Friday, February 29, 2008

"Oh $hit, what have we done here?...."

In a shock move nobody could have anticipated, it seems that a biker gang in Sydney's south-west were actually responsible for crime NOT occurring.

Sometimes the best comedy is the stuff that really, actually happens instead of the stuff that striking Hollywood writers for Jay Leno crap out every day.

If you didn't hear or read about it, allow Chov to fill you in (and of course give you his own ridiculous bent at the same time).

Side-note: I've only been blogging for a week and I'm already getting delusions of grandeur and referring to myself in the third-person.

Basically, two morons armed themselves with machetes, slapped on some balaclavas and charged into Regents Park Sports Club with a view to exchanging goods and services for cash.

In their case, the 'service' they intended to provide was "slap around a few patrons, jump over the bar and threaten staff with a machete, also have a round of Keno if we have some time", and therefore the Club, suitably impressed with the entertainment, would rush to provide them with cash in exchange. Unsurprisingly, the two goons could see no flaws at all in this plan.

See this is the sort of entrepreneurial acumen that you can only get at, say, Alan Bond University. Remember, we're the country that gave Christopher "No, I Really AM F*cken Sick!" Skase a head-start in life for ideas nearly as bad as this one. "Yeah, I'm good for the money, don't worry Mr MGM Executive - haven't you heard of my international company QINTEX - see that i-o-u for $50 zillion dollars? See that's AS GOOD AS MONEY, right there..."

Anyways, due to impending court proceedings against them, I can't name the two "alleged" bungling burglars, so I shall merely call them Dip$hit #1 and Dip$hit #2. If, by happenstance, these are their REAL names (and it COULD be true) I can only apologise. And laugh.

So the Dip$hit Twins think they're onto a plan that can't fail. And, let's be honest, things are going swimmingly at first - just like in Point Break where everything goes well for the Ex-Presidents until they break their own rules and "go for the vault."

See, the Dip$hit Twins broke their own hard, fast rule of robbery: Thou shalt not purloin from establishments that be hosting the AGM OF THINE LOCAL BIKER CLUB.

There is nothing, and I repeat NOTHING, that I could type next that would be funnier than the actual quote taken from yesterday's Sydney Morning Herald:

""FIFTY of us jumped out of our seats and raced out to the main bar," said club president Jerry "Jester" van Cornewal."

As Point Break's Bodhi would have remarked at this point, if he were a f*cken Dip$hit Twin instead of an Ex-President: "Life sure has a sick sense of humour, don't it Johnny?"

Of course at this point the Dip$hit Twins start running like a French Colonel through the Ardennes, and no comedic chase would be complete without someone smashing head-first through a glass door, leaping off a five-metre balcony and trying to escape across a bowling green. And that's precisely what Dip$hit #1 did. Well, he did, but first he tried to tell the director that he'd be in his trailer until they got a stunt-double who wasn't so fat, but 50 bikers chasing after you will do nothing if not refine your ability to make QUICK decisions.

Maybe not GOOD ones, but certainly f*cking QUICK ones.

Dip$hit #2 exited via an...err...exit actually. And here's where President "Jester" outwitted him thanks to having seen every episode of Cop Shop ever made - he ran outside to wait by the door that Dip$hit #2 had to emerge from eventually.

Which he did, whereupon President "Jester" crash-tackled him. And here's where the NRL judiciary f*cks over its first victim of the season, see, because Dip$hit #2 wriggles free. And why?

Because President "Jester" was too hesitant, fearing he'd be penalised for a GRAPPLE TACKLE.

So well f*cken done David Gallop, I hope you're happy. Rugby league has done just fine for 100 years with squirrel grips, wedgies, eye-gouges and pimp-slaps, until YOU had to come along and f*ck around with it because a few nancy-boys couldn't handle a simple choke hold, and NOW CRIMINALS ARE ALMOST GOING FREE BECAUSE OF IT.

But never fear, because two other bikers named "Bulldog" and "Brad" (who obviously is a junior associate member waiting for his Nickname Ceremony) came across in cover defence and smashed Dip$hit #2 into touch, all in slow-mo high-definition.

And still Shayne Hayne gave the feed to the ensuing scrum to the WRONG F*CKEN TEAM.

So then they "hog-tied" him (because f*ck, you can always count on bikers to have some HOG-TYIN' ROPE handy can't you?) and, in a staggering world first, the bikers then WAITED FOR POLICE TO ARRIVE.

Somewhere the very fabric of space and time strained to its mathematical limits at this point. We shall never know how close we came to an implosion of the Universe as it sagged under the staggering weight of intracosmic ironic contradiction and logic-displacement.

Yet again, though, we arrive at a juncture in the piece where the actual quote is funnier than me - this time from club founder and lamingtons-provider Noel "Bear" Mannix as he weighs in with an early contender for Quote of the Year:

"It was very hard to see the expressions on their faces because of the balaclavas, but I imagine it was something along the lines of "Oh $hit, what have we done here?""

Pure. Comedy. Gold.

"Guess we must have ourselves an ass-hole shortage huh Utah?..."

Johnny Utah: "Not so far..."

So, when all was said and done, the Dip$hit Twin's short-lived reign of unintentionally-comedic terror was thwarted and Regents Park Sports Club patrons were able to return to driving their social security benefits through the poker-machines one slap at a time; and to the Bistro for their schnitzel-and-chips family dinners. What a southwestern Sydney idyll.

Of course, what next for the honest, community-minded, law-abiding heroes of this feel-good, heart-warming tale?

"Order, order! Yeah, so before our AGM was so rudely interrupted, we were about to hear from "Bazza" with his half-yearly profit forecasts from our Meth-Amphetamine Division - also "Snake" was next up to report on several promising strategies to take advantage of growth potential in our Gun Smuggling Department, our Ladies Auxilliary had a few words to report on how our Junior Pole-Dancing Initiative '08 was going and "Face-Cutter" was due to table his Treasurer's Report, in absentia, courtesy of New South Wales Correctional Services."

Well that's just F*CKIN GREAT....

Isaac Bruce, who has been a wide receiver with the Rams for 14 seasons, just got cut.

I mean, ok, Ike is like 35 years old or something, but he is freak-of-nature 35 (i.e healthy, body of Greek god, still fast etc etc) not Chov-35 (still waiting for phone to ring re: Hot Men of A.C.T. Sport calendar-shoot). Not that I'm 35 yet, so there's still time for me to change.....

He is way up there with the best to play the game in terms of his stats - career receptions, career receiving yards, touchdowns. And this past season he was maybe 2 or 3 big games away from 1,000 yards on the season (he actually got 733 on 55 receptions - a not unimpressive 13.3 yard avg) - and this while playing in a CRAP 3-13 TEAM!

AND he was the final link between the St Louis Rams and their former city, Los Angeles. And I'm not going to get used to talking about him past-tense for a while.

I mean, this guy's contribution to the team was not measured only in numbers.

He was the sort of player you happily apply the cliche "heart and soul of the team" to. He was everything to the Rams that receivers like Randy Moss and Terrell Owens are not - professional, dedicated, never a headline - always a player.

Oh, yeah, Ike also has a Superbowl ring. *ouch!* I'm so catty.

You don't cut guys like that without paying for it. If not immediately, eventually.

Now, sure, he got 'cut' last season, but it was a bit of salary-cap strategising going on, and he was re-signed to the team almost immediately.

What's different this time is what really pi$$es me off.

I mean, all that stuff I just ranted about, well I can actually let that go under the right circumstances. Hey, all players got to get old and retire some time. And yeah, Ike himself refused to renegotiate his 2008 salary downward in order to stay, so he could be portrayed as guilty of forcing the Rams' hand. And yeah, yeah, he *is* in the twilight of his career, I can admit that.

But the essential element that is bashing away at my frontal lobe with a rage that would make steroid-abusers shy away is that HE'S GOING TO BE A SAN FRANCISCO 49ER.

See last year he got released to save money against the cap and got re-signed because no other team seriously made a run for him.

But THIS time, it seems that Al Saunders, the new Offensive Coordinator and Bill Devaney (currently masquerading as personnel guy) don't really want Ike back. This isn't a salary-cap move and a salary-cap move alone. There's no plan here to release today, re-sign tomorrow.

He's not going to be back.

And guess who, about a month ago, signed on as new Offensive Coordinator for the hated scumbags in San Fran? Ex-Rams Head Coach Mike Martz.

And you just KNOW he is on the phone RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS getting through to Ike.

So a big F*CK YOU to the football gods who were not content to merely bring about some mild and minor misfortune on my team - oh no, they had to climb a ladder and PI$$ ON IT FROM A HEIGHT.

I always thought I could look back at Ike and remember THAT breakaway catch in the Superbowl win over the Titans....the one where the f*cking game TURNED after the Rams went for it downfield (thereby swelling the size of their testicles 10000%) and of course there was ike BRUUUUUUUUUUCE to reel it in under coverage and then meander his way to the endzone....and there was Chov going mental and leaping around his house like a f*cking crazy-man and trying to swear and cheer at the same time....brilliant....


INSTEAD, what I'm going to have to remember is the FIRST TIME I SAW IKE WEARING A F*CKING 49ER JERSEY.


Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Happy Birthday To Me.

Here's to 34 rage-filled orbits around the sun.

And, really, thanks to all the f*cktards without whom none of this rage would have been possible.

People who cause my blood to boil just by looking at their f*ckin heads on TV.

That means YOU Jon Bon Jovi.

And YOU Indian cricket team.

And YOU Holland foopball team circa 1990. I mean, geezus, you're like a f*ckin ALL-STAR F*CKWAD XI of petulant, over-rated turds.

Meanwhile a big yeehaw to my peeps and a confession that, yes, I would wreck Britney Spears. And not "oops-I-did-it-again" schoolgirl outfit vintage Britney either.

No, I'm talking Miss Skankfest 2008, drug-addled, psycho-flip-out Britney.

I mean, we all know that's why Dr Phil was offering to "help her out". From what I read (or made up, I can't remember) the dirty perv even tried to get the cameras in while he psycho-stalked her in hospital.

He's a man with a plan, I gotta hand it to him. Take advantage of the poor, misled, VULNERABLE young thing.

Too bad, Phildo, I already wrecked that.

But why, Chov, why I hear you cry...

Why? Because I'm a winner that's why, and it's just what winners do.

So Happy Birthday to Me.

Oblivious update...

So I have continued with my Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion gaming experience.

Check out my earlier blog for the intro, because I can't be f*cked explaining it all again. Pay attention up the back there, I'm blogging for YOUR benefit you know.

Anyways, here is what I managed to accomplish in several real-time hours of gaming:

  • Walk around city
  • Continue walking
  • Find a city-run commerce shop and buy a house
  • Walk all over f*cken city LOOKING for my new house
  • Continue walking and looking for my new house
  • Still more walking and looking for my new house
  • Enter house that I think is my house
  • Discover it is not my new house
  • I am arrested
  • Taken to jailhouse
  • Pay fine
  • Released from jailhouse
  • Resume walking and looking for my new house
  • Find my new house on very outskirts of city
  • Enter my new house
  • Look around my new house
  • Conclude that my new house is a real $hithole
  • Decide to walk to trading shop to buy furniture for my $hithole
  • On my way past a boat moored in harbour, I am warned by captain (a dark elf) not to get on the boat or there will be trouble
  • I get on boat
  • There is trouble
  • Kill several sailors
  • I am arrested
  • Taken to jailhouse
  • Pay fine
  • Released from jailhouse
  • It's late, so I walk back to my $hithole (it may not be much but it's mine)
  • Sleep in my bed
  • Up early in morning, walk to shop
  • Too early, shop not open yet
  • From downstairs, Samantha (aka The Samazon) asks what swearing is about and am I ok?
  • Yell out yes all is fine
  • Mumble f*cken f*cken f*cken
  • Still annoyed, use lock-pick skills to break into shop
  • I am arrested
  • Taken to jailhouse
  • Pay fine
  • Released from jailhouse
  • Walk back to shop
  • Shop open, so I enter, intending to complain about opening hours
  • Instead, buy fantastic new furniture package
  • Amazed at my own haggling skills
  • Excitedly run back across city to see my new furniture in my $hithole
  • Get lost
  • Swear loudly
  • Reluctantly consult instruction manual
  • Utilise newly discovered "map" function to navigate back to my $hithole
  • Discover that my new decor has been designed by an interior designer who failed the auditions for "Changing Rooms"
  • However, discover I have a fruit bowl with fruit in it
  • On a table
  • Eat fruit
  • Having exhausted all the uses to which my new house can be put, I leave
  • Walk to city stables
  • I have discovered the only stables in the entire f*cken Realm that have horses but do not sell horses
  • Steal horse
  • I am arrested
  • Taken to jailhouse
  • Pay fine
  • Decide horse can be acquired some other time
  • Decide to walk cross country to next city (and, in so doing, follow the main quest)
  • Make it 500 metres before some local moron asks me to do his fishing for him on account of some leg problem he is having
  • After 5 minutes of repetitive conversation, clarify that "leg problem" = "has no leg" = "can't fish"
  • Search for conversation option: "Tell local moron to shove fish up his ar$e"
  • Cannot find it
  • Instead choose conversation option: "Laugh in his face"
  • Desired effect achieved, conversation over
  • I carry on walking
  • Walk up hills
  • Walk down hills
  • Walk along road
  • Stop at intersection to read signs and make sure I am on correct road
  • Discover I am not on correct road
  • Swear loudly
  • The Samazon threatens to remove my computer game privileges unless I can keep my swearing to a volume that the "neighbours can't hear".
  • I swear softly
  • Resume travel on correct road
  • Am attacked by bandit
  • Bandit is some sort of cat-person
  • Kill cat-person-bandit
  • Loot dead cat-person-bandit
  • Items available to loot from dead cat-person-bandit = "fur cuirass", "fur boots", "fur greaves" and "fur helmet"
  • Wonder aloud why a cat-person, covered in natural fur, would require supplementary fur
  • Wonder aloud how f*cken useful "fur cuirass" would be in protecting wearer from weapons in all classifications above "plastic fork class IV"
  • Observe dead cat-person bandit
  • Have answered my own question
  • Satisfied, I carry on
  • Walk
  • Continue walking
  • Walk some more
  • Run
  • Get tired too fast
  • Resume walking
  • Notice night falling (i.e screen is f*cking black, stars in sky etc)
  • Break into abandoned farmhouse to spend night sleeping in abandoned bed
  • Morning, continue on way
  • Arrive at next town
  • Immediately arrested, taken to jailhouse, pay fine etc etc
  • Fast forward 5 minutes
  • The Samazon makes room on lounge for me as we settle in to watch "Temptation Island UK"
  • Meanwhile, camera pans across empty home office, stops at computer desk, slow zoom toward silent computer, observe computer set to "off" position
  • Credits roll

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Your Tax Dollars At Work!

Most normal people wouldn't give two-thirds of a flying f*ck about the Parliament of Australia's Senate Standing Committee on Finance and Public Administration.

And they would be right not to.

Happily for readers of this preposterous blog, Angry Chov is not most normal people.

You see, this FaP Commitee, according to its web-page at "maintains oversight over three portfolios..." which is Government-speak for "meets a few times a year for sandwiches and to grill senior public servants like its the f*cken Star Chamber over absurd items nobody else cares about".

Unfortunately, we all pay for this exercise in fecund Machiavellinism, in more ways than one.

See, in THEORY, the Committee is supposed to catch dirty f*cken public servants and arms of Government who are up to NO-GOOD DIRTY F*CKEN TRICKS with public money.

In THEORY, it does this by asking questions thusly:

"You, sir, *pointing at senior public servant*, are you up to NO-GOOD DIRTY F*CKEN TRICKS with public money?!" (Subtlety is hard to guage in writing isn't it?)

Now only a f*ckwit of galactic proportions would answer this question in any way resembling "f*ck yeah, of course" and so the entire procedure becomes a wily dance wherein f*cktards from all sides of politics twist themselves up in ever increasing webs of intrigue and bull$hit as they either strive to avoid giving a "yes" answer or strive to catch someone unawares in a "yes" answer - in flagrante delicto, as it were. Except not the saucy, INTERESTING kind of flagrante delicto, just the regular, why-is-this-movie-3-f*cken-hours-long-boring kind.

After two days of this f*cken crap, nobody has slipped up and they all pack up the circus tent and go back to doing whatever it is that Senators and senior public servants do in between Committee hearings.

My personal theories are: For 25 marks, Express Yourself As A Turd, Through Interpretive Dance - suggested time, 5 minutes (for the former); and running a vast, multimillion dollar criminal international underground cock-fighting network (for the latter). But as yet I lack proof.

Now this post is essentially a public service that I am devoting to you, because there is simply nothing I want more in this world than to elevate your faith in our elected parliament. I want you to cast away your rags, forget your buried weapons caches, abandon your plans for revolution and Oklahoma City bombings and cease referring to Canberra as "the f*ckin Gu'mment" and instead gaze in wonder at those who serve the people, fearlessly and forthrightly elevating administrative f*ckwitosity to breathtaking new levels, on our behalf.

See, of all the wondrous and devious potential misappropriations that the Committee could have sought out and brought to light for us to scorn, your elected Senators instead focused on (and I'm not f*cken making this $hit up)....

...whether or not the illustrious Saint Kevin the Infallible's (i.e the Proym Ministah's) f*cken DOG and f*cken CAT pi$$ and $hit inside or outside The Lodge (i.e that house what the Proym Ministah lives in, hey), and in executing the functions of said f*cken pi$$ing and $hitting, whether they are supervised personally by suitably qualified members of Kevin 07's staff, and pursuant to the actions of said pi$$ing and $hitting, precisely whom is paying, and how much, for the repair of potential damage caused by said pi$$ing and $hitting in the Lodge and surrounds.

Now don't feel ashamed if, in fact, you missed this in the news and on the front page of every national newspaper. Because SURELY it was there, and you only missed it because other, more pressing, matters distracted you.

So allow me to whip you up a highlights package of Our Nation, Your Government, For All Australians!

The impressively capitalised and hyphenated, but cranially vacuous, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS: "...Given that at the Lodge we now have the new residents (and see at this point you're thinking well, yeah, the PM and his family....WRONG AGAIN DIP$HITS!) Abby, the golden retriever...and the pet cat, Jasper, there is probably likely to be added costs for lawn restoration at the Lodge. Is there going to be a budget for that?"

Senator Faulkner responds, in a brief and sadly unheralded victory for common sense over f*cktardness everywhere, "Why would there need to be?" only I think the transcript has omitted the " stupid f*cktard" from the end of that retort, but I can't be entirely certain.

Now, put aside, for the moment, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS's obvious disregard for national security by PUBLICALLY NAMING both the Prime Ministerial dog AND cat without due regard to their safety and security.

The good Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS shall not be stopped there!!

Oh, no, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS cannot rest while there is potential GOVERNMENT CORRUPTION yet to be ROOTED OUT!! She is nothing if not a CHAMPION OF THE PEOPLE!! HEAR HER ROAR!!!

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS (displaying the sharp-as-a-F*CKEN-TACK insightfulness that characterises her contribution to Parliament): "Having myself had cats and dogs in the past, and lawns, I just make the observation."

Thank you, Senator, for letting us know you haven't, all this time, been living in the f*cken International Space Station. It is a real relief. What a curriculum vitae, though.

"Current employment: Senator. Former experience: Once owned n x dog and n x cat (where n > 1). Oh, also once had n x lawn as well, don't leave that out."

Somewhere they are looking for volunteers for experimental pharmaceutical testing, and sadly the prolifically F*CKWITTED Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS is being wasted here instead.

Senator Faulkner: "I think the Prime Minister, in fact, has commented that the Rudd family has restrained their dog...from digging up the garden. He also described that as a big challenge."

Now I bet you had your doubts that a Prime Minister who eats his own ear-wax could run a democratic nation of some 20 million. Well fear not, kids, because this intellectual GIANT is currently locked in a f*cken BATTLE OF WILLS with his DOG, and the BATTLEGROUND for this EPIC ENCOUNTER is not Afghanistan, Iraq or East Timor; it's the proverbial BACKYARD OF THE NATION.

That's right, folks, stopping the f*cken dog from digging up the garden is a....(wait for the actual quotation marks)..."BIG CHALLENGE" for Saint Kevin, Patron Saint of Working Families.

But SLEEP WELL, Australia, because Senator Faulkner informs us that, SO FAR, the PRIME MINISTER IS AHEAD ON POINTS..."I am advised that Abby the dog (lucky you clarified that Senator, because I was having trouble keeping up with the cast list of ONE CAT AND ONE DOG so far) has not caused any damage to the gardens or grounds."

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS: "That is very good to hear."

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS sleeps soundly every night, knowing she has performed her duty for her nation. Sadly, she is a little confused, some would say even a little hurt by the fact that this sterling effort has gone largely un-noticed in the anals of history. No, that was not a typo.

Senator Faulkner: "I knew you would be pleased to be so informed."

At this point the public gallery had to subdued with pepper-spray, presumably, such was their level of disquiet.

Senator Faulkner (skipping forward several PAGES): "Would you like to hear about Abby's brief toilet trips outside, for example?"

Oh goody, yes, clap clap....OF COURSE F*CKING NOT.

Mind you, I am happy to hear that Abby the PM's Dog is "brief" in her business. It would be a bit unnerving to see Abby grab the day's copy of The Canberra Times broadsheet and a can of air-freshener on her way out, remarking "Don't wait up, this could take a while," to the family.

And so follows PAGES of exchanges regarding the general "making toilet" habits of the PM's cat and dog. Which, even edited, would make your f*cken head explode at the inanity of it all.

No, let's instead end this now the only reasonable way it could end - with the sure-to-be-IMMORTAL-words of Senator Faulkner....: "I know there is a lot of interest...about the PM's dog and the PM's cat, but I suspect, to be honest with you, THAT IT IS NOT A MAJOR ISSUE BEYOND THIS SENATE ESTIMATES COMMITTEE."

And you thought nobody was talking any sense around here, didn't you?

Arsene Wenger to donate match fee to Fred Hollows Foundation!

Arseanal FC manager, "Professor" Arse Wenger has apparently had his acute short-sightedness (lat: myopia fucktardia) cured in a single flash of lightning on the weekend. Or maybe it was the rather loud CRACK of Eduardo's leg bones breaking that snapped the good Prof out of his painstakingly thorough grass blade-by-grass blade examination of the pitch (but more of that in a moment).

It seems that the good Prof did actually see the Brummies' Martin Taylor kung-fu the F*CKING HELL out of Eduardo's leg during l'Arse's draw with Birmingham on the weekend. Taylor must have activated his magic Streetfighter combo finisher move (circle-circle-square-up-up-down-down) because he F*CKING WELL DESTROYED Eduardo's lower leg.

Either that or Eduardo has some serious calcium deficiency going on, leading to brittle bones (and more on my ability to make these diagnoses from afar later...)

Yes, yes, oui, oui, Proffesor Arse saw that little incident alright. Clear as a f*ckin bell he did. And had a few choice words to say about Mr Taylor before retracting them the next day - but that's not the actual point here.

Let's, for contrast, cast our minds back just a few days to l'Arse being smashed by Man Utd in the FA Cup.

Here we have a match wherein one of Arseanal's talentless clobbers is sent off for a challenge that, but for the grace of Invisible Omnipotent Ghost Guy, could have ended up similarly to Mr Taylor's lunge.

That is - crack, ouch. F*ck. Eeeeeew.

Evidentiary quote cherry-picked from completely arbitrary website:

"Arseanal's (sic) cause was not helped by the sending off of...Eboue early in the second half for a high challenge on Nani." Chov's note: I think it was actually Evra, not Nani, but that's by-the-by.

Now of course all reasonable readers of this ridiculous blog will expect the Prof to condemn this challenge as vociferously as he condemned Mr Taylor.

And, of course, you'd be F*CKEN WELL MISTAKEN.

And how about, in the same match, l'Arse's captain, William Gallas, taking it upon himself to display all those manly, tough, indomitable qualities we all admire in 'fighting' Frenchmen, and fearlessly kicking Nani whilst the 21 year old HAD HIS BACK TURNED. Now I admit it's not often a Frenchman in a fight would see the back of his opponent, but the little Frog didn't miss his chance did he?

Once again, we would all expect the Prof to condemn this act of violent cowardice (I'm not sure there is such a thing, but there you go) in line with his views on dangerous thugs in foopball, wouldn't we?


Quote from the good Prof re: the red card...

"Nani was very good today but he did not need to juggle the ball."

And what from the Prof about Gallas, his captain, kicking a player while his back is turned and the ball is out of play:

"Arsene Wenger claimed he did not see Gallas' kick and instead taunted United by saying their poor pitch could cost them the title."

So let's get this straight.

It's ok for l'Arse players to kick the snot out of anyone they deem has offended them by displaying skill. In fact, f*ck the f*ckers, says Wenger, kick the f*cking tripe out of them, smarmy little f*cks. How dare they beat us!

So the poor, precious little f*ckers from l'Arse assert that nobody has any right to 'humiliate' them because, well, thay said so. Ner.

And when his captain, true to Froggy form, fights like a Frenchman, the Prof is actually preoccupied with amateur horticulture DURING THE GAME, with his attention distracted at the crucial moment by mentally calculating the dilution rate of Weed'n'Feed in the watering can so that he can pass it on to United's ground-staff on his way out.

So it's just f*cken lucky that Birmingham had been hand-weeding the pitch all week leading up to l'Arse's visit so that the Prof wasn't distracted when Eduardo had his foot detached from the end of his leg.

F*cking prat.

And what, exactly, is it with amateur medical professionals making all sorts of f*cken medical opinions public knowledge almost immediately after extracting them from the depths of their lower colon?

First we had Eduardo's career in doubt - based on f*cken what exactly? Internet photos apparently, and some guy who played 12 years ago who broke his leg and never played again.

F*cken genius link that. They should join Channel Nine's new smash series - CSI F*CKING OBVIOUS - with logic like that.

Fast forward ONE SINGLE DAY and the opinion of people WHO ACTUALLY OPERATED ON EDUARDO is that he could be back running in 6 to 9 months.

But did that stop today's F*cktard of the Day, Mr Tim Allardyce, from weighing in with his DR NICK RIVIERA OPINION?

Of course it f*cken didn't - if it did I wouldn't be f*cken well ranting about it now, would I?

Tim, after an exhaustive medical examination of PHOTOS ON THE INTERNET, followed by extensive consultations WATCHING REPLAYS ON YOUTUBE, followed by poring over the results of lab-testing CONDUCTED ENTIRELY UP HIS OWN F*CKING AR$E, concluded:

"You can lose the foot, simple as."

Oh, but 2008's potential Nobel Prize for Medicine winner didn't just stop there. How about these for insightful comments from Tim, known to his colleagues as CAPTAIN F*CKING OBVIOUS:

"Imagine your worst ankle sprain and make it about 10 times worse..."

"He could be out for several months" (I like the way he doesn't commit here...he could be out...yeah he could also HAVE A F*CKING LEG TRANSPLANT I suppose, better leave that door open eh?)

"Potentially, the bones will heal..."

"Once you've sustained such a serious injury, you'll always tend to be aware of it..."

Special note to readers who may be patients of Mr Allardyce....GET A F*CKING SECOND OPINION.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Lost in translation...

Now firstly you have to understand that Rot Weiss Essen is a fussball (foopball) team from Germany. Due to certain familial ties to the city of Essen, I support them with gusto - even more so because they are, to be frank, mostly bollocks.

This means that my only real means of keeping up with their results is to check the website, which is unhelpfully published only in Deutsch. Now I can pick up words here and there in the language, but decided to take advantage of Babel-fish on-line translation of the following match report.

I'm not sure it helped.

RWE separates from Borussia Dortmund II 0:0

Red white meal missed the hoped for victory in the first heimspiel after the winter break.

Before 8.306 spectators at the port route it was enough only to a 0:0 against the second crew of Borussia Dortmund. Thus RWE with now 31 points occupies further rank eleven and is separate three points from the tenth place in the table, that at the season end for qualification for the single-railed 3. League hand became. Already in the first leg in Dortmund both crews with a torlosen Remis had separated.

"I can actually make no reproach for the crew, her everything tried. Unfortunately we do not create it for the moment to use our gate chances. This point gain is after the play process for us too few," said a disappointed RWE coach Heiko Bonan.

"I am proud on my crew. It accepted the fight and at the end in Unterzahl with one point was recompenced," was a BVB coach Theo cutter contently.

Heiko Bonan had changed its crew only on two positions, had decided however for another tactical concept.

Mario Klinger, in the previous week with the 0:2 in awls only exchanged, stood just as in the starting eleven as surprisingly also the wiedergenesene Rolf Christel Guie Mien. Jozef Kotula had to fit illness (flu), Tim Erfen took first in the bank place.

In contrast to "normal" 3-4-2-1 acted the red-white in the first half with a Viererkette in the defense, a four-determining field and two genuine points.

"We wanted with this variant on the unclear Dortmunder list, which concerns the attack, react and therefore with four defense players began. Unfortunately this concept is come up not whole, " cleared Heiko up Bonan.

In the first half time both crews in the structure of play did heavily. There were hardly successful combinations, but many false passports and duels coined/shaped the play. There were also hardly compelling gate chances.

Only completely at the beginning both crews had one good capital invested possibility each. A shot of Paul Jans was blocked by the Dortmunder defense (3.), on the opposite side missed Sebastian Hille a Hereingabe of Christopher Noethe (4.).

In the further process of the first half time both crews in the offensive did heavily. Most passports in the pointed or flanks came too inaccurately, in order to spread danger. The goal keepers were mostly occupationless.

But the portion became more ruppiger the end of the first passage, arbitrator Patrick Ittrich (Hamburg) had to interrupt again and again and also yellow maps show.

Among other things it got aggressor Paul Jans, who regarded first against a Dortmunder defender the foot "drauf" and short time as a similar passing by the arbitrator for the last time was later admonished.

Coach Heiko Bonan reacted in the half time, of Jans remained in the cab.

For it in the second half Sercan Guevenisik came. Also captain Michael Lorenz, under which week came back flu-weakened, to the second half time not and became replaced by Tim Erfen. Bonan changed also the tactical adjustment, changed over to the classical system.

"One noticed immediately that we came better into the duels and the players felt clearly better," so Bonan for the portion. The red-white actually worked now present and exercised more pressure. In chances sch this superiority did not strike down however first.

Only after a good hour the Dortmunder gate came under bombardment. An attempt of Rolf Christel Guie Mien missed its goal only scarcely, Niklas Andersen one cut back free standing beside the gate.

"Against a deeply standing opponent one must use such possibilities also times," was annoyed coach Heiko Bonan.

As in the 68. Minute of Dortmund Sebastian Hille after a Unsportlichkeit ("herd formation") the yellow-red map saw, tried Bonan again everything.

Rafael Kazior replaced Niklas Andersen one, which had before seen its fifth yellow map and thus on next Saturday (14,00 o'clock) in the appearance with kicker Emden will be missing.

In the conclusion minutes also defender David Czyszczon stormed also. But did not hand to more than one kopfball of Rafael Kazior, which BVB goal keeper Marcel Hoettecke from the corner fished, it any longer.

After approximately three minutes sequel time whistled Patrick Ittrich the portion off. From ranks there was applause for a self-sacrificing fighting RWE crew after initial whistles then nevertheless still.

"We have to time simply no luck, the ball go simply not into the gate. If we fetch ourselves back this luck, we will win," said also again the plays aggressor Markus Kurth after the portion.

"We can make ourselves kaempferisch no reproach, everything tried. Unfortunately again no gate succeeded to us. We must continue working now concentrated. In training we obtain the gates nevertheless ," were also Soeren Brandy dissatisfied.

RWE is now for 361 minutes without gate Sercan Guevenisik promised remedy nevertheless. "I make next week in Emden my first gate and then start we a series. The crew actually believes and becomes rausholen there ", spread that stuermer optimism hurt for a long time last.

"Ok I shall try to make certain that I approach the next appearance vs Kickers Emden with stuermer optimism for many kopfballs into the gate and also not so many yellow maps on the Red and White Meal crew," was Chov the smiling politely.

Can't script comedy this good, honestly.

If I'm not back by morning....

So yesterday I continued my descent into rampant nerdism by loading up The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion onto the PC for a bit of a hack and a bit of a slash.

Now I have been formally warned by my brother that, prior to starting this game, I should offer my Better Half (affectionately referred to as The Samazon around these parts) and other relatives and loved ones a courteous "goodbye" as I shan't be seeing them again for a few months and / or years.

And that's without even considering the expansion packs.

Now Oblivion, for those that don't know, is a "fantasy-based role-playing adventure game".

Translation: It's a game where nerds get to escape reality for days at a time by becoming Knights and Warriors and Wizards and $hit like that, and wandering around fantasy-land killing zombies, orcs, skeletons etc and the rest of the time trying to get their nerdy freak on with Elf-chicks.

Addendum: Said nerds are then completely and utterly surprised by the fact that, when they return to the Real Actual World, nobody else gives a remote f*ck that their alter-ego, Zalgoth the Unrepentant Masturbator, is now a Level 37 Black Elf Mage with the ability to cast "Balls of Itchiness" on any opponent (= loss of 15 health points for 30 seconds).

Apparently what separates this nerd-orgy-cum-game from others of the ilk is that this one is vast and open-ended, featuring an entire fantasy world to explore. That and the fact the artificial intelligence that runs the computer-controlled characters in-game is supposedly super-duper-sophisticated and stuff - something to do with the fact they each have their own individual schedules within the game, so they will, unaffected by your main character, attend to their own day by travelling, eating, sleeping and probably taking a $hit for all I know. Or care.

All I know is you can ride a horse, which to you and I would sound like a perfectly reasonable thing to do but represents an innovation in these sorts of games that sent nerd game-players into paroxysms of delight, apparently.

Of course, what I do know is that it took only a matter of minutes into my first playing of the game for something stupid to happen. Pretty much par for the course.

I wandered into a fighting Arena whilst exploring (and after trying to chat-up a few elf-chicks - failing miserably after discovering the conversation option "Try Pick Up Line" wasn't available) and was greeted by a fruity looking Elf wimp at the entry / exit.

This immediately tempted me to whip out my two-handed giant motherf*cking sword (no innuendo intended) but, having been warned by the instruction manual that random and wanton acts of murder would be punished by the law, I decided against it.

Gritting my teeth I returned my giant motherf*cking sword to my scabbard, ignored the fruity Elf wimp's attempts at conversation and continued exploring (i.e generally barging in on people and poking around like a nosy f*ck who can't mind his own business).

After exploring pretty much all the locations I could at the Arena, I returned to the exit and discovered the fruity Elf wimp locked in mortal combat with several town guards. About 4 that I could see, with more milling around outside.

And the little wimp assessed the situation quickly and decided upon an appropriate course of action in a flash: make like a squealing, mincing little Frenchman and run like it's 1940!!

Of course I followed to see what would happen and was happy to see him run down by about 15 town guards, whereupon the local constabulary did their very best to keep public order by hacking him to bits.

Quite what it was in his Artificial Intelligence program that prompted this I could not say - had the little fellow flashed his hairless girlish Elf-balls in public? Pilfered a Potion of Ring-Tickling from Ye Olde Potion Shoppe? Skipped on paying the G&S Tax on his A$$less Leather Chaps?

Sadly I shall never know.

In my attempt to play the helpful citizen I joined with the Town Guards and got in a few good overhand sword-chops on the little scamp, only to be arrested myself.

Where, I ask you, is the f*cken justice?

Strangely, after paying the fine and being released from the jailhouse, I wandered back to the Arena and, lo and behold, the fruity little Elf wimp is there once more as though nothing at all untoward happened.

"What, that business about the overhand chops and the guards and the flashing the hairless, girlish Elf-balls? Oh, 'twas nothing, really. Carry on, chaps and all that! It's all so yesterday, don't you know eh what. So, what can I do for you?"

Apparently I have about 199 game-hours of this to go.

Au Pair at The Lodge?

You may have missed this in the news the other week, but our Prime Minister the Hon Kevin 07 (who prefers to be addressed as Saint Kevin the Infallible, unless he's in shape-shifting mood and is appearing in Parliament as a cardboard cut-out - usually on Fridays) was being harangued somewhat for dipping into the public purse and hiring a nanny to look after his offspring at The Lodge.

Well, one of the Rudd Rugrats anyway.

Yes, it seems, from my 3 minutes of research on the internet (and how could the www ever be wrong I ask you?) that it was only Saint Kevin's 14 year old son who required Au Pair servicing after school. I couldn't discover his name (or couldn't be ar$ed reading that far into the article) so I made it up. The PM's son goes by the name of Poncey McPonce from Poncetown.

Now if I recall myself at 14, all pimply-faced and peach-fuzzed balls, I would have been thrilled at the thought of a nanny giving me a right good "looking after" every afternoon after school.

Sadly, my hetero pubescent fantasies probably don't translate to the hero of our tale, the young Poncey, given his Dad is an ear-wax devouring poindexter.

But come the f*ck on, who, at 14, needs a professional nanny to oversee your after-school shenanigans? Although I suppose with a name like Poncey it's largely self-evident.

"Now, Poncey, you know that having an extra spoon-full of Milo only leads to chronic wind-pain and excessively fragrant flatulation, and we all know how unpleasantly that turned out when we were entertaining the Grand Duke of Fucktard and his attache, don't we hmmm?"

See, Poncey obviously needs to be protected from himself. Hence the nanny.

Quite obviously the little twerp can't be trusted to come home from school and sit the f*ck down to watch ABC Kids all on his lonesome without taking advantage of the lack of supervision to strip down and start humping the imported Italian-leather lounge suite like a f*cken Bonobo monkey on heat, or succumbing to his rampant and compulsive Onanism all over the house.

I can only imagine that Kevin 07 has grown tired of arriving home at The Lodge after a hard day crushing Brendan Nelson's tiny nuts in a vice and pimp-slapping Wayne Swan until-slap-he-slap-f*ckin-slap-does-slap-know-slap-what the-slap-f*ckin-slap-non-accelerating-inflation-rate-of-unemployment-SLAP-actually-slap-f*ckin is, only to discover that young Poncey has been left unattended again and has been manipulating himself furiously all afternoon around the house, jizzing and splooging with gay abandon all over the imported Turkish bathroom tiles and Persian hall-way runner.

I can see his point.

Enter the nanny, presumably a 7 foot tall Siberian "woman" called Borisya Ballsinajarovitch, who doesn't believe in 'happy endings' and will zap the living f*ck out of the game little chap with a cattle-prod whenever he so much as LOOKS like he might be contemplating a bit of the old "self-pollution".

Which, if he looks like his dad, could be almost all the time. Oh, wait, that was the card-board cut-out I was looking at, where our nation's brave and fearless Leader has BOTH hands THRUST DEEP, DEEP, DEEEEEP into his pockets - and who knows what mysterious joys lurk down there that would require so DEEP an EXPLORATION!?

Perhaps he was simply doing his bit to dampen INFLATION.

*boom-TISH* all week, try the veal etc etc...

Friday, February 22, 2008

Ball-Kickin' Vol 1

And so the weekend approaches, which means it will soon be time to sit back and watch uncensored and unaltered images of balls beamed straight to my TV screen. Love those balls. Especially in close-up.

Happy days.

For starters I shall be forced to watch some of that silly rugby in the Super 14, simply because the NRL comp hasn't yet kicked off. This happens every year and I can't help but feel like every year the sport, the ARU and John O'Neill waste a grand opportunity to slyly seduce another convert to their sport.

I try to watch, I really do. But let's be honest, it's f*cken rubbish. Even watching it drunk.

I tried to explain the game to My Better Half (and one who views sport generally as some sort of anti-matter nonsensical waste of time and space - a bit like FaceBook really) last year, and I could only come up with..."A bit like rugby league, except every time something interesting threatens to happen, they blow a whistle and stop to kick for goal."

And as usual, I am so f*cking spot-on I make William Tell look like he's simply closing his eyes and hoping for the best. His son's name was Walt by the way, for a zillion trillion trivia points.

Apparently there have been some more Super 14 rule changes this season. Which probably brings the tally of rule changes up to something approaching 6,276 in the past few seasons. All aimed at trying to make the game more interesting to watch, I gather.

If any of these $hit-for-brains imbeciles actually stopped sipping chardonnay long enough to look outside their window (minus their monocles), they'd realise all the rule-changes necessary to turn rugby (pronounced roog-beh)into an entertaining spectacle of skill, power and pace have ALREADY BEEN MADE.

The result has been called rugby league for, oh, about ONE HUNDRED YEARS now, you f*cking planks.

So looking past that unpleasantness, Foopball will take pride of place this weekend.

My beloved Man Utd will take on the Bar Codes of Newcastle in what is surely a banana-peel game for the Red Devils.

I mean, Newcastle are fodder at the moment. They are aimless rabble. They are pants. And that's not even getting to the comedic brilliance of re-hiring Kevin "Loov Et Ef We Beat Them, Jest Loove It!" Keegan as their manager.

And therefore, this is exactly the sort of game where United turn up, act disinterested for the first 15 minutes and then, concede some sort of goal-off-the-shins (probably Viduka the fat ba$tard) in the 16th minute and then proceed to squander eight thousand and fifty two million different opportunities to score, eventually losing 1-0 or jagging a late injury-time equaliser.

No doubt whomever Arse-anal are playing will trot out for kick-off and then, immediately upon hearing the opening whistle, turn around, drop their pants en masse, then lube up to take it long and hard for 90 minutes (presumably whilst squealing like pigs) so that l'Arse win comfortably by 3 goals.

Newcastle against United, by contrast, will play as though their f*cking families are being held for ransom by Somali warlords in Mogadishu. F*cking bull$hit is what it is I tell you.

Finally the A-League Grand Final will be contested between Newcastle (the Hunter Valley version) and Central Coast.

I was largely indifferent with regards to cheering for one lot over the other, but having read Craig "I'm a F*ckwit, Me" Foster slag off the Coast in the Sydney Morning Herald last week for playing football he rated as in the "bottom tier" of the league, I am now the biggest Coast fan in the world (short of getting my erection tatooed with the club logo) - if for no other reason than to force Foster the F*cknificent to cry over his keyboard while lamenting that Newcastle (in his mind the reincarnation of 1956 Real Madrid) didn't win.

Geezus if they win the pompous little f*cktard will be unbearable. You will think from his ensuing gloating that he personally coached the side to the title using, as an instructional ploy, his own YouTube highlight reel (using his whole career, should get up to about 13 seconds of highlights, including slow-mo replays of a guy who looks like Ronaldinho but has a Photo-Shopped head of Foster the F*cknificent) - completely ignoring the fact that his phone remains deafeningly silent every time there is a coaching vacancy anywhere in the world.

Space, even.

Chov 1 World 0

Chov shoots, Chov scores!!!

Honestly, 'blogging' is such a self-indulgent masturbatory exercise it makes navel gazing with a magnifying glass look like grand expansionist thinking.

How apt, then, that I should join the ranks of the world's bloggers.

Obnoxious wanker that I am.

(At least I know I am.)

Not much of a first post, but I just want to see how many things I can f*ck up in posting this first semi-rant because, of course, I skimmed through the instructions.

But don't worry, it's coming.

It just takes time for the rage to build to such a critical level that it can act as a catalyst for the Xplosion of words onto the page. I'm currently sitting in a strobe-machine bombarding my cortex, so it shouldn't be long.

Translation: something has to happen to piss me off enough to write about it. I am a lazy, lazy man, though, so take that into account when setting your alarm clocks.

Of course, I may be open to suggestion. Feel free to throw me topics. I shall, in turn, feel free to ignore them. If nothing else it will teach me about how to use the 'comments' functionality on this site. Specifically, how to aim them straight to the trash without bothering me first.

Remember, if I really cared about what YOU think, then I would be at YOUR blog reading YOUR inanity.

So eat me.

P.S Kudos and thanks to El Maco Pudendo Magnifico for the blog name.