Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Hybrid Game = Like Combining A Shit And A Turd

Because I like to observe morons in their natural habitat, I often check out the "comments" section when surfing the web.

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

Mmmmm....I'm lovin' it.

In the USA (where else?) there is a couple who are suing McDonald's for a whole ship-load of cash.

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.

At McDonald's.

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, 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......yeah, yeah....don't stop now baby.."
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 "".

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

A Very Sticky Conspiracy...

Well the Rugby League World Cup has come and gone, and one of this blog's biggest fans, The Mayor of Mac Fields, his honourableness the great Crackmeister, has written in to convey his great disappointment that Chov did not rant on the tournament.

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??!

Touchy, touchy! Ooooh!

It seems my last post struck a nerve!

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.

Pussy cats.

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 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."

True. Laughing.

"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'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 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.

"Anonymous" again...
"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!

Sometimes, things just go my way and I can't help but laugh.

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....