Free The Hardcore Diaries by Mick Foley

in a voice befitting a seven-foot, 450-pound monster. “Look at Vince!”
    For the second time during the course of the same song, we turned our eyes to a hideous sight. And no, Vince wasn’t hiding animals in his shorts, or growing vegetables in his trousers. He was quite simply putting on one of the worst displays of dance moves ever witnessed by man or in this case, Mankind. This is where my limitations as a writer are obvious, because words alone simply cannot do justice to how bad Vince was. You have to use your imagination here. Think of Kenny Mayne on Dancing with the Stars, and multiply it by ten. No, it was worse than that. Think of Elaine Benes with the “thumbs-up” dance on Seinfeld. Then add a pompadour and shades of Elmore “crazy legs” Hirsch. You’re now in the general neighborhood.
    In the unlikely event that Brian Johnson does indeed find my contention that he had a massive member to be slanderous, I think I may indeed have a solution, albeit a slightly erroneous one. I’ll simply do a little literary sleight of hand—pulling a slight switcheroo. In the new telling of the story, Johnson will have the bad dance moves, and Vince will have the produce department in his pants. Something tells me Vince wouldn’t mind that change at all.

May 7, 2006

    Dear Hardcore Diary,
    My weight could pose a problem. I weighed in at 315 about ten days ago, when I started training in earnest for the ECW show. I realized that I’d dodged a bullet at WrestleMania, as my weight and conditioning wasn’t much of a factor. But that match had incorporated several strategic moments of rest following brutal action, which allowed me to catch my breath. I didn’t want to take any chances on this Pay-Per-View. I know the lead-up (unless the execution will be extremely screwed up) will be captivating, but unlike WrestleMania, this matchup is not just an “intangible”—it will be the foundation of the whole show.
    Sure, the title match (at this point looking to be John Cena vs. Rob Van Dam), will have great heat, and other matches will shock and awe, but I firmly believe our match will be the one on which success hinges.
    In all likelihood, I could get away with being 315. I mean with all the bells and whistles that the match will certainly entail, and with a tremendous partner like Edge to carry our team’s workload, I will probably be okay. I am still capable of short bursts of great energy, and as a guy who took Clint Eastwood’s Magnum Force advice—“A man’s got to know his limitations”—to heart a long time ago, I do have a knack for working to my strengths and avoiding my weaknesses.
    All the same, I’d really like to put “endurance” on the “strengths” list, which will require a couple of definite sacrifices. I need to work my ass off (or at least a good portion of it) in the gym, and I have to learn to just say no to all the candy, cakes, pies, chips, and especially ice cream that have been the staples of the Mick Foley diet for quite a while.
    Actually, I eat a sensible, balanced diet for about twenty-three and a half hours a day. That other thirty minutes, however, can get a little ugly. That refrigerator (or freezer) door opens, and common sense just seems to disappear. I’ve made some pretty startling rationalizations while assuming that late-night/early-morning refrigerator stance. I have convinced myself that the rice in rice pudding is a mainstay of many Asian diets, and that the milk in the pudding is helpful in building strong bones. I have also noted that a portion of the proceeds from Ben & Jerry’s Rain Forest Crunch is used to protect the environment. Hey, what more reason do I need? I’m a tree hugger of sorts. Two thousand late-night calories down the hatch.
    But I’ve been fairly good these last ten days. Sure, I’ve authorized the consumption of some questionable items that most WWE performers wouldn’t touch, but at least I’ve hit the gym on about eight of those days.