On November 22, 1987, Chicagoans tuned in to watch the Bears’ highlights, blissfully unaware they were about to experience the most confusing thing to hit their TV sets since H.R. Pufnstuf. Sportscaster Dan Roan was doing his usual, thrilling recap of men chasing an inflated pigskin when—poof—the screen flickered into darkness, like the TV had just given up on life.
Fifteen seconds later, BAM! A new figure appeared: a masked man bobbing around like someone who’d snorted a cocktail of Hide and Glenn’s expired energy drinks (see “The Office” s08e03) and bad decisions. He was dressed as Max Headroom, the glitchy, pseudo-AI TV personality famous for looking like a fax machine had a baby with a can of hairspray. The background spun wildly, resembling a Windows 95 screensaver on a bender.
Engineers at WGN scrambled like caffeinated squirrels, flipping switches and probably shouting things like, “Is this an inside job or did the TV just have a stroke?” After 30 seconds of awkward bobbing and buzzing noises, they managed to wrestle control back. Dan Roan reappeared, visibly confused, which is impressive considering sportscasters are professionally trained to look lively and excited even if the sport they’re covering is competitive paint drying.
But wait—because the universe wasn’t done being weird.
Two hours later, at 11:15 PM, the masked buffoon struck again, this time interrupting Doctor Who on PBS, because if you’re going to annoy people, go straight for nerds with nothing to lose. This time, he added audio to his nonsense, featuring distorted rants, random moaning, and a Pepsi can cameo while quoting Coke’s slogan—truly the anarchist version of brand management.
Things escalated quickly. He flipped off the camera with a rubber finger extension (because regular middle fingers are for amateurs), sang Temptations lyrics off-key, and capped it all off with a spanking session using a flyswatter. Nothing says “criminal mastermind” like butt-cheek percussion. Somewhere in an FCC office, a man clutched his heart, muttering, “This is it, Martha—I’m dying.”
The whole bizarre performance lasted 82 seconds, but the FCC reacted like someone had declared war on America’s precious right to watch Doctor Who uninterrupted. They threatened fines, jail time, and eternal damnation, but the hacker vanished into the void, leaving behind only confusion, grainy VHS footage, and the sneaking suspicion that none of us are real.
Suspects came and went, including Eric Fournier, the creator of Shaye Saint John, a character best described as “nightmare fuel wrapped in mannequin parts.” Was he the mastermind? Probably not. But his videos were weird enough that people said, “Eh, close enough.”
Meanwhile, other TV hijacks popped up over the years, like Captain Midnight, who interrupted HBO to whine about subscription fees (the original Karen), and the time someone aired 37 seconds of porn during the Super Bowl. This enraged countless men across America—not because of the explicit content, but because it meant they missed a crucial moment of watching giant, sweaty men in spandex grapple with each other. Imagine the heartbreak: one second, you’re watching Chad the Linebacker heroically slamming into another dude, and the next—bam—adult cinema. The audacity. Gross.
But the Max Headroom hack remains the gold standard: pointless, unsettling, and as mysterious as the appeal of fruitcake. It wasn’t about money, politics, or even coherent messaging. It was just chaos for chaos’ sake.
Bonus Fact: Right after the hack ended, the screen should’ve gone back to Doctor Who, but the universe had a sense of humor, and cut straight to Eminem’s “Rap God” music video—because nothing says “technological anarchy” like watching a man rap faster than that fresh fiber optic internet connection.