Monday, August 3, 2009

What a KHunt.

Karmichael Hunt, showing a complete mastery of the AFL-skill "falling over spectacularly and for absolutely no apparent reason". Note the absence of the ball anywhere in this shot.
Karmichael Hunt, or, as this blog prefers to call him, The KHunt, last week officially announced his intention to leave rugby league and the Brisbane Broncos to sign elsewhere.

Ho-hum, really. Even the part about switching to another sport is no longer particularly news-worthy, given the number of league players coming off contract that whore themselves out to French or Japanese rugby these days.

And don't mention Willie Mason's brief flirtation with the NFL. Anyone who knows anything about the NFL (which therefore excludes every staff member of the Daily Telegraph and their families and associates) laughed at that non-story as soon as it was printed.

Also don't mention "boxers" like John Hopoate or Solomon Haumono, or even Mundine for that matter. Chumps the lot, steadfastly choosing to be big fish in a pond so small it is barely worth calling a pi$$-puddle.

No, this particular KHunt buggered off to Gay-F-L, or aussie rules, to play for the new Gold Coast team.

Reading about this was the first time Chov even became aware there WAS such a thing as a "new Gold Coast team" so there you go, learning IS a lifelong calling.

But, really, who the f*ck cares?

Oh, sure, the typical mungo reaction is to get all stroppy like they did when Sonny Bill Williams pi$$ed off, then you have the inevitable whinging about the salary cap blah blah and the general brouhaha that league can't survive its stars being lured away etc etc.

Roll the same f*cken tape as last time, really, that's all it is. Except for Phil Rothfield pinching an idea from the A-League to have marquee players under the cap and f*cken trying to call it his own idea.

No, what amused Chov most about this non-story was, predictably, the media spin on it and the sheer, overwhelming amount of f*cken bull$hit that every second moron spewed forth as "opinion" about the whole thing.

We had those who questioned whether KHunt could really play AFL at the top level. Which is a fair question, I suppose, if I f*cken cared enough about the answer.

The real response encompassed such irrelevant points on the compass as "played a game or two in school" and "knows you get a point for missing" all the way up to "kicked a ball to [Collingwood legend] Nathan Buckley in his trainers" - all of which were apparently evidence he could someday win a Brownlow.

What's so stupid about that paragraph is that you'd be hard pressed to pick which "answer" I made the f*ck up and which two were real.

I mean, f*ck me dead, if that's what counts as talent identification and development in the AFL then I'll chuck my current job in and get a sponsored SUV from the AFL to drive all-expenses paid around Australia the rest of my days as a legendary AFL "scout".

Of course there was also the obligatory denial by the Khunt himself that the traitorous move was motivated by cold, hard f*cken cash. No, it was about the "challenge" and isn't it f*cken always?

But what really elevated this particular f*cken Khunt in Chov's estimation was his quote that it was the challenge of being a "pioneer" in switching to AFL that got his pecker hard in ways a dirty cubicle blow-job could only dream of.

"Being a pioneer in this regard was also particularly appealing," said the Khunt, presumably sober for long enough to string the words together.

So, not content with merely being a lying Khunt and denying what a greedy Khunt he is, he decided to portray himself as a f*cken PIONEER FOR KHUNTS EVERYWHERE, INSPIRING EVERY TOM, DICK AND KHUNT TO EVER GREATER HEIGHTS. YOU TOO CAN BE A KHUNT!

By christ, he's more than an athlete, he's the F*CKEN SIR EDMUND HILLARY OF FOOTBALL'S MOUNT EVEREST! He's doing it FOR ALL THE LITTLE KHUNTS WHO IDOLISE HIM, and for that repressed BIG KHUNT IN ALL OF US!

What a glorious over-estimation of self by a magnificently self-obssessed KHunt.

For that alone he wins this year's "Maurice Clarett Award" - Clarett being the last moron Chov heard of that threw out the old "pioneer" line.

One presumes, then, that the KHunt was ready to play AFL for a 50% pay-cut just because he wanted to be a "pioneer".

Like f*ck he was. Khunt that he is.

But then maybe he was just referring to his desire to introduce a whole new sub-set of female sporting groupies to the joys of toilet-trysts with a hot, sweaty Khunt.

The Khunt estimates how many drunk women he can squeeze into a dirty toilet cubicle for sex at the QLD celebration post-game party.
However, there's also the lifestyle on the Coast, which didn't entirely escape the KHunt's attention.

"Moving to the Coast is going to be fantastic because I really enjoy the city," he told Brisbane's Courier-Mail.

Apropos to nothing, a quote from today's papers:

"WITH their proud club in unprecedented crisis after a record hiding on Saturday night, Broncos stars Justin Hodges and Karmichael Hunt can now be named as two Maroons players at t he centre of Queensland's party-fuelled preparation for Origin III...One player was alleged to be in a "comatose state" on the Gold Coast party strip and Hunt has admitted to partying at exclusive Broadbeach nightclub East on the night in question."

Yeah, the KHunt really enjoys the city all right.

Mind you, to be fair, the Khunt also admits in the Courier-Mail article that he has "...never seen the family side of the city ", and in light of the quote immediately above he does seem to be telling the truth there rather than being a lying KHunt.

But the acme of idiocy in this whole affair was, unsurprisingly, provided by our friends at the worst newspaper in the world - the Daily Telegraph of Sydney - who never met an overreactive piece of f*cken media hype they wouldn't go down on faster than a $10 prostitute.

No sooner had the ink dried on KHunt's contract than they were spinning it into a frenzy of hyperbole, unsubstantiated rumour and wild half-baked half-assed linkages to an out-of-proportion and baseless premise - that suddenly the NRL's stars were all going to leave for AFL-land.

Screams the intro: "...six more NRL superstars have emerged as potential recruits to the cashed-up enemy code."

Not ACTUAL recruits, just potential recruits. Let's play f*cken weasel-word bingo.

"Greg Inglis, Johnathan Thurston and Billy Slater head a marquee list in the AFL crosshairs..."

No mention of who produced this "marquee list", or if it even exists, as opposed to being a FIGMENT OF DEAN RITCHIE'S FEVERISH IMAGINATION.

But maybe there's something to it. Maybe there IS a secret dossier, and this really IS the first salvo in a clandestine war by AFL to snare all of rugby league's top stars...let's examine the Daily Telegraph's evidence...

"And last night the three superstars' managers admitted they would not ignore future offers from the AFL to defect." ACTUAL offers. Just three managers admitting that, if asked to suck uncircumcised cock for money, they WOULDN'T SAY NO STRAIGHT AWAY.

Really, where's the f*cken story?

Is it in the following quotes from George Mimis, whore-agent for Billy Slater?

"Billy is a tremendous athlete - his skills would be suited to any football code, including AFL,'' Mimis said."

Except that his "skills" don't include "being able to grow another 4 feet instantaneously".

"No doubt all the Melbourne AFL clubs would have had a good chance to watch Billy. He has re-signed with the Storm but you would never say never.''

So, every Melbourne-based AFL club has been watching Billy Slater all this time, but when it came time to re-sign with the Storm, NOT F*CKEN ONE OF THEM MADE AN OFFER TO EVEN TALK ABOUT IT.

The Craig Gower-Karmichael Hunt combo - now on sale at NRL Shop for about ten f*cken cents.

But here comes the Telegraph with their best piece of unsubtantiated rubbish yet....based on ABSOLUTELY F*CKEN NOTHING they wet their pants and exclaim....

"The code-swapping is likely to intensify when the AFL moves into western Sydney for 2012."

Eeek! Run to the hills, as my friend the Mayor of Mac Fields is fond of saying in times of greatly over-stated emergency.

Yeah, based on ONE SINGLE DEFECTION in over ONE HUNDRED YEARS of both sports, occurring in a DIFFERENT STATE and DIFFERENT CITY, and in the COMPLETE AND UTTER ABSENCE OF ANY F*CKEN ACTUAL EVIDENCE TO UNDERPIN IT, this quote in the Tele makes heaps of sense, sure.

So, at this rate, the last rugby league player will move to AFL sometime in the year 8445 AD. Brilliant journalism, f*ckwads.

The fact that is is the FIRST F*CKEN TIME EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EARTH that a rugby league player has moved to AFL at this level was so F*CKEN OBVIOUS that even Manly coach Des Hasler COULDN'T F*CKEN MISS IT:

"AFL has certainly struck the first blow."

Captain Obvious was just off-camera when Des made this remark, dusting off his hands and saying "My work here is done!" before attempting to fly away.

"It will be interesting to see how David [Gallop] and the NRL board reacts," Hasler he went on to say.

Well, probably by doing precisely three-thirds of F*CK ALL, Des. Let's face it, the KHunt is a serial offender off the field and I doubt that David Gallop could give a flying monkey-f*ck what he does as he long as he does it in AFL.

NRL Chief David Gallop, reading from a prepared statement: "I am f*cken ecstatic the Khunt will finally besmirch rugby league no more. I am looking forward to no more mornings waking up wondering what the Khunt has gone and done this time. As far as I am concerned, he's now an AFL KHunt. If we could only ship ALLof our KHunts off to AFL I could retire."

Come to think of it, Gallop possibly even organised it behind the scenes, just to saddle the unsuspecting AFL with a trouble-making KHunt, knowing it will only be a matter of time before the drunk KHunt smashes the booze in his favourite haunts in Surfer's Paradise and saves on a hotel room by taking his lady-friends to the bogs instead for a cramped get-to-know-you.

But let's compare and contrast quotes from the Sydney Morning Herald with the sensationlist bull$hit in the Tele.

"THE managers of three NRL stars considered the most likely to be successful AFL converts have scoffed at the notion their clients could follow in Karmichael Hunt’s footsteps."

Slight difference of opinion there, then?

" appears talk is all it will ever amount to."

Israel Folau's agent: ‘‘I don’t think anyone’s even talked about it.’’

Of Jarryd Hayne:
"Hayne is off contract with Parramatta at the end of next season, but when asked if AFL was an option, his agent, Wayne Beavis, said: ‘‘Not at all."

Greg Inglis's agent: "Allan Gainey...said: ‘‘He’s never had an approach … It’s never been mentioned.’’

Wait a minute, didn't the Tele claim to have talked to Greg Inglis's agent as well? Christ, do they even PRETEND to be REAL JOURNALISTS THESE DAYS?

Of course, before you think Chov is giving the Herald a bouquet, they went and af*cken ruined it by asking Laurie Daley, King of All F*ckwits, to make the case for hairy KHunt being a success at AFL.

Why they did is anyone's guess. Chov must have missed the part where Laurie Daley grew a clue about AFL and became a 12-time AFL premiership winning coach.

But hey, it's Laurie Daley, so...cue: imbecile statements? You betcha!

"The one thing you have to be in AFL is courageous..."

Hmmm. So, according to Laurie "Expert on Everything" Daley, there is only ONE, SINGLE, SOLITARY ELEMENT FOR AFL SUCCESS?

And no, according to Laurie Daley IT ISN'T EVEN BEING ABLE TO F*CKEN KICK - so there goes about 15 million non-winning betting tickets getting ripped up - no the winner according to Laurie is just being "courageous".

And you f*cken wonder why I want to pound Laurie Daley's head with a car-door whenever he opens his dumb mouth.

But let's allow the Gay-F-L to have the last word, and simultaneously explain why I love calling it that.

The big KHunt's new coach at the Gold Coast, Guy McKenna: "We will sit down and map out his next 18 months and work out from a physical point of view and a technical side of things a program but I CAN'T WAIT TO GET MY HANDS ON HIM."

After concluding the interview at the request of a reporter concerned that the coach was frotting himself on a poster of the ugly KHunt, McKenna took off his pink ballet slippers, grabbed the massage oil and minced into the showers with the rest of his players and staff for a "cool-down" session that lasted four and a half hours.

Quite why they would want a KHunt in AFL is beyond me - will they even know what to do with it?

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Unexplained Mysteries of the Universe

Chov, as you know, is one of the great thinkers of modern times.

Which means he thinks a lot.

About all sorts of $hit that affects the world around us all, usually through the idiocy of others.

And Chov tries to find answers. Meaning. Something with which to make sense of the world's morons and their actions, so that we all might be better able to combat them.

And sometimes, those answers, and that meaning, just ain't forthcoming.

And some other times, Chov can only marvel at the Universe because there must be an answer there somewhere, only he just can't find it.

So allow me to present to you the following enigma, aided with pictures:

This is a picture of a bulldog I had as a kid. After a f*cken truck ran over its face. A truck carrying a full unsecured load of export grade F*CK OFF UGLY.

See that there is f*cken ugly. Let's be honest. That's f*cken brutal that is.

And I don't want to hear any bull$hit about how Chov isn't a spring chicken, glass houses etc etc because Chov is a f*cken Adonis and I'll hear no different.

But the point is that you don't need to be beautiful like me (people weep openly in the street as they gaze upon my strange, unnatural, beauty) to understand that the picture above is not conducive to the survival of the human race because it inhibits the breeding instinct.

All of which is a great f*cken argument for evolution.

See, evolution is just a process of the natural world, which often f*cks up. F*cking up is just human.

So, although the object of most life is to pro-create, every now and then something like THAT, in THAT PICTURE UP THERE, comes along and f*cks up the great chain of life.

See, nobody in command of their faculties would knowingly breed with that, so whatever the genetic code is for UGLEE it, awesomely, dies without being passed on to offspring. Hence, nature fixes its own f*ckups, which is more than can be said for John Ribot.

Can't really fathom why non-evolution believers (let's just call them F*CKEN MORONS for short) would think God would shoe-horn ugly f*ckers into his grand master plan, but that's just my ignorance I guess. Some f*cken paradise - I mean there's going to be $hitloads of celibate, chaste, UGLY f*cken nuns in heaven, but no hot porno lesbians.

So think about that when you're in the Judgement Day voting booth.

But, look, none of this is any mystery to me or you or anybody not named Kevin Rudd, who just might use his week off to write a f*cken seven million word essay on it.


The mystery is presented thusly:

Photographic evidence that Kim Clijsters, on the left, has used strange NINJA-BASED SHAPE-SHIFTING POWERS to transform into a F*CKEN FOX. I'm not sure, but she actually looks like she's checking me out. Yeah you know it baby. You want some of The Chov. Don't fight it. It's only natural. Yeeeeaaaaah....







It's like watching the magician like a f*cken hawk as he rips up your card and proceeds to light his farts on fire with it, but then at the end reach into his ar$e crack to brilliantly pull out your f*cken ten of hearts right there.

"How'd he do it!?" some annoying frig-wit will always exclaim.

Looking at picture #2 above, I don't f*cken care.

So, like at the magic show, I'll stop looking for the sleight of hand and just enjoy it for what it is - one of the Universe's BEST mysteries - how ugly chicks can suddenly look hand-spankin' hot.

But now I'm fascinated with this concept. It's like there's a battle between good and ugly going on right in front of my eyes. So tell me, what are the best ugly-hot-ugly_again transformations you've seen?

You know, the ones that leave you scratching your head and saying to yourself "wasn't she just ugly? hot dang woman you doin' somethin' RIGHT!" or, conversely, "what was i thinking? put the lube and tissues away this show is OVER."

Email them to

I'll discuss the best ones when I get around to giving a $hit, but it will happen.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Machine-Gun Moronity #2: The Facts Are Wrong, Rafa, No?

Man Utd, Official #1 Favourite Sporting Team of The Chov, won their 18th league title a couple of months ago, bringing them level with the bin-dippers from Merseyside, who have been growing increasingly rattled and hysterical ever since we came within spitting distance of their record.

And one of the most satisfying elements of this league title was that it came at the expense of Liver Poo's over-rated moron of a manager, Rafa Benitez, also known as the "Man of A Million Excuses", "The Penniless Spaniard" and "The Mouth of La Mancha".

Despite being Liver Poo's manager, he secretly dresses up in Man Utd lingerie, puts lipstick on and smears himself with lube while fantasising about being the boss at Old Trafford, I'm certain.

How else to explain the "fact" that he CAN'T GO 35 F*CKEN SECONDS WITHOUT TALKING ABOUT US!?

He must f*cken ramble to himself on the crapper, in the shower, taking out the garbage on bin night etc etc.

Perhaps if he managed his own team instead of conducting 36 hour research missions on Man Utd's transfer activity (and STILL GETTING IT WRONG MIND YOU) they might not have finished RUNNERS UP.

The f*cken dope.

This managerial "genius" built his reputation on one of the ar$iest f*cken comebacks in sporting history, making a few panic substitutions in a Champion's League Final that came good.

Mind you, the team didn't win, they just drew, and got the trophy on penalties after a shoot-out.

The oft-overlooked part of this is that, if he was such a tactical genius, why was his team down 3-0 in the f*cken first place?

When the same two teams met in a subsequent final, Mr Tactical Genius got his f*cken over-rated ar$ehole handed to him. Miracle comebacks don't strike twice.

But they do shield you from criticism over the fact your transferred players have been mostly $hite and your team continues to win F*CK ALL on the league front.

But big-balls Rafa, with his team having established a commanding mid-season lead, decided to shoot his f*cken mouth off in the now historic "Rafa's Rant".

See, Rafa is like a pimply-faced nerd virgin who has managed to talk a drunk girl into letting him unhook her bra.

Never having been so close to girls and scoring before, the nerd of course blows his load all over his pants in the excitement, ultimately ruining the entire experience. But causing great amusement to everyone else.

Rafa, all giddy at being top of the table and clear of Man Utd, couldn't contain himself. And, fancying himself as a bit of a Miguel De Cervantes, decided to opine on all matter of rubbish, claiming (among other hilarious tidbits):

1. Man Utd were "nervous" because Liver Poo were top of the table,
2. Man Utd manager Sir Alex Ferguson runs / rules / is immune to / dictates the entire refereeing and disciplinary structure of English football,
3. and also sets up, in his spare time, the entire fixture list of english football to suit Man Utd and cunningly deny Liver Poo any advantage.
4. Man Utd are descended from the Knights Templar and are all masons.
5. Carlos Tevez knows what's in Area 51 (he comes from there).
6. Man Utd "fixes" the Top 50 music charts.
7. Man Utd faked the moon landing.
8. Man Utd are withholding proof of cold fusion, extra-terrestrial life and a cure for cancer from the world.

After about an HOUR of ranting and hysterical cry-baby antics talking about this, he closed with the utterly f*cken remarkable comment: "I would rather not talk too much about this."

Without any hint of irony, mind you.

He also said "If we win at Stoke that [Man Utd v Chelsea] result does not matter."

Of course Liver Poo went and pi$$ed their panties against lowly Stoke, drawing 0-0.

They also saw their commanding January lead at the top of the table whittled down, but by bit, until Man Utd passed them for good to claim the title.


Which is wonderful, because they will keep him, which gives us the best possible start to winning title #19. Which is also the number of YEARS Liver Poo have gone since their last title win.

Which is a "fact", Rafa. Can you spot the difference?

And of course the excuses start. Liver Poo only lost because Stevie G and Torres were injured all the time.

Well f*cken buy replacements who can cover, dip$hit, instead of blowing all that money on Robbie Keane, and then SELLING HIM BACK TO THE SAME TEAM FOR LESS MONEY HALFWAY THROUGH THE SEASON. What? It's a SURPRISE that Gerrard and Torres are crocked half the time? F*ck me, if you turned off watching MUTV occasionally you'd notice it, believe me.

Liver Poo only lost because Man Utd typically spend, according to Rafa, about eleventy hundred trillion pounds on players every year, and he can only afford to buy players with whatever's in his pocket, typically a couple of bob, some lint balls, some of Kenny Dalglish's hair that he cut off surreptitiously and an Official Breast Inspector ID.

Of course, after spouting this rubbish, he went and blew his cash load all over the face of middling fullback Glen Johnson for 17 mill (who cost Portsmouth just 4 mill when they bought him).

Rafa was so impressed by Glen Johnson's popped collar he added another 2 million to the Portsmouth offer.

Not to mention the way in which Rafa preened and pouted and played the cheap tart to try and woo Gareth "Garry" Barry from Aston Villa without ever meeting Villa's asking price. Of course, when Garry Barry upped and moved to Man City this season for 12 mill (5 mill less than Rafa's price for Glen Johnson, let's recall) Rafa was furious.

As though Garry had some f*cken moral obligation to come to Liver Poo, despite the fact they wouldn't meet the team's asking price and threw in an offer of less wages to sweeten the deal.

Rafa is muchos f*ckwit.

And thas a fact, no?

Machine-Gun Moronity #1: Saving The World, One Moron At A Time

I hate it when work gets in the way of my social life. My social life consisting of a desire to do not much of anything except hurl Thongs of Smiting at the TV screen when things pi$$ me off.

So many issues have tapped the throbbing vein of my rage in recent times I will have to machine-gun them - i.e a few short bursts of hard-hitting bile-bullets - in order to get through them and catch up on this ridiculous blog.

So, in no particular order, here's #1.

Regular readers of this nonsense will understand that Chov treats global warming hysterics with the contempt and ridicule they f*cken deserve.

The climate changes, people. It has for billions of years. We probably have something to do with it, but not much, because we haven't been here long enough and NOBODY IN THE F*CKEN WORLD UNDERSTANDS ANY SINGLE VARIABLE OF CLIMATE ENOUGH TO SAY ANYTHING F*CKEN USEFUL ABOUT ANTHROPOGENIC CAUSATION.

But on goes the hysteria, as though the sea is rising and I am typing this with F*CKEN MANTA-RAYS SWIMMING AROUND MY ANKLES ALREADY.

The latest piece of hysterical bull$hit to get my goat is this emissions-trading bill, which, under any other circumstances, would immediately be cast as one of the most brain-f*ckingly stupid ideas of all time.

But because the f*cken hysterics have taken over, it's rumoured to be a double-dissolution election trigger. The f*cken government of our nation could be decided by this f*ckwittery.

Why is it stupid, Chov, o wonderous scourge of f*ckwits everywhere?

I'm glad you asked!

Because it actually does precisely 100.0% of F*CK ALL whilst convincing morons like Bob Brown it will actually save the world.

What it does is allow industry to POLLUTE ALL THE F*CK THEY WANT, so long as they pay for it with stupid little certificates.

So it's just a tax.

That's it.

That's the magic cure for the earth, KRudd style.

Relying completely on industry to voluntarily reduce emissions so they subsequently save on tax.

Which completely ignores the great likelihood they'll do one (or both) of 2 things:

1. Pass the f*cken cost on to consumers, because what f*cken company do YOU know wears this sort of $hit themselves in order to serve the greater "good"?
2. F*ck off to India and China where they laugh at this sort of stupid f*cken scheme, and have already f*cked it off.
And, as for (1), remember that poor people (i.e "working families") will be subsidised for increased energy costs.

So, if the energy sector pass on the cost of emissions trading, and then KRudd subsisides the poor people on their bills anyway, WHAT THE F*CK HAS BEEN ACHIEVED?

Where's the incentive for any-f*cken-one to reduce emitting ANYTHING other than f*cktard-brainwaves?

Aaah, rich people, I hear you mutter.

Rich people can afford it and will likely do bugger all except whinge about the extra on their bill, then pay it anyway.

So, if you are a f*cking clueless herd-follower who is screaming about climate-change and f*cken polar bears drowning, ask yourself this question about the emissions-trading scheme world-saving extravaganza - how the f*ck does it reduce emissions, pinheads?

And why doesn't KRudd commit to using the tax to fund alternative energy development - like, oh, cold fusion (which is at about the same level of scientific credibility as climate change models)?

Stupid f*ckers the lot.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

And now, we interrupt our regular rubbish to bring you a serious RAGE interlude..

And so, after a period of dormancy, Chov returns with a rage to blister the paint on his walls and which blew out about 14 of those stupid little downlights around his hut (Chov lives as a recluse in a hut somewhere up in the ranges around Canberra).

I have to think that the period of inactivity on this blog was due to the fact that Chov has not watched much NRL this year.

The last moments of footy viewed happened to be the Eels taking a 12-0 lead over the Cowboys a few weeks back. And then I switched off, disinterested.

And that was with my team of sad-sacks actually WINNING for a freakin’ change.

No interest. And without interest, no rage. No rage, minimal blogging.

Because Chov no longer cares.

Allow me to momentarily expand the rant to pass judgement on why the entire horror movie genre now sucks balls. It’s a meandering parallel but, trust me, it’ll illustrate the point.

Horror movies work when one critical element is successfully implemented by the writers and directors: they get you to care about what happens to the ‘victims’.

If you care, you get emotionally involved on even a minimal level, then what happens to them will trigger an emotional reaction. Even the thought or likelihood of something happening to them, or not happening to them, will make us either anxious for them or relieved.

And that’s where the basis of a good horror flick comes good. You care, you get involved in the plot and voila, the movie is playing with your emotions on that level and makes an impact.

Actually it could apply to any movie, eg who gives a $hit about what happened to Jar-Jar Binks at the end of Star Wars: Episode III?, but horror movies explain it best.

So Wolf Creek was a steaming pile of turd because nobody gave a $hit about the 3 dopey morons who got wiped out. Also the fact that the clich├ęd ending was f*cking ridiculous didn’t help either, but that’s not my point.

Bringing it back to the main road with a thud – Chov no longer cares about the characters in the grandiose NRL movie he is watching, so he doesn’t care what happens to them anymore.

I can’t actually convince myself to give a $hit whether or not a bunch of overpaid misogynist Gen-Y f*ckwits actually score more points than the other bunch or not.

I can’t.

Next person to try and tell me that rugby league is the “toughest” game in the world gets a face full of my vomit sprayed at high velocity.

Tough guys don’t whinge f*cking INCESSANTLY like these gutless turds.

They whinge they don’t get paid enough money, whinging all the way to f*cken France (where archaeologists believe the “SURRENDER” tackle may have originated) if they have to because…..because….well….err…for no f*cken reason at all actually other than they just feel a f*cken ENTITLEMENT to have more money.

It sure ain’t commensurate with their contribution to society. And it ain’t like they have real bills to pay, or real –life to face up to every morning.

They whinge when they can’t go to Japan to play other codes.

They whinge when they have to play “too many” games.

They whinge when they drop 14 balls and miss 32 tackles in a game but BLAME THE REF for some supposedly CRUCIAL call that costs them the game.

They whinge when they get suspended for grapple tackles caught live by 13 different cameras.

But that’s not enough, apparently.

No, this season they have perfected the art of f*cking well WHINGING WHEN THEY GET PUNISHED FOR DOING SOMETHING F*CKING WRONG.

I mean, that’s hubris on a f*cking breath-taking scale.

Turd Carney was having a brilliant unbroken run of alcohol-fuelled incidents that included urinating on a guy’s head for a laugh and that old chestnut, drink-driving. Unfortunately the police don’t prosecute persons of interest for the crime of being a total f*cking tool, or else Turd would be a guest of her majesty right now.

He was released by his club and told to f*ck off by the NRL.



He didn’t volunteer to attend any alcohol-related recovery activity, he didn’t volunteer to do any community service, he didn’t offer to modify his future behaviour IN ANY F*CKEN WAY AT ALL, he JUST WHINGED that the NRL wouldn’t register him to play.

Brett Stewart has “allegedly” sexually assaulted a 17 year old. Police and the DPP thought there was enough in it to prosecute. The NRL suspended him.

And his club and team-mates F*CKING WHINGED ABOUT IT.

Anthony Watmough has a head that looks like it was mashed into a f*cking sandpit by an elephant’s foot. At a pre-season ‘launch’, he acted like a f*cking prat and punched a sponsor in the mouth after making disparaging remarks about the sponsor’s daughter.


Did Watmough apologise?


The players whinge that they can’t go out and get trolleyed, as though that’s all the rest of society does 7 nights a f*cken week. The players whinge they can’t have non-consensual group sex with any woman they choose, as though it’s some sort of f*cking birth-right of theirs.

They even whinge when a woman they’ve degraded and disrespected doesn’t just shut the F*CK up about it.

How glorious for me that, this week, the f*cking Emperor of Australian White Trash, Matty Johns, should get smeared and exposed as the f*cking Mungo, low-intellect misogynistic tool he really f*cking is and was all along.

Reg Reagan stops being funny after you turn 11, unless you’re a real f*cking mullet-loving booner.

And “hard core” NRL fan.

Involved in a group sex incident with a 19 year old 7 years ago, he is the sort of arrogant twunt who thinks that a token apology to his mates should be the f*cken end of it all. Incredulous that he should even have to apologise a second time.

Upon hearing that his name would be mentioned and the incident described in a Four Corners special, did he make a quiet approach to the show’s producers to pass on a personal written apology to the girl in question? Just, you know, for example?


He went on Booner-Heaven TV (aka The Footy Show) instead and made a half-hearted self-serving apology to himself, his wife (yes he was married) and his own family, surrounded the whole time by the same Neanderthal low-IQ f*ckwits that think he did nothing wrong simply because “no charges were laid”.

So it’s ok to degrade a woman as you see fit, to treat her like a piece of f*cking worthless trash, to act out every selfish misogynistic fantasy your Year 8 educated brain can muster – as long as THE BITCH DOESN’T TELL THE COPS?

And hey, if you’re married, just apologise and that buys you a lifetime of silence, and nobody CAN EVER BRING IT UP AGAIN?

And so now, of course, they WHINGE when it does get brought up again, as though nobody has the right to do that.

The question that Four Corners SHOULD have, of course, asked this woman was – “What did you expect was going to happen by going to the room of a footballer on tour? Did you think it was going to be a romantic candlelit dinner, followed by port and cigars, stimulating discussion and soft, passionate love-making, culminating in a marriage proposal?”

Dumb, dumb, f*cking dumb.

But being dumb doesn’t entitle a bunch of f*cking low-intellect Neanderthal f*ckwits to treat you like that. You don’t ‘deserve’ that for being dumb.

I, by contrast, was raised to treat women with respect. And I will endeavour to raise my own son the same way. Out of respect to all the women I know, including a gorgeous little god-daughter I have whose future I think of when I write this.

Respect women.

What a f*cking concept, eh?

What a f*cking bizarre, other-worldly concept?

And this whole “who hasn’t made mistakes when they were young” thing is getting stretched really f*cking thin.

I was young. I have been on countless football trips. And yes, I made mistakes and drank too much on many occasions.

Somehow, though, I managed to avoid drink-driving, rapes, brawls, getting shot at and urinating on people. Somehow I managed to get through life without using alcohol as an excuse. For F*CKEN ANYTHING.

I must just be f*cken lucky, I suppose.

The NRL apparently runs education courses for young players entering the game, teaching them how to act away from the field.

How is it that you need f*cking LESSONS to teach you how to act like a f*cking HUMAN BEING?

And, amongst all this, I’m supposed to cheer these guys on when they cross the stripe and CARE whether they win or lose?

Can’t do it.

Friday, February 27, 2009

Happy Birthday to Me. Again.

The Chov celebrating a whopping 35 angry orbits today!!

Monday, February 23, 2009

Chov's 15 Second Book Review, followed by Chov's 15 Minute Book Review (of the same book).

You may not be aware of the fact that I am a member of the Mac Fields Book Club, a small gathering of like-minded intellectuals who like to appreciate literature and discuss its merits whilst the chairman, Cracka Nash (Mayor of Mac Fields) serves tea in fine china cups in his extensive gardens.

The latest literary offering I have digested is “Justice For All: The Truth About Metallica” by music “journalist” Joel McIver.

This book should have been called "Metallica: 300 Pages of Some Fanboy Bitch Whining About A Band He's Not Even A Member Of"

It purports to be “exposing the myths” around the band, telling the “unvarnished truth” about how they “really” formed and developed.

And whilst I will expound in more detail upon Joel’s offering shortly, here is Chov’s 15 Second Review for those of you trying to read this at work:

Joel McIver: I think the “Black Album” and everything after it is $hit. Waaah, waaah, waaah. I wanted St Anger to be good, and it was $hit, waaah, waaah, waaah. Metallica were mean and rude when they sued Napster, waaah, waaah, waaaah. Metallica don’t play fast anymore, waaah, waaah, waaah. Metallica cut their hair short, waaah, waaah, waaah. And somehow, in a book about Metallica, a disturbing number of quotes from a former member of the stupidest metal band ever – Stryper.

That just saved all of you the few days or so of your life you would have spent reading this and never received back.

First, allow me to express my view on music ‘critics’ and music ‘journalists’ like Joel McIver generally.

And because I am a lazy man, rather than coming up with my own words, I’ll use someone else’s because they are perfect and have already done the job.

Specifically, the mighty Australian band T.I.S.M. and their classic track “BFW” (Big F*cking Whoopee).

Now the lyrics themselves are actually about FOOD critics, but the sentiment is PERFECTLY applied to MUSIC CRITICS as well.

“By Christ, when your life's specialty is forcing another morsel of over-glazed lamb shank down your oily, globular, over-opinionated gullet, when, of all the things in the world men are called to do…of all the vocations of love and adventure…of all the trials of the emotions and amongst all the voyages of spirit mankind can embark upon, when, given this whole universe of possible callings, the one YOU choose is to sit on your crapulent crack and LAZILY WHINE about SOMEONE ELSE’S cooking, that's when YOU KNOW, you are at the very ACME of the BFW shit heap.”

Three hundred-odd f*cken pages of self-wankery by Mr McIver amounts to precisely that – f*cking cry-baby whining that Metallia haven’t re-recorded “Master of Puppets” 27 times.

And I bet, if they had, he would be f*cking whining that have never ‘evolved’ or ‘moved forward’.

You can tell a f*cking obnoxious, pretentious tw@t of a Metallica fan immediately – they are ALWAYS the ones who try to ‘distinguish’ themselves by aligning with the “Master of Puppets”-crowd and badmouthing everything from the “Load”-era.

As though that f*cking means any-f*cking-thing.

Oh, you’re no ‘bandwagon jumper’, I get that.

But big f*cking deal. The world doesn’t care.

I have pretty much all the major releases by Metallica, except for “S&M”. And I like all of them in their own way. But whether you do, or anyone else does, means three-thirds of F*CK ALL to me. I think "S&M" is one of the most f*cking wanking ideas that pomposity ever devised. But who gives a $hit? I don't need to write a book about it.

See, I couldn’t give a $hit what some pompous, self-obsessed wanker fanboy thinks of “Reload”, song-by-f*cking-song.

It’s music – you like it or you don’t. There’s no f*cking PRECISE SCIENCE to it. The fact, Mr McIver, that you think “The Memory Remains” is a steaming pile of turd means exactly F*CK ALL outside of your own ar$ehole.

And the cause of so much of your irrelevant angst is that Metallica went in a different direction with 1991’s self-titled “Black” album, and, in your mind, have never returned.

To be fair, this is a view shared by many Metallica fanboys, who are united in their 17 years of incessant crying, whinging and f*cking whining about it.

Joel McIver, whose opinion Metallica should listen to. And who should try to strike poses like this in photo-shoots. According to Joel McIver. Because Joel McIver thinks Joel McIver is the bomb.

See, I went through all 300 pages of the book to try and find the part where Joel McIver joined Metallica, even briefly.

Maybe, I thought, he might have filled in just after original bassist Cliff Burton was killed? Nope.

Maybe he was in after bassist Jason Newsted quit, and the band had not yet hired Robert Trujillo? Nope.

Maybe the early, early days, before they hit it big? Nope.

Maybe he was like the keyboardist for Black Sabbath all those years, the guy who played live off-stage and nobody ever saw him but he was definitely playing along? Nope.

So I can only conclude that Joel f*cking McIver was NEVER IN METALLICA.


Here’s a UNIVERSAL TRUTH for all you fanboys out there. In fact, it could apply to being an obsessive wanker fanboy of anything, but we’ll stick to Metallica for a moment.



They don’t have to listen to you, or any of your f*cking cry-baby bitching, and when they inevitably DON’T – just shut the f*ck up and SUCK IT UP.


And all the crybabies who f*cking sooked about the band suing Napster, and took your pathetic “fanhood” somewhere else in a f*cking pi$$-ant little “protest” – NOBODY F*CKING CARES.

According to Wikipedia:

“As of September 2008, Metallica is the fourth highest-selling music artist since the SoundScan era began tracking sales on May 25, 1991, selling a total of 51,136,000 albums in the United States alone.”

To note, 1991 is when the self-titled “Black” album came out, so these figures don’t include “Master of Puppets” or “And Justice For All” or anything else from that era.

This, it seems that, for every whinging, whining f*cking fanboy who hated “Reload” there were a few others that liked it, hmm?

Not that it makes them right and the fanboys wrong, by any means. But at least THEY UNDERSTAND THAT.

They buy it, they like it, they listen to it.


And so for all the Metalli-nerds who staged silent protest and “left” the band behind over the Napster thing….51 million albums sold in the States alone says THEY DIDN’T MISS YOU.

So not GIVING A $HIT WHAT YOU THINK seems to be working out for them.

So go ahead, swap your Metallica shirts for Justin Timberlake shirts or something, protect your “integrity” or whatever the f*ck it is you think the world needs to care about. Create your own little tree-house clubs and F*CKING WHINE TO YOUR BITCHY LITTLE HEART’S CONTENT.

Just try and keep it from the rest of us, who don’t give a toss.

But Mr McIver tries to squirm out from under the “over-reacting fanboy” label by pompously anointing himself an authentic objective. In his foreword, he says:

“Metallica have made several decisions across the years – musically, strategically and otherwise – which I regard as errors, and have said so in plain terms…But there are no criticisms here which aren’t deserved.”

What the f*ck?

Who the f*ck cares what YOU classify as errors you pompous f*cktard?! I already established you’re not a member of Metallica, so your opinion on them is worth no more nor less than those of a million other morons. And whether your criticisms of them are deserved or not is not for YOU to decide ABOUT YOUR OWN CRITICISMS you pompous wanker.

Stryper, unintentionally the funniest metal band ever. But then, being a "christian" metal band and throwing bibles into the crowd WILL make Chov laugh. Just looking at this picture should make you want to pray. For F*CKING ARMAGGEDDON.

And, just a free tip for Mr McIver – nobody in the f*cking universe gives a $hit what F*CKEN FORMER MEMBERS OF STRYPER THINK ABOUT ANYTHING, let alone Metallica.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Wearing a lab coat does not make Bonzo the Clown a scientist....

There are some morons in this world who must feel it is their civic duty to spread general dip$hittery around when, in fact, they should instead be inserting their heads into their own ar$eholes where the only damage they can cause is to themselves and their sphincters.

Which would be pleasing to rest of us.

But instead, up they get to say stupid $hit from taller and taller soapboxes, and the sad thing is that, eventually, MORONS FLOCK TO THEM and the stupid $hit they were saying suddenly becomes EN VOGUE.

Stop and f*cken think about what you believe, people, BEFORE YOU START BELIEVING IT.

For starters, all you need to do is TAKE A F*CKEN LOOK AT THE PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU, saying the stupid $hit.

There's normally a great clue right there.

Al Gore is a f*cking dimwitted chump, the same fool who couldn't beat the f*cking CHIMPANZEE-SMART George Bush, and apparently HOOVERS UP F*CKING POWER LIKE AN 80s HEAVY METAL STAR SNORTING COKE...

"In the past year, Gore’s home burned through 213,210 kilowatt-hours (kWh) of electricity, enough to power 232 average American households for a month.

Since taking steps to make his home more environmentally-friendly last June, Gore devours an average of 17,768 kWh per month –1,638 kWh more energy per month than before the renovations – at a cost of $16,533. By comparison, the average American household consumes 11,040 kWh in an entire year, according to the Energy Information Administration."

And the sad part is, millions of f*ckwits all over the world decided that this guy is a f*cken genius and his movie of f*cking outrageous bull$hit was BELIEVABLE.

Al Gore, APPARENTLY A GENIUS OF ALL SCIENCE, proudly posing with a hurricane HE HELPED CREATE.

But why would Al Gore lie about something so serious, Chov?

"In the wake of becoming the most well-known global warming alarmist, Gore won an Oscar, a Grammy and the Nobel Peace Prize. In addition, Gore saw his personal wealth increase by an estimated $100 million thanks largely to speaking fees and investments related to global warming hysteria."

That's just great.

Al Gore's a moron, saying imbecilic things, you f*ckwits decide to believe him on the f*ckwitted basis that he's a f*cken FAILED POLITICIAN WITH NO SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE WHATSOEVER, he gets rich and I HAVE TO F*CKING SUFFER FOR IT.

And I have an even better example.

I mean, who would you turn to for valuable knowledge about your child's health - the World Health Organisation and lots of people with brains?


Nothing screams "BRAINS" like that tag-line eh?

And the message that hundreds of f*ckwits are now swallowing because Jenny McCarthy, the intellectual GIANT, said so?

Vaccines cause autism.

A picture of a vaccine research genius in the lab, examining mass-spectrometer readings.

No they f*cken don't and there's NEVER been ANY proof or even any PERSUASIVE INDEPENDENT EVIDENCE to say so.

But that doesn't stop MORONS from accepting it as FACT.

Here's a FACT. Measles KILLS. Here's another. Whooping Cough KILLS.

But that's ok for the anti-vaccine morons of the world, because they believe some spurious bull$hit and don't want to RISK their child contracting autism from a jab.

These same f*ckwits, I presume, have no problem putting their child into a car and driving down the street, despite the fact that EVEN IF THEIR POSITION WAS TRUE, THEY WOULD STILL BE MORE LIKELY TO HAVE THEIR CHILD HARMED OR KILLED IN A CAR ACCIDENT.

So don't feed me the 'avoiding risk' bull$hit.

The simply brilliant Professor Bob Park, of Maryland University, is succinct:

"On Thursday, three special masters demolished arguments that childhood vaccines, MMR in particular, cause autism. Brian Deer reported in the Sunday Times of London that Dr. Andrew Wakefield, the British physician who set off the vaccine panic, "manipulated and altered data" (also known as "lying") in a 1998 Lancet paper."


Why would a doctor lie about something so serious?

Well, it has recently been "...discovered that Wakefield had been in the pocket of a trial lawyers seeking to sue vaccine manufacturers, having accepted £435,643 in fees, plus £3,910 expenses for his "research."

And yet some people CONTINUE TO ignore such facts, ignore the exposing of LIES and decide to believe $hit BECAUSE A FAILED RICH POLITICIAN and a PLAYBOY BUNNY TOLD THEM TO.

And you f*cking wonder why I'm angry all the time.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Proof that two halfwits don't combine to form one full wit.

Regular readers of this blog will know that it's main purpose is to draw attention to the f*ckwits that inhabit our world and make things more difficult for the rest of us. In the vain hope they will change.

So when I observe f*ckwits doing the myriad of things that f*ckwits do, I rush to line up against them.

Sometimes I take sides because I care.

And other times I take sides just for $hits and giggles.

And then there are still other occasions when I can't take anybody's side because they're ALL F*CKWITS and EVERYBODY IS TALKING STUPID $HIT.

So let me introduce Benji "Pillows" Marshall, rugby league player for the Wests Tigers.

Benji is a weakling. If there is an opposite end in the Universe to the planet INDESTRUCTIBLE IV, then it is inside Benji Marshall's PEA-SIZED HEART. Benji bathes in SENSODYNE on medical advice due to his sensitive skin.

That Benji is overmatched playing rugby league against men is f*cking apparent and obvious to anyone with half a f*cking clue - unfortunately a demographic that doesn't include Benji himself. Benji exists in only two spheres of time/space - 'injured' or 'returning-from-injury'.

Since he made his debut in 2003, Benji has only managed to play a total of 80 games. Out of, oh, let's say 26 games a season (without finals or internationals)...carry the two...rounding...about 150.

Barely better than 1 game out of every 2.

Last season?


Season before that?


And before that?

A f*cking Herculean 11.

Like I said. Wimp.

And now he and his manager want to spend the off-season playing rugby union.

Can you f*cking imagine it?

A pic of Benji Marshall relaxing and reading the Rant Emporium after leaving a typical Wests Tigers training session after only 3 minutes. He pulled a hamstring setting out the cones for drills. Due back on the field in Round 15.

This guy is as tough as f*cking fairy floss and creaming soda. He can barely play every other game AS IT IS, without playing more games.

Although, what am I saying? He'll more than likely just be watching from the stands as his new rugby union club plays games without him anyway.

But he's f*cking complaining because NRL chief David Gallop won't let him go and play rugby and therefore experience the new and exciting cultural wonders of physiotherapists and treatment rooms outside the NRL, for a change.

And that's where Gallop is ALSO talking a great shovel-load of crap.

First off, other players have pi$$ed off to rugby and Gallop has all but picked them up from the airport when they came back and given them a fully-lubed handjob on the way home - think Mat Rogers and Wendell Sailor (not just a rugby traitor but a f*cking drug cheat as well).

Gallop is apparently some sort of ex-lawyer, but can't spell I-N-C-O-N-S-I-S-T-E-N-T.

Let the f*cken idiot go you great f*cking JESSY.

"For a player who has had his share of injuries to go and play rugby - if he got injured and could not play the first few months of the rugby league season, the fans would be really disappointed, and they'd say, 'Why would we let this happen?"' Gallop said.

What are you - his f*cken mummy?

OF COURSE he'll get injured - it's what Benji Marshall does BEST!

And so the "fans" should be F*CKING WELL USED TO THE DISAPPOINTMENT BY NOW! I bet coach Tim Sheens is.

Every time some prima donna over-rated wankstain league player goes all "show me da money" a crescendo of f*ckwits cry that league will die if they go, scrap the salary cap, pay them more blah blah f*cken blah.

Well it's still here, despite this annual WHORING THEMSELVES OUT ORGY conducted by off-contract league mungo-men. I'm still waiting for Kogarah to fall into the f*cking ocean and for league to become extinct now that Gasnier has pi$$ed off to France.

The problem of league's future is not in a prima donna f*cking off to French rugby, it's in the lack of resources targeted for developing youth - which can also be coined as "where are the f*cken prima donnas of tomorrow going to come from?"

But that's not what this rant is about.

The Chov is here to tell you that the 2009 NRL premiership will go ahead with a full complement of teams EVEN IF BENJI MARSHALL F*CKS OFF.

And I will even frame a market quoting good odds that the 2010 season WILL ALSO BE LARGELY UNAFFECTED.

I know, I know, I should have warned you to sit down before reading that as the shock of such an OUTRAGEOUS PREDICTION will be so F*CKING ENORMOUS it could cause CATACLYSMIC DESTRUCTION.

Or not.

And then Gallop also came up with this, frankly bizarre, piece of a-grade export-quality bull$hit to try and explain the situation:

"If I work for Coke, I'm not going to be allowed to go to Pepsi for a few months."

Well, actually, being a free labour market, if you were not employed or contracted to Coke you could GO AND FELLATE PEPSI BOTTLES IN THE MIDDLE OF MARTIN F*CKING PLACE if you f*cking well desired to do so.

But if this were Benji Marshall, he would leave Coke having only finished every second bottle, and he would arrive at Pepsi, get run over by a forklift on his way in on Day #1, spend 8 weeks recovering, and then on his first day back at work somebody would throw him a bottle and he would f*cking well DROP IT and smash it on his foot and be out for another 4 weeks and then, upon yet another return, he would dislocate his shoulder opening the front door.


And now THAT is what the fans want to see, Mr Gallop. So quit being part of the f*cking PROBLEM and start being part of the SOLUTION.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Fifty Posts!

An amazing milestone has been reached!

The Chov has roused himself just often enough to have reached the FIFTY BLOG-POST mark!

Fifty posts of irrelevant rubbish, read by about 12 people.

Go ahead, laugh, mock.

It's still more than YOU'VE done today.

I do, in fact, rule.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Chov's 2008 FUCKWIT of THE YEAR Award!

Ladies and gentlemen, Chov is back from vacation, where he quietly ushered in a new year and put in a few hours sorting out his notes for his future memoirs.

I know the hundreds of you here paid upwards of $1000 a table, which means you've all f*cken gone and pi$$ed KRudd's economic stimulus payments up the f*cken urinal wall - JUST LIKE HE WANTS YOU TO.

Yes, it is indeed time for us to officially kick off 2009 (in February - what can I say, I'm a f*cken lazy lazy man...) by putting a line under 2008 and presenting Chov's FUCKWIT OF THE YEAR Award.

And let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this award is one of the most sought after and hotly contested in the world.

You would have to think so, given the sheer number of fuckwits who hovered into Chov's Zone of Consciousness during 2008 and stayed just long enough to annoy the living shit out of him. And anyone else with an IQ over 15.

But deliberately angling for the Award in this sort of shameless fashion doesn't really garner points with the judge.

Who is me.

Although can I take a moment to say this has been the best red carpet parade ever, all you ladies look lovely, and thanks for not making this glittering ceremony a complete sausage-fest like last year.

But let's recap a great year for f*ckwitness in general.

I mean, it was the year of KRudd, Saint Kevin - Patron Saint of Working Families who gets in at 4am every morning to conjure up ways of taking fuckwittery to new heights in public office. He was on the shortlist for this award about 27 times, for christ's sake.

But he's not the winner, and THAT'S saying something impressive.

A short perusal through the archives of Chov's esteemed blog - the one, the only, the Rant Emporium! - is like taking a virtual tour through the dim, dark and terrifying depths of fuckwitaciousness. Go ahead, click a link at random and be amazed for yourself.

An honorable mention or two, before we get to the main event.

Who could forget the classic nimrods who stuck a f*cking monkey suit and a couple of raw steaks into an esky and called it "proof of Bigfoot"?

Sadly, Billy-Bob and Skeeter couldn't be here this evening, but we wish them all the best when they stick a pound of tuna into a bathtub and try to pass it off as the Loch Ness monster.

I was also impressed by the story that Prince Harry's stint in Afghanistan came to an abrupt end after news of his "secret" deployment leaked out. A big f*ckwit-thumbs-up to the British secret service on that one. James Bonds you ain't. Harry was then brought home "amid concerns for his safety".

Concerns for his safety? He was a serviceman in a F*CKING WAR ZONE.

Then there was fatty-Ronaldo, injured knee and all, "recuperating" back in Brazil by getting sprung with not one, not even TWO, BUT THREE transvestite prostitutes....and then trying to tell police that "...he was having some psychological problems linked to his injury." What, like understanding chicks don't have dicks?

I also enjoyed the farcical Commielympics, especially the opening ceremony and the revelation that the star of the show mimed her way through her performance, because the Comrade who really sang was too f*cking ugly to put on TV in front of the world. And the way in which the world's media and gubbmints lapped it all up.

Also a shout out to all the f*ckwits who thought the world would END when the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) was switched on. Especially the late f*ckwits who killed themselves IN ADVANCE to miss the rush.'d that work out for you?

I have to say the runner-up really distinguished himself, too.

Ben Stein, where are you? Ben?

Actually I'm being told Ben's not here this evening, he's busy sitting in his fridge trying to discover if the light stays on or not. He's currently up to week 13 of the experiment. So far - inconclusive.

Ben would have made it to the finals in discussions for this award for his movie alone - that would be the unintentionally hilarious "Expelled" - a craptacular documentary that asserts that evolution is wrong and that there is a giant conspiracy wherein teachers are forced to teach evolution and persecuted if they disagree.

But here's the quote that really put Ben over the top:

"When we just saw that man, I think it was Mr. Myers [biologist P.Z. Myers], talking about how great scientists were, I was thinking to myself the last time any of my relatives saw scientists telling them what to do they were telling them to go to the showers to get gassed … that was horrifying beyond words, and that’s where science — in my opinion, this is just an opinion — that’s where science leads you."

Yes, Ben, that's all that science does for mankind.

It reminds me of Life of Brian - "What has the Roman Empire ever done for us?"

You're a magnificent f*ckwit, Ben, but even you couldn't scale the heights to which our winner ascended.

See, happily, every year some nimrod goes the extra fuckwit mile and distinguishes him or herself from the herd in a special way that causes The Chov to want to perform the f*cking HUNDRED HAND SLAP on their f*cking CORTEX.

So, without further ado, Chov's 2008 FUCKWIT OF THE YEAR Award goes to...

....drumroll while envelope is opened...

FIFA President Sepp Blatter!!!

"I'm thrilled to receive this award! Wait....I feel an idea coming on! No, wait, it's just a turtle-head poking out of my ass...."

I have festered on this one for quite a while.

And his dumb ideas about "slavery" and widening the goals and other stupid shit aren't really what won him this award. Although they helped.

No, it really came down to his nonsensical involvement in the Cristiano Ronaldo-to-Real Madrid transfer saga.

Basically, the snivelling little turd Ronaldo wanted a move, and his snivelling little turd of an agent worked everything out behind the scenes, only for Man Utd (his current club) to produce an *ahem* F*CKING CONTRACT and stick that up everyone's ass.

And so Real Madrid, scum of the earth that they are, did everything they could to stir the pot and agitate for a release.

Everyone and his f*cking dog knew they were in the wrong. United held firm. End of story, you would think.

But then the King of F*ckwits, Sepp Blatter, waded in.

And made some outrageously f*ckwitted comments that Ronaldo was a slave being held against his will and should be allowed to leave for Real Madrid.

And dismissed United's complaints to FIFA that Real Madrid had acted unprofessionally, unethically and illegally in continuing to pursue their player.

And f*ckwit sycophants like Les Murray tried to defend him and his comments.

But not The Chov....oh no.

This is the same Sepp Blatter who is a f*cking MEMBER OF REAL MADRID FOOTBALL CLUB.


Who calls Real Madrid "more than a club" and has been a FAN since CHILDHOOD, when he said he used to ORGASM watching Alfredo di Stefano in the 1950s.

Okay maybe he didn't quite say that, but he did try to say he was only a fan of Real Madrid as a child.

But, as an adult football administrator, he changed a local Swiss club's constitution so that they would wear the same ALL-WHITE club strip as.....(do I need to even say it...?)

Sepp Blatter, The Chov's 2008 Sepp Blatter F*ckwit of the Year Award Winner, pretending to be Ferenc Puskas in the 1958 European Cup Final.

Well dress me in a pink tutu and call me Marilyn I think we may be onto something here...

Mr Blatter, you are a f*ckwit of the highest order. In fact, I am going to name my annual award after you.

Which means Sepp Blatter has been awarded The Chov's 2008 Sepp Blatter F*ckwit of the Year Award.

Bravo Sepp!!

Charles Haley is not gay. He just exposed his penis to a guy who is.

I'm going to assume that cricket season is nearly over, thank f*ck.

I can't actually tell for sure, as I haven't watched a single f*cking ball being bowled since the test matches finished, but the highlights for various useless matches seem to be interrupting the sports news less and less.

And if you are one of those people who think 20-20 cricket is the new "thing" and more exciting than watching a XXX JENNATHON while drinking RedBull, I can only imagine that your attention span is so f*cking limited you probably lose interest before you've even finished wanking.

Cricket season ending can only mean football season is coming up, which is awesomeness-in-a-f*cking-can.

Not just because the footy itself is entertaining, but because the mongs and booners who follow it as though it's Geezus hisself come out from their caves and from beneath their rocks and provide all sorts of low-intellect entertainment for me - not to mention the dumb things that the players and coaches themselves say and do.

Unfortunately, though, none of the Australian football codes contain a Charles Haley.

For those that do not know who Charles Haley is, his low-calorie Wikipedia entry will describe him as an NFL player for the San Francisco 49ers and Dallas Cowboys.

In reality he was a freakin' monster defensive player who, at his best, couldn't be stopped by any human means.

But that was on the field.

Off the field, Charles Haley was a confused, insane, borderline psychotic, and, as such, was endlessly entertaining in a way that few other athletes are.

I might have mentioned Charles Haley was insane.

What I meant was the dude was smear-yourself-in-your-own-poop F*CKEN CRAZY.

Almost literally.

He apparently excused himself from a team-meeting one time to take a crap.

But that's not the F*CKING CRAZY PART.

He took a crap, came back to the meeting, pulled down his pants to reveal he HADN'T WIPED, proceeded to WIPE in front of the meeting, and then THREW THE USED PAPER AT HIS COACH.

There's no truth to the rumours that somebody stole that paper after the meeting and sold it to the Detroit Lions as their playbook last season.

Big Charles also knew how to foster team-spirit in the locker room.

Here's an excerpt from one of his motivational speeches, as delivered to his own quarterback, Mr Steve Young, after what must have been (I'm guessing here) a particularly heart-breaking squeaker of a loss:

"I could have f*cking won that game in my sleep! You’re a motherf*cking pussy faggot quarterback! A motherf*cking pussy faggot quarterback with no balls!”

There are other kinds?

He also set a team-record at the Dallas Cowboys for "Most Homosexual Accusations - Single Season" with about 8,056 by Week 11, when they stopped tallying after concluding nobody would ever beat this record, ever.

They included this gem, delivered to a 10 year old ball-boy during training (ok maybe it was a fellow player but I like my version better):

"Are you from California? You must be a f*cking faggot then."

That's f*cking lightnin-quick logic there, my friends.

Of course, all this adds up to only one thing - Charles Haley: deep in the closet and in major denial.

We see examples of it all the time, but mostly in Republican Senators. Loudmouth homophobes who, it turns out, secretly love the sausage and are only loudmouth "homophobes" to try and divert attention away from their "wide stances" in airport restrooms, yes-Larry-Craig-I'm-looking-at-you...

Just like Charles Haley, who really loved his OWN sausage. And wanted others to love it too!

Astute people close to Charles might have been able to spot a potential "issue" at about this point in Charles's life:

"During another team meeting, Haley whispered to teammate Scott Case, “Scott, turn around, I gotta show you something… Scott, dammit, turn around! You need to see this!” When Case turned around, according to Pearlman, he “saw Haley’s erect penis stretched across the desk.”"

I guess it pays to advertise.

It's not widely known that Charles Haley's favourite karaoke song was Chuck Berry's "My Ding-a-ling"...performed complete with "live action" to go with the lyrics. Also, note the glove is only on Charles's "Action Hand".

But that's not all.

Like an addict who starts small and then needs a bigger and bigger 'rush', Charles quickly escalated his behaviour.

See, Charles loved his own wang SO MUCH he enjoyed whacking it out and...well.....whacking IT in front of others, especially in the LOCKER ROOM in FRONT OF HIS TEAM-MEATS. I mean, MATES. You know, the ones who were all "faggots", according to Charles.

The best part of this is that it wasn't just a playful flash here and there on the way to the showers or anything, either.

And it wasn't even just giving a humourous 'tea-bagging' to a team-mate while they were asleep and taking a photo of the event.

No, we're talking really going at it with gusto - a means to a very specific END as it were - in FRONT OF THE TEAM and SELECTED TEAM-MATES.

I thought the only people that did this were kids with down syndrome working at Big W.

From the book "Boys Will Be Boys", a behind-the-scenes expose of the Dallas Cowboys championship teams of the 1990s:

"Haley would stroll up to an unsuspecting teammate, whip out his phallus, and repeatedly stroke it in his face. Players initially laughed it off…"


Maybe it's my fault, but I can't get in this headspace. Maybe it's because this never quite happened in the UC Firebirds locker-room. I kept my Four Inches of Fury to myself, and (mostly) so did others.

Except maybe Czerny, but we got used to that over time.

But what are you going to do when a SIX FOOT FIVE INCH GIANT BLACK MAN waves his ERECT COCK in your face? And then starts "stroking" the thing, presumably while the business end is pointed AT YOU.


Say "Wait a minute everyone, let's see where he's going with this...."!!??

I like the use of the word "phallus" there, too. Let's just assume that the publisher objected to the phrase "Haley was hung like f*cken Mandingo" and suggested a list of euphemisms for Haley's personal elephant trunk.

"Charles used to beat off in meetings while talking graphically about other players’ wives. It got to the point of ejaculation."

Err..well why ELSE would you be wanking, exactly? Other than to get to that point?

"Haley refused to stop. He would jerk off in the locker room, in the trainer’s room. He’d wrap his hand around his penis, turn toward a Joe Montana or John Taylor, and bellow, ‘You know you wanna suck this!’"

Now some of you might be thinking, well, where's the coach in all this? I mean, isn't the coach supposed to instil some discipline here, instead of dicksipline?

Allow me to quote coach Barry Switzer, arriving at Cowboys HQ to begin his tenure as head coach in Dallas:

"Where the hell is Charles Haley? I’m mad at you! I heard you flicked your dick at everybody, and you didn’t do it to me? What am I, chopped liver?"

I couldn't find an exact quote of Charles's reply, but I think it went something like this:

"Yeeaah, coach, now you talkin' bitch!

(with great effort, heaves out 14 inch anaconda-ish monstrosity and brandishes it with two hands)

Yeah!! Look at my dick muthaf*ckah! Yeah, muthaf*ckah, c'mon LOOK AT IT! Wanch yo coffee BLACK NOW MUTHAF*CKAH!? CHECKIT!! YEAH!!

(starts manipulating himself rhythymically)

................hey waitaminnit....


Monday, February 9, 2009

Just when I thought 2009 might be different...

I have just read the stupidest sentence ever written.

A sentence so vacuous, so devoid of anything approaching independent, intelligent thought that the following events happened simultaneously and instantly:

* A corpuscle in my left eyeball exploded, shouting "I REGRET NOTHING!!!";
* My IQ dropped 87 points momentarily, meaning I spent 18 seconds seriously considering hip-hop to be a valid form of music;
* An overwhelming urge to smash someone (probably Michael Clarke) to death with a cricket-bat came over me and, finally
* Coffee blew out of my nose and, like the beautiful flare of a comet, angrily arced through the air and slallopped (that is word now, I just made it up) onto my monitor screen.

And I have some f*cking outrageous nimrod named Tom Frame to thank for this wanton slalloppping of pixels.

Tom is a "Professor of Theology", a term which means the same thing as "King of F*ckwits" because theology is about as f*cking useful to the world and life in general as the South Sydney Rabbitohs.

A graduate from f*cking "David Beckhamology 101" provides greater insight and clarity to global intellectual discourse than a f*cking billion theologians.

This is because theology is the made-up f*cking study of ridiculous f*cking made up elements of a f*cking made-up God and/or gods.

How does this work?

Well, the celibate former-Nazi-sympathiser and current child-molester-apologist Pope sits around with a bunch of cardinals, also celibate (and who may or may not be kiddy fiddlers themselves, it's hard to tell - this is the Catholic Church after all). They discuss irrelevant passages from a made-up book of f*cken fairy stories, the Bible; specifically, (for example), whether or not the fact that Onan having a right good flog of his log and splattering his splooge into the dry dust on the ground should be interpreted as God's will that no f*cking Catholics can wear a condom or not.

I love this God. Apparently all knowing and all powerful, but can't be F*CKED MAKING HIS INSTRUCTIONS CLEAR.

Like, for instance, having Onan come down from on high (now THAT'S good punnery!) and say "F*cken wow! I just saw God, man, and he said I'm going to go f*cking well BLIND if I keep wanking, and by the way he also clearly said that any of you f*ckers who covers his wang with sheep intestine before having a horizontal hava nagila - well, you're f*cked too."

Gotta love a God who f*cks with people by being deliberately vague.

So what we get instead of clarity from a REAL SOURCE is a whole bunch of f*cking pompous, useless f*cktards discussing irrelevant $hit from a made-up fairy-tale and calling it THEOLOGY.

Trying to "make sense" of f*cking unfathomable "rules" that come from some f*cking invisible, made-up bearded guy in the sky.

That's just f*cking great.

And then Tom Frame, who is a "Professor" of this $hit in the same way I am a "Professor" of "Wiping My Own Ar$e" comes along and writes a book and an extract from that book gets published in a newspaper and sets back human enlightenment 50,000 f*cking years because people stop to read this $hit. And believe it, or think it has a "point".

Enter the Chov to strike a blow against f*ckwitness and make the world a better place in a more direct and EFFECTIVE way than f*cken PRAYER.

The topic is evolution. Up against, as it usually is, the idea that a f*cking invisible made-up f*cking bearded guy in the sky just f*cking closed his eyes and WISHED everything up.

And see, theologians know just how f*cking stupid their idea looks when it is stacked up against science like that.

So they try to f*cking weasel out of it by trying to co-opt bits of science INTO their f*cking stupid arguments.

That is, they admit that maybe God didn't just create the world in seven days, and maybe he didn't create everything at once (so Jebus wasn't preaching from the Mount sitting on top of a F*CKING BRONTOSAURUS), and maybe things did kind of evolve - but it was GOD that made them EVOLVE, see?

This is called a f*cking whiny, pussy, sly, EACH-WAY BET.

Tom Frame says it this way: "Evolutionary theory requires creation to be understood as a continuous process rather than an isolated act in the distant past. In this view, God creates in and through natural processes."

No, he f*cking well doesn't. Evolution kicks your f*cking "God Hypothesis" in the f*cking NUTS and tells him to f*ck off to the FICTION SECTION. There is NO ROOM for GOD in evolution. Why? Because evolution observes FACTS in the NATURAL WORLD and applies them, and your idea of GOD f*cking checking back in every now and then to add another pinch of sugar is F*CKING BULL$HIT that can't be OBSERVED. So DON'T F*CKING MASH THEM TOGETHER.

To do so is to try and compare apples with f*cking babboon-testicles.

See, science, on the one hand, DEMANDS FACTS.

If you want to open your f*cking yap, and say something f*cking outrageous like "Wanking makes you blind!" then science says "Shut the f*ck up and PROVE IT."

Theology says "Is that you, Onan?"

And if you CANNOT prove it, (I would love to read the abstract for that study though) then science says "f*ck off, I'm busy".

But if you CAN, then a hundred scientists IMMEDIATELY start trying to replicate your experiement to discredit you. (What can I say, scientists can be a bitchy bunch)

If they get the same results, voila, the concept you voiced is accepted, more data is collated, more questions are asked and new research is spawned - and the idea is advanced along the entire process.

But if they catch you out, F*CKEN BLAMMO you get to start again. Which is where all the "cold fusion" loons are at right about now. They play Monopoly and NEVER PASS GO, those morons.

So, see, Scientific Method has a BUILT-IN ANTI-BULLSHIT DETECTOR.

Evolution has been blasted at for a long time. And it REMAINS the best possible explanation, because it gets improved every time it gets challenged and survives. FACTS tend to have that effect.

Theology, on the other hand, is based in religion, which treats FACTS like f*cking Paris Hilton treats underpants on a night out - to be f*cking TOSSED AWAY AT THE EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY.

Here's an example of this f*cking weaselly approach, as adopted by Tom Frame:

"I share the conviction of Simon Conway Morris, Professor of Evolutionary Palaeontology at the University of Cambridge: nature controls the course of evolution but convergence, implying a higher purpose, controls nature."

You see what f*cking Tom tried to do there? He tried to legitimise his f*ckwit fairy-tale of the world by co-opting science, which is REAL. He is the fat ugly girl in Year 10 trying to sit with the hot chicks and hoping nobody will notice.


"Nature controls the course of evolution" is a statement built on years and years and years of scientific study; of thousands of hours documenting the fossil record, of observing mutations; of one LIFETIME of a motherf*cking bona-fide GENIUS named Charles Darwin, who conceptualised it and spent every f*cking waking hour BACKING IT UP and inviting contemporaries and colleagues to CHALLENGE him to REFINE and IMPROVE the facts underpinning his words.

"...but convergence, implying a higher purpose, controls nature". Note the use of the word "IMPLYING", meaning, no factual or evidentiary link, just two things I'd like to join up but F*CKING CAN'T BECAUSE IT WOULD REQUIRE FACTS.

I use the words of Jerry Coyne to respond:

"...We recognize convergences because unrelated species evolve similar traits. In other words, the traits appear in more than one species.

But sophisticated, self-aware intelligence is a singleton: it evolved just once, in a human ancestor. (Octopi and dolphins are also smart, but they do not have the stuff to reflect on their origins.)

In contrast, eyes have evolved independently forty times, and white color in Arctic animals appeared several times.

It is hard to make a convincing case for the evolutionary inevitability of a feature that arose only once. The elephant's trunk, a complex and sophisticated adaptation (it has over forty thousand muscles!), is also an evolutionary singleton.

Yet you do not hear scientists arguing that evolution would inevitably fill the "elephant niche."

See, if elephants got to "evolve' all over again, maybe they might evolve a 14 foot long COCK with a mouth on the end of it instead.

So f*ck "convergence". Two different things evolving in parallel is just that, two things evolving in parallel. It's not f*cking EVIDENCE of ANYTHING. It doesn't IMPLY f*cking ANYTHING. And if it DID, SCIENCE would f*cking well attack it like a rabid dog and try to find out exactly WHAT it IMPLIES. Because that's what science does.

Magic woo-hoo bull$hit, on the other hand, doesn't want answers, they just want to IMPLY that GOD made it all, and FACTS get in the f*cken way.

Tom Frame continues: "Conway has argued evolution is not arbitrary and if life were to evolve again, it would look very much as it does now."

Which just shows that f*cking Conway doesn't even understand what the f*ck evolution is.

Chov argues that if life were to evolve again, female boobs would become 3 times larger and that f*ckwits like conway and Tom Frame would LOSE THE F*CKING EVOLUTIONARY BATTLE AT THE AMOEBA STAGE. But that is wishful thinking, NOT FACT. Spot the difference?

The physicist Freeman Dyson said: "The more I examine the universe and study the details of its architecture … the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense knew we were coming."

Freeman Dyson was a f*cken FAIRY, and the "evidence" he speaks of is NOT F*CKING EVIDENCE OF ANYTHING.

If it WERE, I wouldn't be blogging and ranting against the ridiculous concept of an all-powerful BUT IMPOSSIBLE TO OBSERVE OR CONTACT f*cking invisible bearded guy in the sky would I?

All that Freeman Dyson is saying is "The more I study the f*cking Universe and everything in it, the more I discover that I'm too f*cking stupid to explain everything. Rather than admit this, I decide to simply f*cking invoke some greater being or purpose to explain everything."

Science says NO. Just because YOU can't f*cking explain something, it doesn't mean there is NO explanation.

This is the most crucial part of skepticism and critical thinking.

Just because YOU or I can't figure something out, it doesn't mean that there is NO solution.

See, the critical thinker / scientist looks at the Universe, and without being able to understand how it came to be, simply shrugs and believes that, someday, someone will figure it out. And goes off to study what he can in the meantime, in the hope of progressing human thought toward that end-point.

The loony believer in magicky bull$hit looks at the Universe, and gleefully points out that science is currently unable to understand how it came to be, so therefore they are perfectly entitled to substitute a f*cking fairy story to explain it instead. Cue: Invisble bearded guy in the sky.

Only a f*cken theology major could somehow believe these two approaches are INTELLECTUALLY EQUAL.

Tom Frame goes on: "But as the 2006 Templeton Prize winner John Barrow (a scientist) remarked, religious conceptions of the universe "are not the whole truth, but this does not stop them being part of the truth".

Yes, it f*cking well does. Because the truth is made up of FACTS. And where religious conceptions lack FACT, they DON'T F*CKING WELL BELONG. Get OUT you FAT MOLL, the TRUTH doesn't want you!

Lawrence Krauss is way smarter than me, so I'll let him speak.
"...Religion is simply irrelevant to science, and whether or not science contradicts religion may be of interest to theologians but it simply doesn't matter to scientists. What matters are the important questions science is dealing with, from the origin and future of the universe to the origin and future of life.

All this talk about science and religion gives the wrong impression, as it suggests reconciling them or not reconciling them is a big issue... it isn't. As I once put it to theologians at a meeting at the Vatican: theologians have to listen to scientists, because if they want to try to create a consistent theology...they at least need to know how the world works. But scientists don't have to listen to theologians, because it has no effect whatsoever on the scientific process."


It doesn't matter to scientists studying cancer cells, or particle theory, or cloning, or genetic modification, or viruses, or complex proteins etc etc whether or not ESAU WAS HIS F*CKING BROTHER'S KEEPER OR NOT. Because the science of what they do is interested ONLY IN FACT.

Without FACTS, science must drive on in search of them. With FACTS, science gains the fuel to drive on further.

But just in case you were thinking that Tom Frame was a reasonable fellow, trying to construct logical and considered points, and Chov is being a bit mean for going medieval on his ass, well Tom can't help but expose himself as the secretly-rabid, vacant-eyed, f*cking clueless God-botherer he really is:

"The problem I face is weariness with science-based dialogue partners like Richard Dawkins...He won't take his depiction of Darwinism to logical conclusions. A dedicated Darwinian would welcome imperialism, genocide, mass deportation, ethnic cleansing, eugenics, euthanasia, forced sterilisations and infanticide. Publicly, he advocates none of them."

This is a f*cken pathetic straw-man argument. That is, build up a straw-man, call it your opponent's argument and blow it down. Except that ISN'T your opponent's argument, and ANYONE WITH A BRAIN who has read Dawkins will know it.

Tom Frame makes no f*cking coherent case for WHY a Darwinist must "welcome" genocide. Because there ISN'T a f*cking logical coherent argument for it. It's a f*cking outrageously stupid attempt to throw discredit at something that bothers him, like a chimp throws $hit.

"Sustained consideration of Darwinian theory has raised a number of new questions for me. When does design become domination? Why did God create human beings as objects of divine favour, "a little lower than angels" (Psalm 8, verse 5), lay a good life out before them in which they could live in harmony with the creator and other creatures, and then include within them the capacity, even propensity, to behave otherwise?"

What the f*ck are you talking about?

You need to go back and PROVE that God created A F*CKING SINGLE THING first, THEN you get to ask the other questions. A sustained consideration of Darwin should have at least given you some appreciation that he was a lot further along the road to factual basis than you are.

Tom Frame is working to a dramatic crescendo of f*ckwittery.

"I...cannot make sense of my life in this world without believing in God and providence."

Then that is YOUR problem, not science's. The critical thinker looks for sense and meaning in FACT. Your ilk can't accept this and can't reconcile it with invisible ghost dude in the sky, so you dismiss fact for fantasy, and then look at FACTS as they THEY are wrong.

"Crudely naturalistic science leaves no room for poetic truth, refuses to honour any spiritual element in physical things and cannot accept the existence of a human soul."

Why should it? There is no evidence for a soul. Until there is, science says "f*ck off" and hangs out the "BUSY" sign. Tom is upset because he can't write a f*cking POEM about the world if he knows the SCIENCE behind it.

I suppose he likes to write POEMS about how beautiful it is to watch children die when stem-cell reasearch could eventually save their lives. But that's f*cking SCIENCE isn't it, and it's preferable to believe in some sort of f*cking mystical BULL$HIT instead, that somehow their SOULS will be free and they'll live in happy fairy land or some such $hit.

F*ckwit. This is the sort of f*ckwit who likes to pretend that all the beautiful things mean there is a God, and that science is cold and "crude" because it eliminates the "beauty" he wants to see.

To which the esteemed Sir David Attenborough replies:

"...They [creationists] always mean beautiful things like hummingbirds. I always reply by saying that I think of a little child in east Africa with a worm burrowing through his eyeball. The worm cannot live in any other way, except by burrowing through eyeballs. I find that hard to reconcile with the notion of a divine and benevolent creator."

Well that's two of us, Richard, but f*cking Tom here could write a f*cking POEM about it. Explain to me the F*CKING SPIRITUAL POETIC ELEMENT of that worm, Tom, you f*cken idiot.

And then it comes. The Grand Finale of Tom's F*ckwit Concerto.

"Such science is also inhibited from asking whether life has any meaning, as this would require stepping outside the processes that led its practitioners to the point of questioning."

Yes, indeed.

Those processes that include, PROOF, EXAMINATION and RE-EXAMINATION OF FACT and robust CHALLENGING OF IDEAS AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. Those "processes" that have f*cking emerged over time from a CRUCIBLE that values FACT over BULL$HIT. Those f*cking "processes" that have given us everything around us from the ability to harness power from the world around us to saving lives by placing one man's heart inside another's body. Those f*cking "processes" that evolved in ruthless fashion, eliminating every ounce of BULL$HIT that sought to creep in, that bound themselves to accept every result, now matter how baffling, if it was PROVED.


Because Tom has to have some f*cken MEANING to his life. He has to feel all warm and fuzzy about himself and why we're all here. And he can't do that without a big f*cken made-up invisible man in the sky. Because he can't accept that 2 + 2 must equal 4, it has to be able to equal FIVE in his f*cken peabrain, or else HE has difficulty enjoying SUNSETS and WALKS ON THE BEACH, for f*ck's sake.