Placidyls into his mouth and hung his tongue out where they stuck just long enough for him to wash them down with black coffee-I guess Rocco the talking dummy was getting to him even more than I'd thought. Why anybody would do that was beyond me. I liked Hawk and sensed in that instant that he was at some personal breaking point on his own road to ­self-­destruction. Once the show started I worried and waited, fearing that the other wrestlers would run too long, leaving me and Davey with not enough time to tell our story. If we ran out of time, it would be my tough luck, since if Davey beat me in a short match, it could ruin me in England. One positive note was that the referee was Gorilla's boy, Joey Morella, who, in my opinion, was the best WWF ref. I knew he'd do his best to help me communicate with Davey once we got out ­there. I was amazed to see Hawk, who was nearly out on his feet, climb onto a rented Harley Davidson and wobble all the way out to the ring, behind Animal and their manager, Paul Ellering, who were also on bikes. Not that this should be recognized as some kind of amazing feat in itself, but the truth is that it was. Considering that he was barely conscious from bell to bell, the fact that ­Hawk-­with the help of his opponents, Mike Rotundo and Ted DiBiase, and of ­Animal-­somehow had a match, is a testament to all of them. But it mattered little, since Hawk upped and quit the next day, leaving Animal to fend for ­himself. Warrior and Randy had a decent World title match, but their ongoing angle never made much sense and only got more convoluted when Ric Flair, managed by Mr. Perfect, was the one to cost Warrior the ­belt. The sky was a beautiful ­purple-­blue by the time our match was called. Davey went out before me to a huge ­ovation. I was banking on my sense that the British fans truly loved me, but would feel they had to support their fellow countryman. To all the fans watching via satellite I'd be a huge underdog. Today I'd break all their hearts and win their undying loyalty: I was betting my career on ­it. The aisle was so long that my usual entrance music played twice as I made my way to the ring, the picture of confidence in my leather ring jacket. English football horns trumpeted through a crowd of all ages while Union Jacks fluttered in the soft breeze. I was eased by the sight of numerous pink and black signs, and I had the distinct sense that God was with me as I silently vowed to show Vince, Davey and the world how good I ­was. As I stood nose to nose with Davey he appeared to be every bit as determined, both of us unflinching warriors refusing to give way before ­battle. While a thunderous "Bulldog" chant reverberated through the stadium, I unbuckled the belt, held it up to my lips and kissed it. I handed it to Joey, who held it up to the crowd, while I dropped out to the floor to give my sunglasses away. To our mutual surprise I was able to place them on the little boy I'd promised them to earlier. His dad smiled, impressed that I was a man of my ­word. Back in the ring, Joey gave Davey and me the rules, the three of us momentarily awestruck by the size of the crowd. We pushed off with Davey looking strong and serious. The crowd was ours and the bell sounded. At first Davey outmanoeuvred me with simple and realistic wrestling, but after only a few minutes, he was breathing ­hard. "Bret, I'm fooked," Davey panted as I had him clamped in a side headlock. "I can't remember anything!" "Davey, just listen to me, I'll carry you." Joey shot me a worried look. This would be the test of my ­career. So, that's how it was, me calling out every single high spot for Davey, sometimes even the necessary facial expressions, helping him conserve what little stamina he had for a comeback that was still more than thirty minutes away. Every time Davey picked me up, I went up like a feather. He went up for me like a full ­refrigerator. I made sure I didn't overdo it as a heel, knowing the fans would forgive me in the end when I lost. Twenty-five minutes into the match I locked Davey in a sleeper hold, and the crowd immediately got behind him, cheering him on to revive himself as he crawled to the ropes gasping for air. I snapped a beautiful boot straight into his face, grazing the tip of his nose like I'd snapped it hard with my finger to wake him ­up. The drama built, layer upon layer, as every move that came followed a logic that never detracted from the story. I hit Davey with my whole arsenal, finally locking on the sleeper again. As he sank to his knees, I called the spots into his ear, and he rose up to his feet with me on his back. Staggering backward, he rammed me into the corner with all his weight, nearly snapping my neck in half on the top rope for real! But there was no time to sell as I slapped on the sleeper one more time. Again, Davey sank to his knees, as Joey muttered, "Do you guys hear that crowd? This is unbelievable!" We went into a beautiful sequence of moves, ending up with an old Hart ­Foundation-­Bulldogs spot where a groggy Davey went for a press slam but lost his balance and accidentally crotched me on the ropes, to the roar of the ­crowd. I'd carried him as far as possible, and now Davey took over for his ­long-­awaited comeback. I called out all his big moves for him, and after I'd taken them all, Davey dragged me to my feet by my singlet straps, revived enough to signal with his hands that it was time to finish me off with his running powerslam! Always incredibly strong, Davey easily twirled me over his shoulder and charged across the ring, flattening me to the mat for the one . . . two. . . but this time it was me who astounded the crowd by barely kicking out! Clutching his face, a tearful Davey only half feigned amazement as he finally realized that I'd put together a ­masterpiece. I dragged myself to the ropes and fell out to the apron. Davey suplexed me back in, but I dropped behind him, gripped him tightly around the waist, and jerked him into a perfect German suplex. This time Davey kicked out! As we got to our feet I attempted a front suplex, but Davey didn't budge. Instead, he blocked it, lifted me straight up, and dropped me painfully hard on the top corner strut, nearly castrating me. A ­half-­inch over and the match would have ended right then and there! Davey climbed up to the top corner and, before he had time to think about it, we did a standing vertical suplex off the top, crashing to the mat below. This was considered the most ­high-­risk, breath-taking move in the business at that ­time. As Davey draped an arm over me for the one . . . two . . . I kicked out again at the last possible second. The crowd was stunned, but they'd only seen the appetizers; the best was yet to come! After a double clothesline, both Davey and I lay writhing in a heap as Joey started a ­ten-­count. If the fans only knew that I had come up with this move one night at about three in the morning. I had woken Julie up and somehow managed to talk her into lying on the floor next to the bed to see whether it would work. Now I entwined my leg through Davey's, and before anybody quite knew what I was up to I twisted him over into my sharpshooter with no escape . . . right in the middle of the ring! The crowd went nuts as I fought with all my strength to stop Davey from crawling to the ropes, dragging me behind him. When he reached them, there was an explosion of relief. Nobody had ever escaped the sharpshooter before! As I dragged myself to my feet, exhausted, I could see my invisible banana peel lying in the middle of the ring. Joey kept muttering, "Unbelievable!" The time had come to break the hearts of all my fans and forever change my destiny. "Let's go home!" I called as I slammed one last lifter into Davey's chest, rocking him hard enough to send sweat flying into the air. I squeezed his wrist as the cue to reverse me into the ropes, and I dove over him for a sunset flip, the simplest move in wrestling. But instead of falling backwards, we did the old Leo Burke finish: Davey fell forward, hooking my legs with his arms, collapsing on top of me and pinning me beautifully. One . . . two . . . three! We did it! I did it! There was a deafening roar as "Rule Britannia" played and Joey gave Davey the IC belt. After ­thirty-­seven gruelling minutes, I lay on the mat feigning being heart-broken, but in fact I was elated. I was also exhausted and in considerable pain, but I knew that the handshake at the end would top it all off, the last detail in this ­drama. I made out that I was too pissed off to shake Davey's hand. I'd planned all of this with Davey, but it became painfully obvious to me that he'd forgotten all about it. I desperately tried to make eye contact, but he was oblivious as Diana climbed into the ring crying, I can only assume for real. I'm thinking, C'mon, Davey, look at me and we'll make them all cry, but Davey never caught on. Instead he was trying to milk the crowd. I was thinking, The drama is with me, not them, for fuck's sake please look at me, Davey! After too many attempts I gave up and just walked over and shook his hand. He'd completely missed one of the tiny moments that can make it all more real. But what could I do? The torch had been ­passed. Everything hurt, even my fingers were ­sore. When I got back to the dressing room most of the boys had already left on the bus, but the ones who'd seen the match seemed blown away. I understood the art of losing and the power of sympathy. I knew that in the weeks to come, it would be me who was over; over more than Warrior, Savage, Flair, even Davey. All of them had been excellently executed! I've always believed this was my greatest match, especially because I'd carried Davey all the way through it without anyone being the wiser. My dad would tell me later that it's one thing to have a great match, but it's another thing to have a great match in front of eighty thousand ­people. Despite knowing it was all a work, and one that I had orchestrated, a deep sense of sadness came over me hours after the match. Losing the IC belt seemed all too real to ­me. Later that night, I limped into the crowded hotel bar where most of the wrestlers, fans and office were celebrating after the show. Vince came up to me and told me I was the greatest athlete he'd ever seen and that he only wished he had one ounce of the athletic ability I had. Jack Lanza and Shane McMahon told me that I had the greatest match of all time and that they'd both had goose bumps up their arms watching it. I was surprised to see Pat Patterson back, but there he was gushing all over at what a masterpiece it was, especially as I'd pulled it off without any help from him. I told him that I was glad to see him back, and that I'd felt he was unfairly railroaded during the sexual misconduct ­allegations. By the time I limped to my room and called home, the pain of the match was setting in. Julie barely spoke to me, handing the phone to Blade, whose voice lifted my spirits, but only until he said he missed me, which made me feel sadder. Dallas and Jade were both very emotional while Beans, probably the luckiest of my children because she cared the least about wrestling, consoled me for losing. Julie came back on the line and said she was sorry. I wondered whether she even knew what for. Sorry for the loss of income or for how she'd treated me for the last year or two . . . or three . . . or four. I loved her dearly, but as we talked I couldn't deny that my heart was broken and ­empty. The next day I flew to America and ended up at the usual Holiday Inn in Baltimore watching the match on tape in my room. There was a knock at the door, and I was surprised to see Randy Savage and Ric Flair come strutting in. Randy grabbed my hand and told me, "Brother, that was the mother of all matches!" Flair said, "Hitman, let me shake your hand!" A couple of hours later, Shawn Michaels came by. He said he heard I had a tape of the match and he wanted to watch it, and so we did. He stared at the screen with a look of amazement, and when it was over he stood up, shook my hand, looked me in the eye and said, "You are the best, man. ­In-­fucking-­credible." With the help of a local framing shop, I was able to give Vince his drawing at TVs the next day, along with a letter. Given all that was to happen later between us, I now have to remind myself that at the time I really did mean ­it. Dear Vince, It has often been difficult for me to express to you my sincere gratitude for everything you've done for me . . . I wanted to thank you for giving me a chance and I will forever appreciate all the faith and trust you've put in my ability. Over the past eight years, and in particular this last year, it has been an honor and a privilege to have played such an important role, to fulfill my wildest dreams, to create works of art on a ring canvas. I created this little masterpiece for you. I hope it makes you laugh and that it brings back fond memories of what has been an incredible eight years. I thank you, my family thanks you and I look forward to another eight more. It's been a blast. Bret. I worried that it reeked of opportunistic ­suck-­holing, but I still handed it to him, and he seemed quite moved. By the time I left Vince's office, I'd somehow managed to get Bruce sort of hired again. Unfortunately when Bruce called Vince he was conveniently unavailable and Bruce was handed off to J.J. Dillon. When I spoke with Vince afterwards, he no longer seemed interested in Bruce, who, he told me, had told J.J. that he was going to be some kind of saviour of the WWF and that all of Vince's current storylines were horrible. According to J.J., Bruce said he was going to ­single-­handedly turn things around for the WWF. Of course Bruce blamed J.J. for the misinterpretation, but I doubted that I'd ever be able to get Bruce a chance again. If Bruce didn't have bad luck he had no luck at ­all. On the last day of September, I sat on the balcony of a huge hotel suite looking out over the historic landscape of Berlin. Earlier, I'd posed for a WWF photo shoot at the Brandenburg Gate. I stood where the Reichstag once was, buying tiny chunks of the Berlin Wall to take home as ­souvenirs. That night I left them standing and cheering at the Deutschlandhalle after a terrific match against Papa Shango. Everything I hoped might happen after SummerSlam was happening, and I felt almost out of control as I rocketed ­ahead. Excerpted from Hitman by Bret Hart Copyright © 2007 by Bret Hart. Excerpted by permission of Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

"I brushed my teeth with my finger" - Bret Hart "Then it was time to hit the shower. Dean and I usually ended up crying because Smith and Bruce would pee in our mouths or blast us right in the eyes, which burned." - Bret Hart on his weird family "Before I knew it I was lying naked on an inflated mattress, drinking cold beer, watching as a cute, naked Japenese girl lathered herself in soap and slid all over me, washing me with her pussy. - Bret Hart in Japan Some interesting quotes from Bret's new book

Yeah, Beth grabbing Candice by the fucking hair and pulling her head is bordline fire worthy in my opinion. That just shows a blatant disregard for a fellow performers well being, something which should always be the first priority in the ring. You can even hear the ref say somewhat angerly "easy" and "no" as Beth tries to pull her up by her head. Seriously, what the fuck was she thinking. If it had been a neck injury, Candice would have quite the lawsuit.

WWE.com reports that Candice has been taken to a local hospital with a possible shoulder injury.

She looked blown up going to the top rope, maybe because it was a bit longer than a usual diva's match, at least a one on one match. Perhaps she was tired and therefore didn't hit the planned spot (which I assume was getting crotched on the turnbuckle).

, If Michelle was forced to adhere to this policy she would have a show with only her, and possibly Pat Patterson.

Dixie does the locker room: From Keller At a party after the first two-hour Impact taping, Dixie Carter partied with wrestlers and let her guard down more than she ever has (the partying included, eye-witnesses say, "navel shots" being done with various wrestlers). Although many thought it was unbecoming of her, other thought it showed she wasn't uptight and was willing to really let loose around the performers. Vince McMahon has been known to let loose, too, including partying with wrestlers once in the early-1990s and having each of them give him their finisher in a bar. It's believed the Doomsday Device is what caused McMahon to have neck problems and require neck surgery shortly thereafter... The Oct. 11 TNA Impact drew a 1.1 rating once again...

This from Keller: Kevin Nash and Scott Hall have sent out word they will not be appearing at a fan convention this weekend in San Francisco, Calif. as advertised since they did not receive their deposit ahead of time as promised Also, rumors are running around that a lot of the guys haven't received any upfront money. I love it.

Baseball managers are overrated anyway. I'd argue the Yankees would have close to the same record with any reasonable manager.

#569--My Larry King line was completely no sold. How can anyone not find the thought of Larry King in a Badstreet USA shirt at least slightly amusing.

Who was the actor that was photographed in a Badstreet shirt a few years back? I remember the pic but the name escapes me now. Larry King

Even MLB hates fantasy sports: While the Colorado Rockies were making headlines with their march to the World Series, Major League Baseball was striking out in a St. Louis courtroom. The US Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit has upheld (PDF) a lower court's ruling that player names and stats are not copyrightable in a case that pitted a "renegade" fantasy sports operation against Major League Baseball and the MLB Players Association CBC Distribution and Marketing v. MLB dates back to near the beginning of the 2006 baseball season. CBC had licensed stats and player data from MLB for a decade, but MLB and the MLB Players Association decided to attempt to rein in the number of fantasy sports leagues, signing exclusive deals with larger fantasy sites like ESPN and Sportsline. CBC decided to press on with its own online offerings without MLB's blessing and was promptly sued. MLB argued that its player names and stats were copyrightable and that CBC—or any other fantasy league—couldn't operate a fantasy baseball league without the blessing of MLB (and that blessing would come in the form of a multimillion-dollar licensing agreement). CBC countered that the data was in the public domain and as such, it had a First Amendment right to use it. In August 2006, a US District Court sided with CBC, issuing a summary judgment ruling that the First Amendment trumped MLB's right of publicity (which gives celebrities and other public figures some rights over how their likeness is used). "The names and playing records of major league baseball players as used in CBC's fantasy games are not copyrightable," wrote Judge Mary Ann Medler. "Therefore, federal copyright law does not preempt the players' claimed right of publicity." MLB appealed the decision, and in oral arguments a few months ago, attempted to convince the court that a fantasy league using player data without permission was like a renegade company printing and selling posters of players. In its de novo (essentially starting from scratch) review, the Circuit Court rejected MLB's arguments in a 2-1 decision. "First, the information used in CBC's fantasy baseball games is all readily available in the public domain, and it would be strange law that a person would not have a First Amendment right to use information that is available to everyone," wrote the judges in their opinion. There's a lot of money at stake here. Fantasy sports have become a multibillion-dollar business with a wide reach (including into the Orbiting HQ, where this writer sits at the top of the Ars staff fantasy football league), and major sports leagues have lucrative licensing deals with larger fantasy sports sites. Should the decision stand—and it appears that MLB has as good a chance of prevailing at this point as the Tampa Bay Devil Rays do of winning the 2008 AL East pennant—it could lead some fantasy sites to refuse to sign new deals with MLB. Why pay millions of dollars for data when you can get it for free? Major League Baseball did not immediately respond to Ars Technica's request for comment on this story.

I believe Dunn played a few times at first and was abysmal but I do agree that as long as they intend to keep Junior around, they'll have to shift Dunn back to first. I believe Hamilton used to catch, maybe they'll consider giving that a shot since they aren't strong at catcher to begin with anyways. Griffey has a player option for 2009, and if Bruce is solid in right field the Reds have no reason to exercise it. I forgot that the Reds also have Joey Votto at first base, so moving Dunn there is out. Josh Hamilton to my knowledge has never played catcher professionally, moving him there would be a bad joke. That leaves Dunn, Hamilton, Griffey, Bruce and Freel for the outfield. Bruce can get more experience at AAA but let's look at this rationally. You have too many outfielders (one with a team option for this year and one next). You have too few pitchers. The Reds should absolutely trade Griffey. He's down to a reasonable contract and his value is high and he's not the right fielder of the future. The Reds don't have a solid team but with Dunn, Bruce, Votto and Homer Bailey, they may have a hell of a core. They also have Johnny Cueto, whose rated as perhaps one of the 3 best pitching prospects in baseball down at AAA, along with Phillips whose 26 and Encarnacion whose 23. This year I play Hamilton, Dunn and Griffey in the outfield, and use Bruce when Griffey or Hamilton get hurt. Next year I let Griffey walk and have Bruce, Hamiliton and Dunn as the outfield, with Votto, Phillips, Encarnacion and whoever at short. It'd be nice to have a catcher hit over .200 as well.

Rumors are flying in Cincy that Dusty Fucking Baker is the next Reds manager.

It looked like he was sporting some new plugs

If any show deserves to make it, that would be poolside chats with Neil Hamburger. Then again the network censors would rip the heart out of the show.

What the fuck is that? The pitcher walks three to load the bases, you get a 3-1 count and then fucking swing at ball four to hit into a DP. Mark must owe a fucking bookie.

One nice looking mud bath.

And that's it. Damn, I was hoping for a Cubs/Phillies NL Championship series. It looks highly unlikely right now.

The games look and sound fine to me, I don't get all the bitching here. No stupid shit like scooter. Some of you will complain about anything.

There's the Kyle Loshe we loved in Cincy. Gotta love Loshe.

Vickie is not a cougar, maybe if she lost 35 pounds.

Kevin Dunn and Vince think Howard is too ugly and will drive away viewers from his hip and edgy television product.