Read Online The Hardcore Diaries by Mick Foley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mick Foley
Ads: Link
ridiculous, right? Wait a second, my “Dude Love” theme music had only three words in it: “Dude Love, Dude Love, Dude Love baby, Dude Love.”
Mickey and Hughie, my little rock-and-rollers.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
Unfortunately, watching “Stiff Upper Lip” also brought back some bad memories, long-repressed images of horror that had seemingly been brushed from my conscious thoughts. But as I watched my little guys rocking out in the Foley Christmas room, those distant visions come flooding back, putting me face-to-face with two truths I could no longer deny.
It all started as a great bonding experience. Although The Rock was clearly the star of the show, Vince had done a little maneuvering that allowed me, Triple H, and Big Show to appear as well, a move that we hoped would create interest in our upcoming four-way main event at the 2000 WrestleMania . The Rock, of course, was the other entrant. At first, we all kind of felt like dogs trying to pick scraps off Rock’s plate. There just seemed to be no reason for us to be there.
Fortunately, one of WWE’s writers, Tommy Blotcha, who came from a background as one of Conan O’Brien’s writers, was able to make some changes that gave us all a little more to do on the show. It all came off well, did monster ratings, helped The Rock immensely, and for a short time made Big Show look like a potential breakout comedy performer. I still think Show should give Hollywood a real shot one of these days.
Yeah, it all worked out well in the end, but during that interim period, the three of us scrap-pickers all stuck together, passing the time by exaggerating our in-ring abilities, waiting for the AC/DC sound check that we hoped would be the highlight of the day.
The boys didn’t disappoint, tearing through not only their two scheduled songs on the show but three others as well for the benefit of the couple dozen cast and crew members who enjoyed the hell out of their own little mini-concert. They even dedicated “Highway to Hell” to us sports entertainers, probably because they’d earned a small fortune lending the tune to WWE for its SummerSlam Austin vs. Undertaker showdown.
We were all rocking out when Triple H made the first shocking discovery. I know I’ve expressed my desire to write a PG-13 book, and it seems like I’ve danced on the border of R-rated territory a couple of times. Something tells me I’m about to bust right over that border now. But, damn, there’s really no other way to put it. I’ve really got no other alternative but to quote Triple H directly on this one. And Triple H’s direct quote was pretty much, “Holy shit, look at the cock on Brian Johnson!”
Of course we all looked. We simply had to. It wasn’t like he had it out and was waving it around. It was more subtle than that. But only slightly so. Because, I swear (and you can ask Hunter and Show about this), the damn thing ran about a third of the way down his thigh. It looked like an armadillo was resting in there. Like he was harvesting zucchinis or something. No wonder half the songs in his repertoire are thinly veiled tributes to his penis. I’d write songs about mine too, if it took up that type of room in my trousers.
As I write this, I can almost see the legal red flags being raised. “You can’t print this,” I’ll be told. “It’s slanderous.” They tried the same stuff when I wrote Have a Nice Day and the zucchini farmer in question was Too Cold Scorpio. I’ll tell these lawyers the same thing I told the other ones—men don’t consider accusations of possessing a giant penis to be slanderous. They consider it a compliment. (Not that I’ve ever gotten one.) Besides, if Johnson decides to play rough, I’ll forewarn him—I’ve got witnesses. And they saw the same damn thing I did.
We all did our best to enjoy the rest of the song, but found our effort to be in vain when Big Show unearthed an equally shocking image. “Oh, my God,” he said,
Mickey and Hughie, my little rock-and-rollers.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
Unfortunately, watching “Stiff Upper Lip” also brought back some bad memories, long-repressed images of horror that had seemingly been brushed from my conscious thoughts. But as I watched my little guys rocking out in the Foley Christmas room, those distant visions come flooding back, putting me face-to-face with two truths I could no longer deny.
It all started as a great bonding experience. Although The Rock was clearly the star of the show, Vince had done a little maneuvering that allowed me, Triple H, and Big Show to appear as well, a move that we hoped would create interest in our upcoming four-way main event at the 2000 WrestleMania . The Rock, of course, was the other entrant. At first, we all kind of felt like dogs trying to pick scraps off Rock’s plate. There just seemed to be no reason for us to be there.
Fortunately, one of WWE’s writers, Tommy Blotcha, who came from a background as one of Conan O’Brien’s writers, was able to make some changes that gave us all a little more to do on the show. It all came off well, did monster ratings, helped The Rock immensely, and for a short time made Big Show look like a potential breakout comedy performer. I still think Show should give Hollywood a real shot one of these days.
Yeah, it all worked out well in the end, but during that interim period, the three of us scrap-pickers all stuck together, passing the time by exaggerating our in-ring abilities, waiting for the AC/DC sound check that we hoped would be the highlight of the day.
The boys didn’t disappoint, tearing through not only their two scheduled songs on the show but three others as well for the benefit of the couple dozen cast and crew members who enjoyed the hell out of their own little mini-concert. They even dedicated “Highway to Hell” to us sports entertainers, probably because they’d earned a small fortune lending the tune to WWE for its SummerSlam Austin vs. Undertaker showdown.
We were all rocking out when Triple H made the first shocking discovery. I know I’ve expressed my desire to write a PG-13 book, and it seems like I’ve danced on the border of R-rated territory a couple of times. Something tells me I’m about to bust right over that border now. But, damn, there’s really no other way to put it. I’ve really got no other alternative but to quote Triple H directly on this one. And Triple H’s direct quote was pretty much, “Holy shit, look at the cock on Brian Johnson!”
Of course we all looked. We simply had to. It wasn’t like he had it out and was waving it around. It was more subtle than that. But only slightly so. Because, I swear (and you can ask Hunter and Show about this), the damn thing ran about a third of the way down his thigh. It looked like an armadillo was resting in there. Like he was harvesting zucchinis or something. No wonder half the songs in his repertoire are thinly veiled tributes to his penis. I’d write songs about mine too, if it took up that type of room in my trousers.
As I write this, I can almost see the legal red flags being raised. “You can’t print this,” I’ll be told. “It’s slanderous.” They tried the same stuff when I wrote Have a Nice Day and the zucchini farmer in question was Too Cold Scorpio. I’ll tell these lawyers the same thing I told the other ones—men don’t consider accusations of possessing a giant penis to be slanderous. They consider it a compliment. (Not that I’ve ever gotten one.) Besides, if Johnson decides to play rough, I’ll forewarn him—I’ve got witnesses. And they saw the same damn thing I did.
We all did our best to enjoy the rest of the song, but found our effort to be in vain when Big Show unearthed an equally shocking image. “Oh, my God,” he said,
Similar Books
