It takes me into a zone that is beyond ranting, where all I can actually see are colour explosions and the video montage that Alex DeLarge was subjected to as part of the f*cken Ludovico Technique.
With some considerable effort I can finally bring myself back into a state that sort of resembles "shaking with rage", which is how I am 90% of the time anyway, so it registers as "normal" on the patented Chov RAGEometer (TM).
Then I have to re-write this blog about fifteen f*cken times, because every time I start writing about the incident that got me angry in the first place I get a RENEWED urge to start "Singin' In The Rain", my droogs and brothers, or having your humble narrator listen to "Beethoven's Ninth" and KICK THE F*CKWIT-NESS out of F*CKWITS who need it. Desperately.
See what happened was some drunk tosser at the cricket last night threw off his clothes and decided to "streak" - that is, advertise his under-sized torkler to the world by getting nude and then sprinting onto the field faster than a Frenchman who heard the word "Achtung!"
Now it's amusing when my youngest brother ruins the Street Xmas Party Annual Backyard Cricket Challenge by doing it, but that's because all the neighbours are d1ckheads anyway, and the only fun thing about it is belting the 9 year old from no.32 for 112 runs off one over.
But there is a time and place for streaking and the cricket, no matter how funny you think it is whilst drunk, isn't it. It's at a mate's wedding, for instance, or at the kids' school Xmas pantomime, where it's funny and ought to be encouraged: or, holiest of holies, when ample-breasted girls decide to streak. In which case praise be to God, we humbly thank thee for the beauty of the world and your infinite wisdom in creating boobs etc etc.
But, I know, this donger-dangling sausage-fest streaking $hit will happen so I deal with it. The streaking itself isn't the problem that has exploded several blood vessels in my rage-filled eyeball.
See, what befell the streaker was not, as he envisaged, tripping over the end of his one-and-a-half-foot schlong in a final, glorious dive through the stumps to thunderous applause from the crowd.
What he got was a Andrew Symonds-sized dose of "toughen-the-f*ck-up, bitch", instead.
Symonds simply dropped the shoulder as the nude moron skipped nearby and F*CKING DECKED THE STUPID PR1CK, who woke up later in the comforting surrounds of a holding cell, catered by the QLD constabulary, and asked for the tattoo of Symonds' shoulder to be removed from his chest, please. And a hot Milo. And perhaps if anyone saw his spleen lying around, that might be handy if that could be returned, too. Last seen erupting from his anus after he ran into a f*cken wall. Ta muchly for that.
For this action alone, Symonds should have scored 1000000000 points towards next year's Allan Border Australian Cricketer of the Year medal, and I will be watching the f*cken vote count carefully to check that justice is, in fact, done in this regard.
Now this morning I was hoping, despite Australia's loss in the match overall, to see front page headlines announcing a one-man ticker-tape parade and book-signing extravaganza, with possible TV sitcom pilot, visiting every single Australian city, starring Andrew Symonds, hero of the people. And, at each event, you could pose for photos alongside Andrew's balls, which would tower over you and cast a shadow across the crowd.
And, if you happened to be the f*cken incompetent mong who was in charge of "security" at last night's event, you could get a free spot on the tour and your job would be to close each day's festivities at the Carnevale de Symonds by KISSING HIS F*CKEN HAIRY BEANBAG in THANKS for doing YOUR F*CKEN JOB FOR YOU, and PROPERLY.
So can you imagine my dismay, nay, F*CKEN GARGANTUAN ANTI-F*CKTARD APOPLEXY, when instead of these glorious headlines I am forced to read, with my own eyes:
"Cricket officials have said Symonds will not face a penalty, but the burly all-rounder may find himself in strife if the man makes an assault complaint to police."
Words fail me.
Let me get this straight - f*cktard of galactic proportions runs onto field, naked and drunk and against the law, gets shoulder-charged into next week (he's going to be early for his court appearance), but if the poor put-upon f*cktard COMPLAINS, then Andrew Symonds could be charged?!?!?!?!?!!??!?!?!?!?!?
Let me express me incredulity a little more by simply typing a bit more punctuation.
?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!!!?!?!??!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!??!!?!?
There, that ought to do it.
Allow me to play the sub-editor for a moment, and re-write the quote AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED:
"Cricket officials have said Symonds will be rewarded with an Ambassadorial role on Australia's behalf to the UNITED F*CKEN NATIONS, and, if the man makes an assault complaint to police, the burly all-rounder will get to smash the STUPID F*CKTARD repeatedly with a cricket bat for FIFTEEN MINUTES at the direct invitation of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The event has already attracted interest from Foxtel's Pay-TV arm, who have expressed a desire to televise it live on a pay-per-view basis. Experts agree that it has the potential to become the most-watched event in Australian television history."
Not to mention that any number of NRL clubs ought to be talking to Symonds this morning, especially clubs that have paper-bag tacklers like Preston Campbell on their roster.
But even if this outrageous piece of F*CKTARDITY wasn't sufficient to almost invert my colon in ANGER, good old "Reg of Sydney" had to utilise the f*cken "comments" facility, didn't he?
Thanks for f*cken nothing, INTERNET.
Yes, he f*cken well did, and in doing so made me want to f*cken euthanase him with a F*CKEN 40,000 FOOT LASER that would have obliterated, with PRECISION and in the most F*CKEN AGONISING MANNER POSSIBLE, not only every fabric of matter that contributes to Reg being the f*cken waste of carbon and oxygen that he is, it would also have destroyed all evidence that Reg ever existed and stained the Universe with his breathtaking f*ckwittosity.
Allow Reg to express himself:
"All i (sic) saw was the Adelaide man running pass (sic) Andrew Symonds, what Andrew Symonds did was wrong."
Who the f*ck is "Adelaide Man", Reg you f*cktocious 'tard? A new discovery by archaeologists? Like f*cken "Java Man", only less intelligent and with a forehead that slopes 3 degrees more? And what was he doing, running "pass"? What, some sort of f*cken rugby league decoy set-piece? It was the CRICKET you stupid f*cken craptacularly f*cktastic MORON.
But there's more!
"He had no right to shoulder the sticker (sic). He should have left it to the cops that was already after the sticker (sic sic sic f*cken sic)."
At this point I realise I am rising above my station and taking on a F*CKEN INTELLECTUAL GIANT. With f*cken grammar like that, I can't understand why Saint Kevin the PM even NEEDS to improve EDUCATION. Where do YOU think Reg falls on the A to E scale? Note: A is the best, and E is f*cken waste of time, and Reg is a new letter all his own, somewhere about 50 clicks past Z.
And "sticker"? What the f*ck? I can understand if Reg's galactic intellect had maybe mistyped "stricker" to at least get it ALMOST phonetically correct, if he were from New Zealand (which would explain a lot of things, right there).
But even that LOW LOW LOW f*cken standard was TOO MUCH TO EXPECT FROM REG.
"Again, we see his mates saying it was OK. Sorry it was not OK"
Well, Reg, that's where we finally agree.
It was, indeed, NOT OK for you to somehow think it necessary to SHARE YOUR F*CKWITACIOUSNESS with the rest of us in this world.
And, yes, I too am SORRY YOU DID.
There, now I feel better.
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