Monday, December 22, 2008
I'll dig a little hole here and BURY some of my SPARE F*CKING CASH because I have run out of places to bury it in my BACKYARD. And all my POCKETS are FULL. Hey, I wonder if this will count as a F*CKING GOAL??This blog post is dedicated to the memory of John Aloisi, former Socceroo and Sydney FC striker (the guy everyone remembers for slotting home the penalty that beat Uaregay and put Australia in the 2006 World Cup), who died quietly in his home about 6 months ago.
I've been informed by lightning-quick blog-fans that Aloisi is in fact alive, and is currently pursuing a post-football career in F*CKING THIEVERY and FRAUD, and has been for several months.
Apparently this THIEF has been STEALING MONEY on a weekly basis from Sydney FC, the total of which will top the $1 MILLION mark by season's end.
How could this happen??! I thought F*CKING THIEVING BUSHRANGERS were EXTINCT!?
I'll step you through it.
Mr Aloisi used to play in Europe, mostly Spain. He even played for Osasuna, which is where they do the "Running of the Bulls" and evidently where Aloisi perfected the art of "el caca del toro". Eventually they grew tired of using him as the honorary "gored celebrity" to kick off the Run and he found himself without a contract. (The town is inviting Ricky Martin next year...)
Sydney FC, on the lookout for a marketable player, made him several offers to entice him to return to Oz and play for them. And I mean "marketable" in the sense that every halfwit knows him from that Socceroo penalty footage. And he knows how to sell anti-dandruff shampoo, I'll give him that.
Mr Aloisi, in a breathtakingly staggering over-estimation of his own ability, one which would even put The Chov to shame, decided to play hardball, wanting way more money than Sydney FC could pay. Mr Aloisi figured he could play hardball because of the thousands of clubs world-wide who were sure to step in at some point and throw cash at him - some might even want him to play football, others might just want sexual favours - either way, he would be able to swap post-masturbatory tissues for DOLLAR BILLS soon enough.
Brilliantly, nobody offered him so much as a dirty sanchez.
So Mr Aloisi was forced to start whoring himself to clubs back in Australia, desperate for some sort of pay-day. But Sydney FC had moved on. Eventually he duped Central Coast into paying him, but not at the level to which he was accustomed. (Well f*ck the poor precious princess if there aren't any f*cking Tapas bars in Gosford).
He had a fair to middling season there.
Cue: Sydney FC come in again at season's end and throw wild amounts of money at Mr Aloisi to entice him south of the Harbour Bridge.
This is one of the most galactically and unfathomably stupid pieces of business ever.
This is like me buying a f*cking 35-year old rusted out bomb of a car, built in f*cking Czechoslovakia pre-revolution, driving it by your house every morning belching smoke and backfiring (alternatively push-starting it or having it pulled by f*cking mules) and spending every weekend under the bonnet trying to "fix" things - then when I advertise it in the paper for $50 or a case of Crownies (ONO), you come in and offer me 80 hundred trillion dollars for it.
Central Coast laughed.
Sydney FC paid up - over a million big ones. And Mr Aloisi is now the highest paid player in the A-League.
And in return Mr Aloisi has scored....wait for it.....TWO f*cking goals all season.
And ONE of THOSE was a f*cking penalty.
A RE-TAKEN penalty, after he f*cking MISSED the first attempt, but the referee (obviously related) ordered a re-take.
The other was a tap-in The Chov would have scored with his left nut. No, really, I would have seen it coming, downed my dacks, squatted and deftly diverted the ball in with "Lefty" as he prefers to be called. That's how F*CKING EASY IT WAS.
So that works out, so far, (calculator, let's see....million...divide by 2...carry the 7...) at about $500,000 PER F*CKING GOAL. And Sydney are 6th in an 8-team league.
Great work Sydney FC. Great work, "supercoach" John Kosmina.
But let the magic of video fill the story out...pay close attention at 0:55 and 1:21 during the following JOHN ALOISI INSTRUCTIONAL SERIES: VOLUME 1 - A MILLION DOLLAR MASTERCLASS of FINISHING:
Priceless. This is what you get for a million bucks in these days of global financial crisis, eh?
NOT F*CKING MUCH.
The decent thing to do would be for Mr Aloisi to admit to F*CKING BROAD DAYLIGHT THIEVERY and donate the money he gets (I won't f*cking say EARNS) to charity. Specifically, the 2008 Chovmas Tree Charity, where I take cash from other people and spend it on things to make myself happy - a worthy cause now in it's 15th year.
But this F*CKING MODERN DAY ROBBING HOOD hoovers up the f*cking cash and doesn't even have the courtesy to offer Sydney FC fans from the Cove even so much as quick hand-relief at the end of the match.
Now THAT'S disgraceful.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Consider this a shameless plug for that blog, and at the same time a brief introduction of the heroes of the day, the geniuses behind the curtain, the esteemed authors of this crazy-genius blog, The Golden Trio Pontification Sanctum...
Yes, the Golden Trio themselves.
This future leader of the world was born defending the Alamo in 1836 but shot to prominence when, during Year 8 lab work, he discovered the presence of Crackesium IV, which, in turn, led scholars to develop the first, primitive, forms of pornography - an initiative which has gone on to save thousands of lives around the world.
Inspired after listening to a world-record 1,366,211 straight hours of country music at his home in Soda Springs, Idaho, Crack eventually embarked upon countless quixotic attempts to synthesise the world's first D-ribitol-5-phosphate cytidylyltransferase. This chemical is used for flavour in many man-made compounds like:
* lemon-lime cordial, and
* holy water.
After writing the Third Book of Enoch in 1972, Cracka became the first man to kayak every river and tributary in Romania, whose capital is Rome, making him a national hero. To this day, Crack-Day is a national holiday in all parts of the country and is marked by a jazz and blues festival and eating smoked pork without using one's hands.
In 1809 he entered the Académie des Beaux-Arts, Paris, and in 1815 visited Italy and Sicily, where he suggested improvements to pasta-making traditions in existence at the time, a controversial decision which almost saw him excommunicated from the Church of Scientology, which he founded in about 1100 BC.
In 1617 he went to Nubia, and while there he made incredibly detailed sketches, drawings and measurements of all the genitalia of the more important members of that country.
After retiring in 2002, he made one last comeback to the ring to beat Muhammad Ali with a KO in the 3rd round.
Today the Mayor of Mac Fields (wrestling moniker: The Legend of the Bedroom) can often be found in his rose-garden or at his keyboard, where he splits time between designing a fully functional inter-galactic cannon (which will one day be used to propel his political enemies into outer-space); writing short, forgettable (but successful) pop songs for the likes of Clive Griffin, Pokemon and the Australian Cricket Team, and posting to this blog when the mood takes him.
Maca was a 19th century Major League Baseball player who pitched for three different teams in his five season career that lasted from 1884 to 1888, and he finally arrived on Earth in 1980 when his spaceship crashed here whilst on route to invade the Iain Tomlin School of Music and slaughter all the inhabitants thereof. Who had displeased him in some way, which has not yet been agreed on by scientists.
In 1940 he attempted to form a syndicated chain of franchise brothels called "McDonald's", which he hoped would serve a footlong hotdog called the "Big Mick", but the sour cream topping proved a disaster with customers and he eventually sold the name to Ray Kroc in 1954 for $3 and a washed-up greyhound. He shot and killed the greyhound in 2003, during an argument over a game of bocce, apparently unaware that it would some day grow up to become Mickey Mouse and earn millions upon millions of dollars.
In his spare time he trained to become an ambulance driver, though the Australo-Tasmanio War of 1245 ended before he ever saw action. Between the end of the war and the early 1950s he tried his hand at a number of trades including paper-cup salesman, stunt-penis, and working at a Qatari radio station as a financial analyst. A failed sex-change operation in the spring of 2008 didn't deter Maca from being voted Gay Porn's Man of the Century at a glittering awards ceremony that year, the cost of which was estimated at some $6 billion US and led to a brief outbreak of cholera.
A short and incomplete list of some women that Maca has ruined for other men:
* Miley Cyrus
* Condoleeza Rice
* Joan Kirner
* Miley Cyrus
* Miley Cyrus
* Senator Penny Wong
* Miley Cyrus
* Todd Carney
* Miley Cyrus
Not much was heard from Maca after he wrote, produced and starred in that great Broadway play "Livin' in Sorgues and Lovin' It", although after his death the theme-song (a duet with Celine Dion) was covered by Human Nature and led to renewed interest in his back-catalogue, particularly in Portugal where his song "Facial Piercing Can Suck A Fart Out Of My Ar$e" was made the national anthem in 1960.
The Chov first garnered attention when he invented the United Nations in 1066 AD. Seeing as nothing else of any interest or consequence happened that year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Chemistry for his daring work.
Some other tops things that The Chov has invented include:
* The Roman Empire
* the true value of Pi
* the concept of packing hundreds of crazy clowns into tiny cars.
Never one to rest on his laurels, The Chov also founded the city-state of Atlantis during one of his humanitarian trips to Africasia, where the original Atlantis was located. Monuments to his brilliantosity could probably still be seen there today, but the last place The Chov remembers leaving Atlantis was in his jeans pocket before he threw the denims in the wash basket.
After starting, and winning, WWII, The Chov built the Amazon River with his bare hands in 1832. During construction work, which caused the death of some 1,000,000 innocent people, he met his future bride, Warrior Queen Samazon on the set of now infamous porn film "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang". Although he was nominated for 17 Academy Awards for his own performance, the film shocked critics and was eventually banned in 113 countries.
Despite only making a handful of appearances during the 1850 English cricket season, he topped the goal-scoring charts and lived in a palace in Kiev for 14 weeks to win a bet.
He was then forced to retire from politics in disgrace after childhood friend Zimbu the African Elephant exposed endemic corruption during the extremely suspicious local council election results of 1990 in Panagarh, a small town in India, located in the Kanksa police station of the Durgapur subdivision in the Bardhaman District of West Bengal.
The Chov is now a crack-commando in the secretive Polish Ninja Commando Squad and writes hard-core porn scripts for midgets.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
According to ananova this (probably barely literate) daredevil from a nondescript village somewhere in China called Wangzhuang (translation: The People's Superior Bird's Nest Stadium Apartments) reckons he has "...been eating live snakes for 10 years."
And it started, as ALL THESE SORTS OF THINGS DO, with a DRUNKEN BET BETWEEN MATES.
"He started by eating one to win a bet with friends..."
Unfortunately the bet has long since been paid out when his neighbour did, as promised, present him with approximately 11,000 rolls of toilet paper he had been hoarding beneath his house. Despite this, crazy snake eating man just decided to continue because he likes the taste of F*CKING DEATH ADDER.
"From then on I became addicted to eating live snakes," he said. His mother must be proud.
Interestingly he likes to wash down a COBRA F*CKEN SANDWICH with, of course, beer. (What else?)
Perhaps this is so the snake, which let's not forget is still ALIVE during the process, gets trolleyed on booze down in his gut and doesn't BITE THE LIVING F*CK out of his upper intestine. And f*cking Mylanta is NOT going to fix that, thanks very much.
"It's a bit smelly, but they're very delicious," he exclaimed - although watching villagers said the sight gave them goosebumps and two vomited at the scene. (And were probably arrested for 'unauthorised digestive expulsion' and beaten badly). One strange fellow hovering around at the back, though, admitted to being "strangely aroused" during the performance.
Apparently Martha Stewart chimed in with a tip to beat the "smell" whilst eating live snakes:
"STOP F*CKING EATING THE AR$EHOLES YOU IDIOT."
Wen (that's his name) says his son is now following his lead and has eaten eight live snakes this year. Dinner time must be a real f*cken hoot in this house. Wen Junior is the only kid in his school that NOBODY WANTS TO SWAP LUNCHES WITH. And THIS is in a country that enjoys eating the ERECT PENISES of TIGERS.
But Wang Tianming, a doctor specialising in digestion at a local hospital, said Wen could suffer nerve problems and risked infection from parasites.
This is why Wang is a digestion doctor not a f*cken wildlife expert, because if he thinks getting a bit nervous and needing a smoke to calm down and maybe getting a few ticks or worms is the WORST outcome in this situation he WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION to the part where this man said he was EATING LIVE F*CKING SNAKES for crying out loud.
But you know what, here's a bigger warning for Crazy Wen, and anybody else out there who wants to chow down on "snakes".
HERE is another guy who filled his throat with live specimens of hot, thick, 'snake' for 30 odd years....and we all know how THAT turned out....
"POSITIVE: Sometimes it's not the best thing you can be."
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I would like to take a few special moments to personally tea-bag, with my massive hairy sack, every nimrod from Senator Bob Brown on down who frots themselves into a hissy-frenzy over "climate-change".
See, NOW you understand that the Prime Minister, Saint KRudd, is only the Patron Saint of Working Families and doesn't really actually give an increasing-temperature f*ck about you and the raging 800-degree inferno that will be the summer of 2009. Which is going to make the coin-toss in the Boxing Day test even more crucial, as that pitch is going to be hotter than George Foreman's f*cken steak-griddle.
Now I don't like the term "climate-change denier". I don't even like "climate-change skeptic".
I prefer "climate-change PAGAN", or even "climate-change LAUGHER".
So you would think that, upon reading Saint KRudd's laughable little emissions target announcement I would be welcoming him into the ranks of People Who Don't F*cken Believe Everything A F*cken Failed American Vice-President Says About $hit He Doesn't Even F*cking Know About.
But, no, f*ck Saint KRudd, the f*cken little sly conniving f*ck.
Because, lacking The Chov's decisiveness, the little turd-sniffer tries an each way bet.
He's like a hooker who fell asleep on her shift and woke up with 5 minutes to go to discover a massive, impatient lineup of erections and is frantically trying to blow every one of them before she gets pimp-slapped for not bringing in enough cash-money.
The targets are well below what all the climate-change hysterics wanted, meaning we shall all perish in either an instantaneous f*cking ice-age or by turning into the f*cking surface of the sun (whichever one the climate-changers think applies at the time) - and it's all because the f*cken plants won't eat all the f*cken carbon because we didn't turn off our fridges or something.
But that's KRudd's point - it isn't much but at least he's done 'something'. And all the self-frotters can cry me a f*cken river now, dumbwanks.
Of course industry cries and moans, but that's for show. Any taxes they will pay for exceeding industry targets will get passed on to consumers, meaning everyone using electricity gets hosed.
So at this rate a few ferals from Byron Bay would be the only ones happy, only they can't f*cken read the newspaper because they rolled their last "happy-plants" up in it and smoked it.
So now all the same people whinging about climate-change can NOW whinge that their power bills are through the f*cken roof and how about KRudd do something about THAT because petrol is expensive, caviar is expensive and the 5 bedroom beachfront house I insist on living in is also expensive and I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO F*CKING WELL PAY FOR IT ALL DO I because I am a WORKING FAMILY, ME!
Never fear, KRudd has an answer.
He's going to 'subsidise' a cross-section of morons across society for the increased cost of power, which just happens to be f*cking well pretty much essential to modern life.
Bottom line: all the nimrods can keep on f*cking well driving their f*cking four-wheel drives to drop the kids off at school, leaving on all the f*cking lights, burning their f*cken plasma screen TVs 24-7 and generally seeing how many different new-gen gaming consoles they can have going at one time before the power-grid $hits itself.
AND KRUDD WILL HELP THEM PAY FOR IT.
So if you ARE a f*cken climate-change pants-wetter, how exactly does this help?
Aren't we SUPPOSED to feel the pain, so that we f*cking well TURN OFF THE LIGHTS EVERY NOW AND THEN? (Because, as I understand it, polar bears die when you leave the lights on because it reflects off the hole in the ozone and burns their retinas and then their retinas get hot and the mosquito-hordes will come further south because of the cold or the heat I can't remember which and eat the retinas of the polar bears, which can only happen when there are more cyclones and there will be more cyclones because of the global warming see innit and so the polar bears well they die see because they can't read because their retinas are burned and so they can't read the signs that say "no swimming" and so they go swimming because all the icebergs are now melted into swimming pools and the polar bears get bored and stop swimming because they're sick of swimming and they can't have sex with seals so they die. Or something. And all the dead polar bears make it hotter, or colder, or something, because they are white and all the whiteyness of the bears reflects the sun's rays, so without them we all get hit with solar rays and we'll all turn into the Fantastic Four or something, and then die. See?)
KRudd has actually achieved bureaucratic-idiot-nirvana - he's formalised a proposal that actually has a built in mechanism to defeat itself. Reduce emissions by introducing an incentive for people not to reduce emissions!
And where's the punctuation-challenged Treasurer during all this?
Busy sending out Christmas cards that read "Seasons Greeting's".
That "Education Revolution" is a bit late for some people, I guess...
You want The Chov's financial advice for the world?
When you smell bull$hit, there's probably bull$hit lying around somewhere in the immediate vicinity.
"Guaranteed returns" are only "guaranteed" for the guy who is hoovering up your cash you morons.
What? You think there are "experts" in the high-stakes, glitzy world of Wall Street? That they somehow REALLY DO have these little inside secrets of investing and business that nobody else knows and that will make YOU millions?
Think of this, dip$hits.
If YOU had a secret way of making millions and millions of dollars in a simple scheme, WOULD YOU F*CKING SHARE IT WITH COMPLETE STRANGERS????
If you answered "yes, of course, Chov, because I am a f*cking moron and would love to pi$$ my money up the f*cking urinal wall" then please, please, PLEASE get in touch with me as soon as possible as I have an investment opportunity for you that is fool-proof, 100% genuine and guaranteed to make money.
Here's a Chov rundown of the "brains" of the financial world, and the f*cking DUMB decisions they make, sometimes with YOUR money.
* Microsoft, you may have heard of them, tried to buy Yahoo this year. You probably haven't heard of Yahoo because NOBODY F*CKING WELL VISITS THE SITE. Why Microsoft wanted it is anyone's f*cking guess. My own personal guess is that CEO Steve Ballmer landed on it in a game of I.T Monopoly he was playing with Bill Gates and wanted to buy it because Gates already owned every-f*cking-thing else on the board.
Anyway, some nimrod at Yahoo (err...actually the CEO Jerry Yang now that I actually look it up....) whined that the price-per-share offer was too low (even though it was nearly two-thirds ABOVE market price) and decided he would play 'hardball'.
Fast-forward: Microsoft issues a statement to say "suck our balls", Yahoo stock DROPS by nearly two-thirds and Yahoo CEO Jerry Yang gets f*cked in the a$$ by a gorilla at the end-of-year company party. The new CEO tarts up with new lipstick and offers to suck Microsoft-dck, only for Microsoft to upgrade their offer to "suck our balls AND get a free turkey slap."
* If you've ever lost money, say by leaving your wallet on a train, and been really angry at yourself, stop your f*cking crying because Joseph Lewis is the IMPERIAL OVERLORD of losing money and you are not fit to kiss his crack.
Joseph Lewis is a pooncey pommy idiot who thought he was 'famous' for being a smart investor - much smarter than you or me, halfwits. That's why HE, not you or I, bought up a big stake in some pi$$ant little investment bank called, oh, BEAR STEARNS.
When it became obvious that BEAR STEARNS was, in fact, f*cking around with pretendy dollars bought off snakeoil sub-prime mortgage peddlers, their stock dropped, in a BIG WAY.
Now you or I would have thought, f*ck this for a lark, and got out while the gettin' was still ordinary.
But that's why we're together here on this insignificant blog, and Mr Lewis is a MIGHTY INVESTOR with amazing INSIDE KNOWLEDGE that you or I could NEVER HOPE TO EMULATE.
Mr Lewis doubled up, buying EVEN MORE STOCK IN A F*CKING LOSER. See, this is the sort of decision only an experienced and knowledgable investor can make and truly understand - because to The Chov, at least, it appears to be the move of a F*CKING IDIOT SUFFERING FROM BRAIN MELTING SYPHILIS.
BEAR STEARNS then COLLAPSED, and Lewis was left holding eleventy-trillion WORTHLESS SHARES, and also his flaccid penis, not knowing which one to hock for some cash to buy a coffee.
Eventually JP Morgan bought the carcass of BEAR STEARNS for $hits and giggles presumably. And for $2 a share. After Lewis had paid over $100 a share.
His total loss? Over ONE BILLION. So now you know where all that interest you pay on your home loan goes.
* You know what a sub-prime mortgage is by now. It's where mortgage lenders lend f*cking great wads of cash to anybody who can scribble a few barely legible chicken-scratches onto an application. And then (because they know the dip$hits are going to default on the repayments) they quickly package them up and sell them to f*ckwads in suits on Wall Street before anybody gets wise.
Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae were two US financial institutions holding out like virgins on prom night. Only the liquor and the spiffs finally wore them down and they agreed to give their prom-date a quick reacharound and dip into the wild and crazy sub-prime mortgage scene.
Five minutes later and they are in front of the camera at a mansion in LA doing a 500-man f*ck (straight to DVD release) and taking every shot to the face. Only problem is, they got in so late that all they had was BAD DEBTS.
And so now they ought to be a washed-out former porn star doing tricks in a back-alley and immediately throwing the money into a heroin fix. But they ain't.
Because the US Gummint threw open the coffers of TAXPAYERS MONEY.
THAT will help keep the kids of the CEO in private schools in Manhattan and pay for the upkeep on that 42 foot yacht in the Caymans.
But you know what's dumber than investing in the paper-value of sub-prime mortgages?
INSURING the PAPER-VALUE of SUB-PRIME MORTGAGES.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you AIG.
Cue stock-price drop from $70 to just $1.25 and about $13 billion HOSED in UNDER SIX MONTHS. Motley Crue didn't spend that much on coke and hookers in their WHOLE F*CKEN CAREER.
* Think it was only stupid AMERICAN banks that did this sort of crazy $hit? Believe KRudd when he says that Australian banks wouldn't have been so STUPID?
THIS MORNING, the Commonwealth Bank decided to 'fess up that its exposure to BAD DEBTS was actually DOUBLE what it had previously lied. err..."advised". Of yes, they are ELBOW DEEP in this FINANCIAL FISTING ORGY.
* What do you do if you're running a big auto-manufacturing company in a time when every cry-baby is whining about climate change and oil prices are at all-time highs?
You f*cking well tick off on whole new lines of giant petrol-guzzling TANKS, just like the "Big 3" did in the States.
And then nobody buys them, and then a little bit later nobody CAN buy them because loans have dried up and people are losing their jobs and homes and can't buy a new car.
So THEN what do you do?
Blame f*cken union labour and head off to the US Gummint for a $40 BILLION PAYOUT, just like your buddies on Wall Street got.
Only so far, the Gummint has told them to F*CK OFF.
* Best of all are the "ratings agencies" who supposedly run the rule over the financial wheelings and dealings of people like Bernie Madoff and investment banks and the like.
Now we all know that all they do is surf internet porn all day, fill out a half-dozen reports in the last five minutes of the day before knocking off, and attribute a random rating somewhere between "AAAAAA" which means "f*cken A!" and "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" which means "light me a cigarette I just came, p.s. here is all my money".
* And finally, 'investment managers', sometimes called 'hedge funds', which is Latin for "f*cking over stupid rich people and fleecing them of their money".
Hedge funds promise returns in excess of what anyone else can get because ONLY YOUR HEDGE FUND MANAGER knows the special opportunities that exist out there. Nobody else, not even God. And for a small fee he will take advantage of those special opportunities only open to members of his fund.
Only they are ALL F*CKING LYING as they have about as much idea of what the stock market is going to do as a day-old dog turd.
So when the "crisis" hits and stock prices go up and down faster than Paris Hilton's head beneath the table, these nimrods f*ck around with other people's money making crazy guesses that mostly turn out WRONG.
And when you realise this and try to get your money out, your hedge fund manager points you to page 8293 of your contract which says, in part: "...too late now a$$holes!!" and locks you in until either he has managed to arrange his flight to Argentina with any money that's left, or he rides every last cent down into the f*cking ground in a blazing aeroplane wreck.
And then when the Prime Minister guarantees bank deposits in a brazen attempt to buy off votes from scared morons who don't know what's going on, idiots locked into hedge funds complain that they aren't getting the same treatment.
So KRudd gets a staffer to point them to page 8293 of their contracts and the whole cycle starts again...
What The Chov would like to do is invest in the price of "idiot", which is about the only thing that would be guaranteed NEVER to fall and can only continue to increase.
Which is more than can be said for the price of Alan Greenspan's biography, titled "I Am The F*cken God-Genius of Finance" and was published about 5 minutes after he retired from the US Federal Reserve and 5 minutes before the financial crisis gave every economy in the world explosive diarrhoea.
Friday, December 12, 2008
But, first, some filler.
Recently, some f*ckwit saw a photo on Google Maps with a lens flare or some other boring f*cken photographic effect, and immediately concluded it was genuine bona-fide evidence of UFOs.
As you do.
The Daily Rag, always on the lookout for stupid $hit to print, ran it immediately at http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,24785075-5001021,00.html
and gave the work experience kid who saw it on the Reuters wire a pay-rise and a new office.
The title of the story is "Does this Google Map snap show a UFO over Sydney?"
Of course the correct and standard response is "Of course not you f*cking dimwits" and we're done here.
But that's where the "Comments" section comes in, to save the day and inject some peerless comedy into an otherwise nondescript event.
You know comments sections. They make me weep for joy at their sheer beauty, for without them we would never experience the sheer ecstasy of reading the inane ramblings of nimrods - long may they reign.
Here, in completely unaltered, smoothly-shaved virgin glory, is Sergey's offering to the world, produced (as far as I can tell) when Sergey took a break from smearing faeces on himself and the walls and headbutted the keyboard with his face, producing a string of text he was satisfied accurately represented his visions and the last conversation he had with Ahura Mazda (conducted during ad breaks for the Australian Idol Finale, a program Sergey thought was a disturbing and hard-hitting documentary).
* "Why everytime we see the evidence of "UFO" everyone gets impressed so much?"
It's not evidence, moron. It could be snot on the f*cken camera lens for all you know. And nobody seemed all that impressed, except for YOU. Sergey took all his clothes off and rubbed peanut butter in his ar$e crack he was so excited.
* "the contact with earth is happening for thousands and thousands of years. Even if YOU don't beleive in what have not yet seen for your own eyes, that's fine... "
I don't believe what I have not yet seen? It's kind of like he attempted a double-negative, but f*cked even THAT up so badly it became a very DEEP philosophical musing.
* "But there billions of other planets in the universe and billions types of different civilizations..."
Sergey's address is 1 Bonehead Place, CRAZYTOWN. He has a sign out the front, "ACHTUNG! NO GRAMMATICAL CONJUNCTIONS NO PLEASE, THEY MAKE ME BRANE HURT YES MUCH BILLIONS".
* "some of them obviously do have a technology that we unfortunately cannot yet even imagine properly..."
Translation: They have anal-probes so advanced we can't even imagine them. But Sergey draws them on the walls of bus-shelters whenever he can because he's trying to educate us.
* "Than smarter you are than easier for you to understand it."
This is simply The Single Greatest Sentence Ever Typed.
* "w hat you call "UFO" will obviously not try to get in contact with the monkey or people who live in their own 10meter world.. what would be the point?"
Posted by: Sergey of Australia 3:05pm today
We call them UFOs, but Sergey calls them by their first names - Justin, Nigel and "Probey".
And so this Opus Magnifico comes to a premature end, just when it seemed Sergey's genius was just getting fired up and he could have revealed so much more to us, like why the Voices tell him to drop his pants and start manipulating himself on the train every morning.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Mutant spiders from f*cking Mars have arrived on Earth. And they are going to kill us all. It's too late to repent, it's all over people.
Some grandpa from Cairns, taking a break from writing angry letters to the local Bowling Club, wandered out into his back garden (to collect the large number of tennis-balls hit there by neighbourhood kids, which he refuses to return) and came across the F*cking Unholy Motherf*cking Geezus of All Spiders.
Killing and eating what was a f*cking ostrich but has been sucked so dry is now only the size of a finch.
What sort of f*cking web snags a f*cken BIRD for f*ck's sake?
The web of the SPIDER of F*CKING ABBADDON, THAT'S WHAT. Made out of sticky silk and strengthened with thousands of DEVOURED SOULS.
Noah, the stupid old bearded dickhead, could have certainly left two of these hideous mutants OFF THE F*CKEN BOAT, and CHOV WOULDN'T HAVE COMPLAINED.
For the multitude of anal-retentives who emailed The Chov, yes I realise that the 'trick' is making the spider appear larger than it really is, and yes it is all in the camera angle and proximity of the camera to the HIDEOUS PROFANE BEAST, and also that the finch is really not that big a bird.
But that would make for a pretty lame f*cken blog post. Idiots.
The Fred Durst one IS quite funny. Watch it, if nothing else. It's very much like he thought about a f*ck-off-five-minute-face-melting guitar shred, moved his fingers around the frets, played a few random notes to warm up and then realised - in a moment of CRYSTAL F*CKEN CLARITY - he had ZERO F*CKEN IDEA WHAT HE WAS DOING.
There are other lists around if you google enough, but what a waste of f*cken time.
Here comes Chov, to save your time and effort and just give it to you straight.
The worst 100 guitar solos of all time ALL BELONG TO TOM MORELLO. ALL of them. EVERY SINGLE F*CKEN ONE. Yep - from #1 through #100, and probably another 500 dishonourable mentions that just miss the cut. In fact, every solo he has ever played just goes on the list. Some good songs, some good riffs, sure. But his production assistants should just TURN THE F*CKEN SOUND OFF when he launches into a solo. This moron is responsible for a thousand people turning off rock music and toward hip-hop EVERY TIME THEY HEAR HIS SOLOS.
Tom is somehow 'famous'. I think it's for:
1. setting a new Guiness Book record for "most stickers on a guitar body, none of which are cool"*;
2. wearing a stupid f*cken Chicago Cubs cap for 8,934 days straight;
3. writing a bunch of whiny f*cken songs whilst in Rage Against The Machine, whinging about everything in the entire United States, but REFUSING TO LEAVE AND LIVE IN COMMUNIST F*CKEN CHINA, and
4. his custom "Digitech Whammy", which enables him to record himself taking a $hit with a microphone inserted into his own anus, digitise the sound and amplify it through his guitar - as a solo.
* They include a f*cken hippo (no I am not making this up) and an "Arm the Homeless" sticker. Yeah, that's what we f*cken need, crack-heads in the f*cken bus-interchange in Civic begging for small-change WHILE PACKING F*CKEN HEAT.
And while I'm on guitarists, here's a message to Coldplay, the MOST OVER_RATED BAND IN THE UNIVERSE, from The Chov and his hero Johnny Cash:
And what exactly DID the angsty f*cken annoying little pi$$-ant little band of whiny-looking wimpy little f*cks actually DO to inspire this wrath? (Besides existing...)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Regular readers of this blog have commented on the lack of Chov-rage being directed at politics here in recent times.
Well that was because KRudd, Patron Saint of Working Families, has done so many f*cking moronic things recently that my eyeballs had f*cking well LIQUEFIED in RAGE at his overall galactic level of F*CKWITTERY and I was rendered temporarily unable to type.
But here we go with the straw that smashed the f*cken spine of the dromedary.
KRudd the Imbecile decided to gift $1000 to a completely f*cking random selection of society in a time of economic chaos. Somewhere in his f*cking peanut brain that made sense as a strategy to save the World and single-handedly overturn the woes of AIG, Lehman Bros and Jimity J. F*ckwit down at the Wagga RSL.
At the time it was meant to be some sort of safety net for lower income earners against rising petrol prices, inflationary pressure and interest rates.
It never occurred to him that f*ckwits doing stupid $hit with other people's money caused the f*cken problem in the first place.
But why would it?
After all, this is the f*cken moron who has a beer in the middle of a strip club and then is F*CKEN INSTANTANEOUSLY STRUCK BLIND, DEAF and DUMB for a short period of time (normally corresponding to the precise length of time it takes for the conversation to move onto another topic).
Either that, or when medical science discovers the nature of SELECTIVE INVISIBLE NAKED BREAST SYNDROME they can name if after this f*cking moron.
And this week we had the man himself take a break from flying a A380 Airbus DOWN THE F*CKEN STREET FOR MILK AND A NEWSPAPER for the ELEVENTH TIME SINCE THURSDAY to tell the great unwashed masses that they should take their freshly granted cash-wad and moan loudly whilst they blow it all over the face of retail assistants across the country in time for Xmas.
Never mind it takes a cash turnover of about 1% of GDP to make any sort of f*cken difference. And never mind that a few thousand pensioners buying another f*cken X-Box is NOT GOING TO F*CKEN STIMULATE INVESTMENT nor will it suddenly imbue the Treasurer Wayne Swan with a F*CKEN CLUE ABOUT KEYNESIAN ECONOMIC THEORY.
See the reason KRudd himself came out to make the announcement is mainly because it wasn't a f*ck-up (which he gets others front and centre for) but also because the illustrious Treasurer was busy at the time, puffing away hard on the pedals as he runs the Great PedalTasticF*cktacularDiscopoplepticEconomulatorMobile!
That is ripped off directly from the Wonkamobile, and I admit it.
But it also allows me to shoe-horn this quote* in:
Charlie: Grandpa, is this thing going to go fast?
Grandpa Joe: It f*cking well should, Charlie, it's got more gas in it than the f*cken Treasurer AND the Prime Minister.
*Warning: May be slightly different from original movie quote.
Wayne "Daddy Warbucks" Swan thinks the economic crisis actually started because he took a break and stopped pedalling when Romper Room came on the TV and he wanted to be a flower blooming in the morning with all the other kids. It wasn't until Mr Doobee came on with the music that Wayne realised his error and that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac weren't that old couple he talked to in the shopping mall in Revesby when he was back on the campaign trail.
These people run our country, for f*ck's sake.
What KRudd needs is a good f*cken hour or so in the taffy-pulling machine.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
For those who can't be bothered following the link and reading the story (and there will be many of you) allow Chov to both refer to himself in the third person and also explain.
Once upon a time a completely and utterly insignificant $hit-splat of a "death-metal" band formed in Sweden.
As an aside, it bemuses Chov and stumps modern science that Scandinavia, seemingly a place of liberal idyll in the modern world, should produce and export about 99.9% of the world's "death metal". Quite why there should be so many angry death-metallers spawned in such a lovely place is beyond me. Perhaps it is because all their cute, blond pig-tailed and big-breasted women are off backpacking around the world and there are none left at home. Whatever.
Anyway, this completely unheard of band called themselves NIFELHEIM, apparently because they are so SATANIC and EVIL no other word in any human language could evoke the sheer stanic-ness and evil-osity of this band.
Or it might have just been the name of a bedroom suite from the last 'IKEA' catalogue.
In Chov's humble opinion, these guys are to "EVIL" and "SATANIC" what Dark Helmet from Spaceballs was to...err...well..."EVIL" and "SATANIC".
That is, a f*cken joke. But at least Mel Brooks knows what a joke is when he sees it, even if he is looking in the mirror at the time.
Allow a band-member of NIFELHEIM (warning: merely saying this name invokes EVIL SATANIC...err...STUFF TO HAPPEN...err...POSSIBLY) to speak for himself....
Note: seeing as "normal" names couldn't convey his sheer evilaciousness and satanicasmosity, he decided to call himself (I $hit you not..) "Vengeance From Beyond". Which must have sounded cool on the Quake message boards, but translates to 'real-life' rather poorly.
No, really, that's his EVIL-SOUNDING name. Some other moron in the band answers to "Apocalyptic Desolator", which must be quite a handy Scrabble score, and yet another tool in the band goes by "Insulter of Jesus Christ", or sometimes just "Nigel" for short.
Anyway, Mr From Beyond describes the terrifying evil of NIFELHEIM thus:
"...a total attack of satanic black metal...a true synergy of evil..."
To which I can only wet my pants and squeal....Eeeek!
And, once more....eeeek!
Chov's alternate description, without even having heard a note, might be "shit". But you make up your own mind.
Now I had to get my legal team to work with Blogger.com just so I could type the following sentence...
NIFELHEIM's latest album is called *ahem* "ENVOY OF LUCIFER".
Are you ok?
See, Blogger.com and their legal representatives were concerned that the name of the album was SO EVIL that merely READING THE NAME could cause innocent people to SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST from FEAR.
So, now that I have reduced my readership to approximately 0.00 I could stop here. But I won't.
The sheer EVIL of NIFELHEIM has POSSESSED MY SOUL and COMPELS ME TO CONTINUE!
EEEEK! (cue: fainting, screaming, general $hitting of pants in fear etc etc)
They also have a song, or EP, or something, called "Sepulcral Fornication" which is interesting but far too complicated to be a good name for a Porn flick, even one containing vampire lesbos. And it should be "sepulchral" anyway. Morons.
Anyway, this band, or more specifically their bass player "Tyrant" (his brother's name is "Hellbutcher"...now stop laughing they are EVIL remember?), saw fit to slag off a few people in the "biz" recently. And, you know, he can, because, you know, NIFELHEIM have sold about 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 records and he is the bestest and most evilopturous bassist. Ever.
He probably also thinks he is a real DEMON in the sack (hahahahah I write all my own material, honest).
So, anyways, "Tyrant" is obviously giving his interview sitting on giant piles of cash and surrounded by millions of gold records when he says "Motley Crue and Municipal Waste are likely the worst bands in the world."
Well, one of them MIGHT be, according to taste, but the other is simply a problem for your local council. No point ragging on to some Swedish metal fanzine about it, as I doubt they are experienced waste-management consultants.
I also like the way he says "likely", leaving himself a little bit of room for later correction, just in case he appears FOOLISH.
"Next to Metallica," he adds, for effect.
At some point, Mr Tyrant might pause to consider just how it has eventuated that an apparently crap band like Metallica can sell millions of albums while his little outfit, despite their ties to the DARK LORD HIMSELF, can barely scrape together enough money to buy a Happy Meal, let alone hot Goth groupies and endless lines of cocaine.
Either Lars and the dudes in 'Tallica have just a TEENSY bit more talent than he's giving them credit for, or else Beelzebub Metal Management Inc. aren't quite living up the hype in their ads. Or perhaps getting a high-score playing "Jordan" on Guitar Hero "Expert" setting isn't really the platform to world domination and endless #1 records that Tyrant and his man-buddies think it is.
But what made me laugh most of all (yes, even more than this bunch of idiots being even less EVIL and SCARY than Niklas Bendtner's PINK BOOTS) was when Mr Tyrant described "Dimebag" Darrell (the now-dead former guitarist of Pantera and Damageplan) as a "f*cking glam-fag".
Hello Mr Pot, meet Mr Kettle....yes that's right, allow me to introduce to the stage....Mr Tyrant himself!! Complete with signature-series Tyrant Mascara (TM)!
Avert your eyes, children, he's the TRUE SYNERGY OF EVIL, not some "f*cken glamfag"!
And no, you haven't just stumbled into the "Relax" video by "Frankie Goes To Hollywood". This is NIPPLEHEIM...errr...NIFELHEIM - the world's MOST EVIL BAND!!! EEEEEK!!! No glamfags, or girl-germs, or kittens, or dolls allowed!! 'Cos we're SCARY AND EVIL, US!!! GRRRR!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
There is nowhere else on Earth where idiocy is compressed into such super-density it almost becomes diamond.
I especially like when someone responds to someone else's comment that was so long ago it's now 127 pages back and of course nobody remembers it so the reply makes no f*cken sense whatsoever.
Eg. "Re: Sir Bustanut III - yeah well so r u, dickcheese, and BTW the hydrogen is in the car, ketchup - yeah right I thought so - STFU mofo."
Yeah, that learned him.
This week's Daily Telegraph (often referred to by this blog as the Daily Rag - I would say toilet paper but seeing as it's full of shit already it would be useless for that purpose...) has given me plenty of laughs in this regard.
I think it started with a general 'beat-up' piece by Paul Kent.
In it, the hyper-excited little wannabe journalist claimed that a Wallabies vs Kangaroos (Union v League) hybrid game for charity was pretty much a done deal.
It was exposed as a 'beat-up' (i.e a steaming pile of turd) within 24 hours when the ARU and ARL both took time out from laughing themselves stupid to can the idea.
Of course, Kent then wrote up another piece talking himself up as some sort of visionary prophet because he thinks this match would create world peace and the suits from HQ are a bunch of idiots for scoffing at the idea. Which I think was just a way of trying to distract people from the fact he made the f*cken story up after talking for 3 minutes to some pony-tailed promoter in a 1980s Porsche.
Kent is moron who, sadly, doesn't realise it. Journalists like him forget they are just opinions on a piece of paper and not the living geniuses they think they are.
But that's not the point.
What happened is that the readership of the Daily Rag got wind of this story and suddenly were MORE F*CKING INSPIRED THAN PETER THE HERMIT IN 1096 AD.
It was as though the friggin' RAPTURE had arrived and their place in it was assured.
THIS was the purpose they were born! To COMMENT ON THIS USELESS REDUNDANT STORY!
And by GOD they weren't going to miss this calling!
So off they f*cken STAMPEDED to the "comments" section to record their incoherent (and often imbecile) ramblings for all time, because some part of them felt that if they didn't, future generations would be poorer for it.
And bless them, say I, for without them my day would be at least 17% less amusing.
I would like to go through a few of them that particularly amused me, but then this post would be about seven thousand pages long and although I am blessed with verbal diarrhoea that's a bit much even for me.
So what I'll do instead is summarise the main points which pretty much every "comment" fell into and explain why the hell THEY MAKE NO F*CKEN SENSE, IDIOTS.
Category 1: The rugby league team would win 50 million nil because (insert brainless, shallow, non-analytical, nonsensical, simplistic reason here).
Category 2: The rugby team would win 50 million nil because (insert brainless, shallow, non-analytical, nonsensical, simplistic reason here).
Category 3: Well actually no, they were the only 2 categories. Unless I put in its own category the really amusing comment from a Kiwi who suggested that if they really wanted to showcase the best in the world from each code they'd play "All-Blacks vs Kiwis" rather than "Wallabies v Kangaroos". See THAT'S funny.
(Also some idiot who simply needed to express the following: "Call them the Wallaroos", and that was it. Somewhere, the cosmic god of stupidity is punching the air and shouting "yesss!!").
Reading the detail that nitwits posted in support of their category 1 and 2 claims was like getting my cortex strobed with a million volt "stupidity-beam".
For example - the rugby boys would win the scrums, the lineouts and the rucks and mauls.
This comment was left by Albert Einstein, obviously.
I mean, how stupid is it? I can't even really bag it out it because it's just so obviously dumb. OF COURSE THEY F*CKEN WOULD.
And the counter is, of course, that the rugby "boys" wouldn't handle getting up and back 10 metres, and the dummy-half play, and the shoulder-charges.
Well f*cken DUH.
Let me repeat, well f*cken DUH.
And if we played the Kangaroos against the f*cken Beijing platform diving team then Craig Fitzgibbon wouldn't be able to perform a triple-pike with twist either.
Only flanno-shirt wearing mullet boys care about the Kangaroos and "international" rugby league anyway. The only downside to the Kiwis winning the thing was that some over-stimulated moron used the word "credibility" somewhere within the 250km exclusion zone surrounding the RLWC.
When that happened, the super-advanced alien race that has been observing us for 250 million years (and was about to proffer up to us the advanced secrets of the universe for having evolved sufficiently) slapped their foreheads in disgust, tore up their observation notes, circled N next to "ready for enlightenment Y/N?", gave up on us, packed up and flew the f*ck back to Blasteroid IV forever.
And the penalty-orgy of international rugby isn't much better. Somehow the eggheads that run rugby decided that the single most exciting thing possible in world sport is to watch a single person spend 4 minutes pulling up their socks, staring at a ball and running to kick it at a large H in the ground.
So they decided to design an entire f*cken game around it.
And you know what? Power to 'em. Each game has its fans. The large majority of whom, sadly, don't f*cken realise there's GOOD REASONS THERE ARE TWO DIFFERENT GAMES IN THE FIRST PLACE.
See there's a stupid assumption by all the people considering this hybrid game that it would somehow combine only the "best" elements of each into one, new, super uber-game.
Which completely ignores the fact that we're all morons and can't get anything the f*ck right.
So what we'd end up with would be a f*cken disastrous mash of boring f*cken scrums, kicks for goal, grapple tackles, endless replays of potential tries to determine "obstruction", wimpy penalties for shoulder-charges and head-stamps - and if you think the play-the-ball and ruck is a f*cken joke in league and/or union now, IMAGINE WHAT IT COULD BE LIKE IF YOU FUSED THEM TOGETHER!?
It would be like the f*cken ugly love-child of Matt Dunning and Josh Morris. That is, so ugly that the very fabric of reality would try to fold in on itself.
So f*ck this hybrid game off and start commenting on the story in the Daily Rag today about the sex-starved MILF rooting school boys - you know, the quality journalism stories like that one.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
And no, not because their hot-fudge sundaes turned up with turd in them.
And no, not because their kids got fat since Mum and Dad saw a Heart Foundation tick on the menu and thought it was up there with Bircher Muesli and Wheatgrass Salad in the "healthy" stakes.
No, what happened was Phillip "Ron Jeremy" Sherman took his wife out for a romantic dinner.
And at that dinner, he left his phone.
And on that phone he had some pics.
And in those pics, there was his wife.
And on his wife there were no clothes!
With a yeah baby, yeah, yeeharr, take it all off, work it baby work it here, and a yeah baby, yeah, yeeharr, take it all off, work it baby work it there.
Eee-eye, eee-eye, OH!
Now I don't know, but maybe Phil got it wrong. When he asked his wife what she wanted, maybe she said something about "I want Mr Happy today" and what he heard was "I want McHappy Day".
But I would like to ask where exactly the phone was 'left', because if it was in the Gents, next to the gloryhole, beneath the Shermans' hand-written phone number scrawled on the stall door, then I'm calling shenanigans on the whole affair.
And I would also ask if good McPhil-'er-up had ever also "accidentally left" his keys behind at parties, in the big bowl full of everyone else's keys.
Anyways, when "Supersize Me" Phil realises his "error", he of course rings up the restaurant. The following is an excerpt from the actual* transcription of the phone conversation:
Employee: "err..Mr Sherman, perhaps you'd like to speak to the Manager?.."
Phil: "....no, no, keep scrolling through...til you get to the pic I like to call "The Happy Meal"...I asked for a girl's toy with that one....oooh yeah....yeah you'll know it when you see it...
Employee: "Mr Sherman? Are you ok? You sound like you're in some breathing difficulty?"
Phil: "Ask me if I want to upsize it! Quick! Quick! Ask me! Ask me! ASK ME IF I WANT TO UPSIZE IT BABY! YEAH!"
*Warning: May or may not be actual.
And now, according to the Swingin' Soft-Serve Shermans, it was an over-zealous (or over-aroused) McDonald's employee who uploaded the cheesecake poses to the internet before "Quarter Pounder" Phil could get there to pick up his lost phone.
Sounds to me like Phil "Yeah, I'll have fries with that alright baby yeah..." Sherman might have come up with an elaborate cover-up story for how the pics of his nude wife ended up on "HotBitchWivesWhoLoveToBang.com".
Blame the pimple-faced McDonald's kid.
Why didn't *I* think of that!?
Now I don't know the truth of how the pics of the two all beef patties got onto the world wide web - I really don't.
And I can't verify if any of the pics contained a glimpse of "special sauce".
And I'm not saying that Tina isn't perhaps a "healthy choice" and "tick-approved" herself - or that she isn't "steamin' hot" like the coffee.
I just want to know if Phil throws away the pickles?
And if his favourite menu item is the "McDipper"?
And were they looking to "eat-in" or were they looking for some hot "take-away" action?
And did McDonald's warn them there might be traces of "nuts" in their product?
And were the "buns" artificially sweetened?
And was the "beef" really 100% local produce?
So many questions, so few answers.
Monday, November 24, 2008
It's not that I don't do requests.
My response is largely summed up by the fact that it would be akin to taking candy from a baby, or suggesting Australian Idol isn't really a great way to identify talent.
That is, somewhat redundant.
But what inspired me was today's story that Ricky Stuart got fired up at the refereeing and suggested the Australian team was "stitched up" in the Final.
I love a good conspiracy theory, because they combine two things I love most about the world - morons and things morons say.
That, and the fact that good conspiracy theories don't get obscured by silly little details, like FACTS for instance.
What I would like to understand is how this conspiracy theory managed to arrange the following events during the match:
1. Darren "When I'm Drunk The Bouncer Looks Like A Tackle Bag To Me" Lockyer dropping the ball before grounding it for a try.
2. Billy "Stampy" Slater throwing the official Dumbest Pass of the Tournament and
3. Joel "Bubbler" Monaghan coat-hangering a Kiwi chasing the ball through.
I mean, you can say the penalty try decision was a "stitch-up", why make a conspicuous decision like that when it isn't necessary - weren't the Kiwis in front anyway? If you really wanted to stitch up a league game, I would suggest the easiest way to do it would be to give a team momentum in the way you police the ruck and the 10 metre-rule....very easy to give one team a leg-up and keep the other down that way. And it's not even obvious.
No, I'm afraid it's just a sook from Stick.
And I'm really hurt, because this blog has previously confessed a man-crush on Sticky, just because he is (like this blog) an angry angry man. And we need to stick together in these trying times, when we are an endangered species.
But he is talking out of his turd-tunnel on this one.
And so is John Kosmina.
Sydney FC are playing like planks and spending more time sooking than toughening up and it shows.
Also, they must be really pleased they spent all that money on John Aloisi. Big return so far.
And finally, Chov is branching out into a new realm - coming soon....a music review, one 10 years in the making!
Yes, it's true, Axl Rose finally released "Chinese Democracy". Build an Ark! (No, don't ask me how long a "cubit" is...)
Chov will listen, as a service to you dear readers, and report back soon.
And a big shout out to Maca "Purple Plums" McDonald....once he was known as El Maco Pudendo Magnifico - now he is just known as ol' Split Sack. But we love him and hope he recovers soon - who knew an impersonation of Buster Gonad from VIZ could go so horribly wrong??!
But the flood of pussy-cat comments from down south did solve a mystery for me, at least.
The mystery I was struggling with was "Where did all the Tornadoes Tough Guys go? The ones who made the choke sledges from up in the stands?". See, I went looking for all these tough guys last week, on the field at the Grand Final, but they had all DISAPPEARED.
But, imagine my relief to see my comments section filled with their trash-talk again. A WEEK AFTER THE GAME. So they were ok after all.
Here's a free tip, Tuggers, maybe those tough guys who do all the sledging from the grandstand should sign up and actually play? They sound tough. If they are half as tough as they sound from the stands, you might win something.
Classic stuff though. This is the team that mouthed off 2 weeks from Grand Final day, then were quiet as mice for 4 quarters of football time, but all of a sudden a week later they have enormous 'NADS again over the internet!
El Pussy Gato Tornado.
But let's get on to the stars of the show....ladies and gentlemen, your 2008 Tuggeranong Tornadoes, Mouthiest Team In The West!
From Cody #38 (Is #38 his IQ? The number of cheeseburgers he eats for breakfast? A mystery)
"blogs gives every spastic a mouth that should't talk" (sic)
Well, not just blogs my learned friend and scholar, comments sections also, evidently.
How about that, 9 words and about 4 errors of grammar, spelling AND punctuation. I am dealing with an intellectual giant here, folks.
Don't worry Cody #38, if you ask Mummy really nicely she might help you with the big words you'll learn next year in second grade.
And here's a free tip, bitch-tits, visit http://www.thespasticcentre.org.au/ and offer to be a volunteer. Then call them "spastic" and see how far you get, Big Man #38. Are you jealous they can spell better than you or something?
And here's the first offering from a Tuggers Tough Guy who calls himself "Anonymous". Funny, I checked the team-sheet on Saturday, and there were no "Anonymous" brothers signed on to play. But here they all are. I think, in Latin, it means, "Macho Macho Man", Village People style.
"I'm pretty sure this Chov bloke spent most of the game flat on his back."
"Your team beat us but if you as a player don't do anything don't talk shit."
Well f*ck me dead, Doris, I think we're reaching the boy here! Please print this sentence out and pin to your dressing room wall, pin-dick - it could be the motto of your entire club! If you DON'T DO ANYTHING, SHUT THE F*CK UP.
"There's a little thing called sportsmanship, you won the game, congrats, sincerely, but stop being a cock."
Well, first of all, Freddie Mercury said that little thing was called "love" but hey, you might be right. And it's not sincere congrats when you are still sledging a week later, micro-balls, so f*ck yourself. And if I wanted to be a cock, I would make CHOKE NOISES IN THE STANDS WITHOUT ACTUALLY WINNING ANYTHING, THEN I'D SOOK AND CRY AND SLEDGE A WEEK AFTER THE LOSS. F*ckwit. Kiss my beanbag.
And here's "Anonymous" again, it must be a big family.
"This is the most offensive and disrespectful blog that I have read by a person who considers himself a sportsman. As a player who represents his team and ACT gridiron you have shown your pettiness by ridiculing your opponents instead of focusing on praising your team."
I almost felt guilty after reading this. See, the Tuggers Head Coach is a class guy head-to-toe. Absolute class-act. I barely know him, but I would vouch for him in an instant. Top bloke.
He wasn't the target for all this. Not at all.
But his class deserves better than a bunch of catty little bitches who want to talk some smack and then CAN'T F*CKEN HANDLE THE PAYBACK.
From what I understand, he actually put his head in the stands during the CHOKE SLEDGES and told his boys to pull their heads in. If so, kudos to him. But the damage was done, and our motivation was already sealed.
So don't f*cking forget, little girls, who mouthed off first.
Maybe someday this head coach will get a team that he deserves - one that reflects his personality and will play hard, play fair, play to win and shut the f*ck up win lose or draw because they have some class and dignity. That's what he deserves, because he is class.
But, given the number of bitch-whines I have read here today, that team in Tuggeranong could be a million miles away. I hope he heads off to Gungahlin to start a new team, maybe that one will reflect his class better, instead of the current team he has, which only brings down his reputation by association. It's his call, but he deserves better, pure and simple.
And, for the record, there are several former team-mates of mine down there who I also don't have any beef with. You know who you are. You do. I know you're pissed off, but this isn't about you. I know you bitch about me, but I don't care, we have played hard on the same team once upon a time, and played hard against each other, and shook hands afterward. That's enough for me. Take it how you like, but I'm not aiming at you. If you sign up for Monarchs, and I hope you do, I'd love to play alongside you again.
But your f*cken team-mates? The ones who want to make choke-noises? F*ck them. Give them a can of "harden the f*ck up". They won't like the taste, but it's what they need.
"Anonymous" wasn't done yet.
"The problem with putting things in writing is that they can be used as evidence to perhaps remove someone from the league?"
Oooooh! What a sledge! What else you gonna threaten me with, little girl? Cancel my library card? No cartoons until I finish my homework? Tell me Santa Claus isn't real? Classic.
"All this from a guy that didn't play all season and just rode the coat tails of your teammates into the finals, then play so poorly that your coach yanks you!"
Funny stuff. Actually I got ejected. See, what happened was I tackled one of you fairies, and you cried so loud the refs thought you broke your vagina. So I got sent for being too mean to you poor little bitches.
"Its funny how your team has done a great thing by winning 4 championships but are one of the least respected teams in the league?"
I know who you are!
You're the fat chick who gets picked up right on closing time, goes home with the guy, does a whole lot of dirty stuff for a few hours, wakes up to find the guy gone, and discovers XXX photos of her performance on the internet, BUT STILL WAITS BY THE PHONE FOR HIM TO CALL!
That's you isn't it!?
And now you're at the stage where all men are bastards and you don't have any respect!
Poor thing. Write a letter to Dolly magazine, this blog can't help you.
Here's a run-down of how we view the league:
ASTROS: A few of us used to play there, and still have good mates and good memories there. We respect this team, they play hard, they beat us good a few weeks ago and we leave it on the field with these guys. Even Tony Connor, who everyone else wants to slap except me. I might be the only one lol. Tony talks shit, but he backs it up ON THE FIELD (did you get that Tuggers?) and "once a team-mate always a team-mate". I've got Tony's back anytime. Except I can't catch him. Mitch too, class act in our day. Jaron is outright the best player in this league. No problems with any of these dudes, not a single one, even the ones I don't know.
After they beat us, a few of them came around to our club after the game to talk some shit. Which was crappy, but hey, we took it.
And then, when we beat them a week later, you know what happened?
Those guys came back again, because, as they put it, "if we do it when we win, we've gotta do it when we lose".
THAT, Tuggers bitches, is what we call "being a man." Not the crybaby shit you wimps are STILL spewing.
In fact, several of these twits actually partied with us after the Grand Final as well. Which was odd, but who cares, a pissup is a pissup. And they PROVED THEIR MANHOOD, BITCHES. They took their loss like a man. And we respect them for it. Buy 'em a drink anytime.
GLADIATORS: If they gave a trophy out for guts, these guys win. Barely enough guys to fill the team-sheet, and they gave us all we could handle this season. Awesome. Loved it. They even trash-talked me when I jumped offsides, (made me laugh anyway) but they shook hands and took it like men when we came back and won. Respect.
Jeremy, on the sideline, is an outstanding human being and great lineman from years ago. Props to him. Dom is Dom, which means he's 10,000 times better than me, and he and I have talked shit to each other for years, but we still can laugh at each other. Get that Tuggers!? Yeah, we sledge and talk shit to each other, and we laugh about it - that's respect.
And the best guy of all wasn't there this year, but my man Oldy, "Moolah Man" - the classiest and most decent human being I've met in this sport. Outstanding guy. You da man, Moolah, you know it. It's harder and harder every year to politely decline your invitation to come play for you guys - you know I can't do that. But just the thought of lining up next to the Moolah Man again is good for a smile. Aaah, the old days.
CENTURIONS: What does it mean, Tuggers pussycats, when half your own f*cken team packs up and leaves to form a new club?
How f*cked up is that?
Let's read that again....you're such a bunch of f*cken obnoxious wankers, that HALF YOUR OWN F*CKEN TEAM COULDN'T STAND YOU EITHER! And some of the guys that you ran off - f*ck you should be kissing their beanbags because they kept your club together for a long time. And THAT'S how you repay them? F*ck, you're all class ain't ya?
Centurions don't like us because they don't like our coach. Well get in line. We have no problem with them, their line plays hard and whatever the bullshit, it stays on the field. That's called "being a man." Unfortunately for you, all the manhood left your building when the Centurions left huh?
Which brings us to you dumbf*cks. Does anyone actually like you? Or respect you? Oh sure, we cried ourselves to sleep after the Grand Final, because although we beat you three times in a row and shoved your CHOKE SLEDGES UP YOUR F*CKEN ASS, you didn't respect us. Yeah, it f*cken kills us. No really. It does.
"Congrats on your win, being a bad sportsman and karma will pay you back in some way."
It did, it punished us with severe hangovers for days afterward. But let me ask, do you class choke sledges from the grandstand as "good" sportsmanship, pussy cat? What was the karmic payback for that I wonder?
"What happened to all the comments about losing to the Astros on purpose?"
What the f*ck are you talking about? I can't understand you amongst the choking.
"Didn't hear your name at league presentation either?"
Ladies and gentlemen, a new entry into the Big Book of Things Losers Say!! Hooray! Oooh, you're so catty, bitch! I've been crying ever since, really. But you might have seen one award I got....it was the big one at the end....the League Championship Trophy. Did you see it? It was quite big. It goes to the team that wins. That was us. I'm looking at it right now. I might make love to it when I finish this blog. If you want to see it, scroll down and check out the photo. It's as close as you've ever been to it while I've been around.
"Looking forward to seeing you sitting on the bench again next year while we all have fun playing!"
Happy-clap time! Let's imagine rainbows! Let's all have fun playing! Oh, goody goody Ermingtrude, we shall all have such delightful fun! Oh, rather, Melody Crossingthwaite III, you do go on!
Well, actually, my Firebirdys do have fun. We win. It's not rocket science. Good to hear you enjoy your losing, though. And you know what, I'm ok with that.
"How many of the "four in a row" wins have you competed in?! One or maybe two wins is not really 4 in a row!!"
I have to be fair. It must be hard to learn the big numbers. But I guess you should understand this number - 3. It's 3 actually.
You know the number 3 don't you? Yeah, I know you do. Because 3 is the number of Grand Finals YOU'VE LOST IN A ROW.
Here's a number too big for you to grasp, though, so maybe you can get a grown-up to explain it to you....six. Six altogether, little girl.
And finally..."Anonymous" rings in...didn't see that one coming eh?
"Taking credit for other peoples work?
Love it. I'm getting advice on winning from these guys. I wonder if Jenna Jameson gives nuns advice on how to pray?
But I have to he honest. I hate being #2. But that's what I am. I'm only the #2 best-ever coat-tail rider in ACT Gridron history.
#1 plays down there. You know who he is. He knows who he is.
He's infamous across the entire league for it.
He's the guy who single-handedly caused two-thirds of the Astros to move to other teams.
Because he was the guy who contributed the least, but had the biggest f*cken mouth. And judging by his comments here, he hasn't changed. Even when he's run out of coat-tails to ride.
Congrats, dude, you are my better. #1 for you. When I need you, I'll ring this little bell here, and you can put on your gimp mask and come running like a good little bitch.
Now all you little Tuggers crybabies, dry your tears and go fetch someone smart to explain the big words to you. If you ask me nicely, I might give you your pride back, princesses - I keep it in a jar in my shed. Nine years you pussycats had to find me on the field and put me in my place, and not one of you ever did it. But here you are, puffing your chests out in cyberspace. Who the f*ck invited you anyway? F*ck off to your own little corner of the world, with the choke sledges and the manga-porn.
Maybe someday you'll learn the place for your talk and your choke sledges is on the field. Maybe. If you're man enough, come play Monarchs and maybe we might teach you about it. I'll be there, what about you princesses? Come put me on my ass at practice, then, Tough Guys. I'll be waiting. Something tells me I'll be waiting a while, considering I've been waiting years already.
What? Scared of being yelled at by our coach? F*cken princesses. No, have it your way then, it seems to be working for you a real treat.
In summary, here's a factoid for you, and I'll really try to dumb it down for you.
Six grand finals, six championships.
What that means is, precious little princesses, neither you nor any of your little boyfriends ever beat me when it mattered.
And you never will.
But you know the thing you'll never understand, halfwits? It's that the six don't mean squat. Six could be 12 or it could be zero. It's not what I'm going to remember in 25 years. What I'll remember are the mates and the good times, and both are in plentiful supply with the Budgies.
Budgie til I die, boys.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Mothers, don't let your sons grow up to be chokers...or play for Tuggeranong...wait, that's an oxymoron!
I must live right.
Several weeks ago, the UCU Firebirds (scourge of the ACT Gridiron League), were playing our final regular season game against the Astros.
The minor premiership was up for grabs.
Earlier in the afternoon, the Tuggeranong Tornadoes had pushed themselves to the top of the table with a win. It now fell to us to win by sufficient margin to take top spot on percentages, and earn both direct passage to Capital Bowl XVI and a week off.
The Astros are a plucky team. It was a good, hard fought game and they beat us fair and square. It was close, but the game turned their way on several key plays, which, if you're going to win, you need to ensure fall in your favour. Which is exactly what the Astros did.
And then, in those closing moments of the game and in the immediate aftermath, two things happened which, both directly and indirectly, contributed to the UCU Firebirds taking out Capital Bowl XVI on this past weekend and lifting the championship trophy an unprecedented 4th successive time.
The Astros gathered in midfield to celebrate their victory and I tell you what, the sheer scope of their celebration overshadowed VE Day, Fourth of July, Bastille Day and Last Day of School put together.
I mean, power to them, they won. But f*ck me, boys, act like you've been there before and will be again.
In our somewhat disappointed post-game huddle, we noted to ourselves that there's only ONE GAME of the season worthy of that scale of celebration, and the final round of the regular season wasn't it.
Not even close.
But I guess we've learned that in the process of winning 4 championships in a row.
So we pushed that little kernel of hate deep down inside and let it simmer.
The second thing was, shall we say, poetic. It was as though some greater power was setting up the pieces; writing a grand script for fate to follow.
You see, our rivals from the Tornadoes had sat themselves in the stands to watch us, the UCU Firebirds, play for the minor premiership.
Obviously they had taken a vote (only narrowly defeated) on whether to wear Astros cheer-girl dresses and pom-poms for the day. You never heard such high-pitched squeals of delight! Oh, the joy on their little faces!
Best of all, they decided to sledge us, still battling on the field, with "CHOKE" noises!
You see, when you're sitting in the stands, your balls must grow to enormous size! It must have been uncomfortable to sit on those massive gonads, hey fellas? Massive, massive balls! Gargantuan balls! MASTODONIC BALLS!
And, of course, when you have such massive balls, why not sledge your rivals eh? Why not intimate we're chokers from right up close and personal, a mere 30 metres or so away, off the field and up in the stands? After all, you're the minor premiers eh? WHAT BIG BIG BALLS YOU HAVE, GRANDMA!
Choke, choke, choke said the Tornadoes. And oh, what fun they must have had, balancing on their massive testicles and making those oh-so-hilarious CHOKE noises at us.
I guess this is the secret of their (lack of-)success.
The next week,the UCU Firebirds replayed the Astros in the championship-game qualifier, and taught the Astros a 30-something point lesson entitled: "Winning When It Matters, Boys, Part 1."
Strangely, the Astros grand singing voices seemed to have petered out by the end of that game, which signalled the end of their season. Maybe they were out of breath running after us while we were scoring.
Job not done yet, though, oh no not yet, dear readers.
There was that small matter of meeting up with the Astros Cheer Bitches.....errr...Tuggeranong Tornadoes in Capital Bowl XVI for the championship.
You know...the REAL one, not the "minor" one.
The one where they actually give out the TROPHY at the conclusion.
The trophy that has been the possession of the UCU Firebirds for the past 3 years.
The trophy that Tuggeranong hasn't sniffed since...oh...2000? When I actually played there? Ye gods, has it been that long? Yes, it has.
No matter, I anticipated that they would heave their massive balls down from the stands onto the field and back up their CHOKE sledges in person.
After all, real champions don't just sledge from the distant stands, do they? Real champions back up their big mouths mano-a-mano when it's "helmets 'n pads" time, don't they?
And so, the tale comes full circle. Back to the part where some things just make me laugh when they go my way.
Because, after 4 quarters of gridiron on Saturday evening, there was, indeed, a CHAMPION decided.
And there was, also, a CHOKER after all...
And which team was which, you ask, dear reader...?
Allow the following happy snap to express approximately 1,000 words....
Friday, September 19, 2008
When we get around to voting for the Official God-King of Australia, an election which I shall surely win, I have already decided what my first action as the new ruler shall be.
It came to me some time ago, but the idea really crystallised last night.
You see, official partner of the Chov, known as Queen Samazon the Unforgiving, has given your humble narrator the vague task of selecting wedding music for the upcoming nuptials.
So Chov, starting at "A" for "AC/DC", started through his back catalogue of music in the hopes of selecting suitable and appropriate music for the day.
A quick glance at Chov's notepad of possible tunes after 10 or so minutes reveals that AC/DC could well be the wedding band and save us all the trouble. What says "I love you" better than the soothing tones of "Hell's Bells"? It even contains the peal of bells, surely a wedding-like soundtrack if ever there was one? And if the guests aren't going to dance to "Thunderstruck" then bugger the lot of 'em - they wouldn't know a toe-tapping good time show-tune if it bit them on the wazoo.
And then, in a moment of near-blinding clarity - an epiphany of sorts - an idea so f*cktastically brilliant seized me that I had to open myself a beer just to calm myself down and question myself as to whether it actually happened.
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to announce Australia's new national anthem when Chov becomes God-King:
For Those About To Rock.
Written by Young/Young/Johnson
Track length 5:44
This could well be the Greatest Song Ever Written and, therefore, could not be bettered in my mind as the anthem for our great nation.
If there is a God, and the very existence of Natalie Basingthwaite suggests it might be possible, he surely created the human ear JUST SO HUMANKIND COULD F*CKING WELL LISTEN TO THIS SONG.
If you are unfamilar with this masterpiece, nay, GRAND OPUS, then get thee to a place of download immediately.
Even if you have heard it, whip out the CD or the MP3 and LISTEN TO IT A-FRIGGIN-GAIN.
In fact, create a 5000 song playlist on your I-Pod and make every song "For Those About To Rock". And then set the list to "shuffle-random". Forever. You won't need to listen to another song ever again.
As usual, when I assess my own ideas, I can come up with absolutely no flaws.
Imagine every school in Australia starting the new day of learning and academic advancement with a ROUSING RENDITION of "For Those About To Rock"!
All FIVE F*CKEN MINUTES AND FORTY OR SO SECONDS OF IT.
And in case I forgot to mention it, including the FIRING OF REAL MOTHERF*CKING CANNONS. At the appropriate moments.
To hell with you, Saint Kevin, you wimp, and your 'computer on every desk' fairy-whip. This country needs F*CKING CANNNONS in EVERY SCHOOL PLAYGROUND.
Imagine further, if you will, the mighty flag being raised as the cannons fire and the masses of children and teachers greet the new day with HEAD BANGING and HEAVY METAL DEVIL SIGNS. FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK.....BOOOM!....etc etc
F*ck me dead if I don't have a tear in my eye right now I'm SO F*CKEN PROUD to be AUSTRALIAN.
You want to test immigrants before they get here? Well make 'em sing our new national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK! And if they can't imitate an Angus Young headbang whilst air-guitaring the rhythym section to this ORGASM OF THE EARS then they can't get in. Simple. WHAT OTHER PROOF COULD YOU POSSIBLY NEED?
Can you imagine, if you will, how fantastic this would be at every Olympics and Commonwealth Games when one of our great athletes wins a gold medal??!
No, of course you can't - nobody can imagine that NIRVANA ON EARTH, it's too good.
But just TRY to picture how much better Stephanie Rice would have looked on the top step of the medal dias, one fist on the air and PUMPING, head down and BANGING, foot BOUNCING UP AND DOWN, singing along with lung-bursting enthusiasm as "FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK...!".....BOOM! etc etc crashed out of the speakers and echoed around the arena!! ALL FIVE F*CKING GLORIOUS MINUTES OF IT, WITHOUT PAUSE.
Finally, we will have the perfect antidote to the All-Blacks and their womanly 'Haka'! Let 'em do their little girly dance, then roll out the 18 FOOT SUB-WOOFERS onto the field, point 'em right at Richie McCaw and KABLAMMO! "STAND UP AND BE COUNTED...FOR THE A$$-WOOPIN' YOU'RE ABOUT TO RECEIVE!..." BOOM! etc etc. We will wonder why we wasted all that time with Waltzing bloody Matilda.
Wait 'til foreign diplomats and leaders get a load of acka-dacka up their tailpipes at GROUND-SHAKING VOLUME just as they step off the plane. Instant respect!
Think of this added bonus - NO MORE WARS. That's right. See, when other countries hear our national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, in case I forgot to spell it out - they will immediately be so impressed by the size of our MASSIVE BALLS that they will wet themselves at the mere thought of F*CKING WITH US.
Plus, think of all the f*cking CANNONS we'll have! BOOM!
Uruguayan fans annoying us by trying to whistle over the top of our anthem just before playing the Socceroos? TURN IT UP FOR 'EM. In fact, stick one of them IN THE F*CKEN CANNON. Whistle THIS you twat.
State funerals? "PICK UP YOUR BALLS, AND LOAD UP YOUR CANNON....."....BOOM!
Australia Day fireworks? "THE SKY'S ALIGHT WITH THE GUITAR BITE!"....BOOM!
School marching band? "HAIL HAIL TO THE GOOD TIMES, 'COS ROCK HAS GOT THE RIGHT OF WAY"....BOOM!
What am I saying? Cannon in the singular?
I meant TWENTY ONE F*CKEN CANNONS.
In EVERY SCHOOL.
And they better be spit-polished every friggin' day.