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.

And still MISS THE F*CKEN POINT BY EIGHTEEN MILES.

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....

How.

The.

F*ck.

Did.

That.

Happen?

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 chov54@bigpond.com

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

Happy Birthday to Me. Again.

The Chov celebrating a whopping 35 angry orbits today!!

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.

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…"

WHAT!?

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.

Laugh!?!?!

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....

WHATCHOO DOIN' LOOKIN' AT MY DICK MUTHAF*CKA??!!! WHATCHOO, SOME SORT OF F*CKIN FAGGOT!?"

Merry Chovmas!

YOU go sit on his lap and ask him for a pony.....

Introducing...The Golden Trio!!!

The Chov is a member of a secret society called "The Golden Trio" and whilst you may not have previously known this, you can peruse some of their wise meanderings over at:

http://goldentriumvirate.blogspot.com/

Consider this a shameless plug for that blog, and at the same time a brief introduction of the heroes of the day, the geniuses behind the curtain, the esteemed authors of this crazy-genius blog, The Golden Trio Pontification Sanctum...

Yes, the Golden Trio themselves.

King Cracka
This future leader of the world was born defending the Alamo in 1836 but shot to prominence when, during Year 8 lab work, he discovered the presence of Crackesium IV, which, in turn, led scholars to develop the first, primitive, forms of pornography - an initiative which has gone on to save thousands of lives around the world.

Inspired after listening to a world-record 1,366,211 straight hours of country music at his home in Soda Springs, Idaho, Crack eventually embarked upon countless quixotic attempts to synthesise the world's first D-ribitol-5-phosphate cytidylyltransferase. This chemical is used for flavour in many man-made compounds like:

* breast-milk;
* semen;
* lemon-lime cordial, and
* holy water.

After writing the Third Book of Enoch in 1972, Cracka became the first man to kayak every river and tributary in Romania, whose capital is Rome, making him a national hero. To this day, Crack-Day is a national holiday in all parts of the country and is marked by a jazz and blues festival and eating smoked pork without using one's hands.

In 1809 he entered the Académie des Beaux-Arts, Paris, and in 1815 visited Italy and Sicily, where he suggested improvements to pasta-making traditions in existence at the time, a controversial decision which almost saw him excommunicated from the Church of Scientology, which he founded in about 1100 BC.

In 1617 he went to Nubia, and while there he made incredibly detailed sketches, drawings and measurements of all the genitalia of the more important members of that country.

After retiring in 2002, he made one last comeback to the ring to beat Muhammad Ali with a KO in the 3rd round.

Today the Mayor of Mac Fields (wrestling moniker: The Legend of the Bedroom) can often be found in his rose-garden or at his keyboard, where he splits time between designing a fully functional inter-galactic cannon (which will one day be used to propel his political enemies into outer-space); writing short, forgettable (but successful) pop songs for the likes of Clive Griffin, Pokemon and the Australian Cricket Team, and posting to this blog when the mood takes him.

Maca
Maca was a 19th century Major League Baseball player who pitched for three different teams in his five season career that lasted from 1884 to 1888, and he finally arrived on Earth in 1980 when his spaceship crashed here whilst on route to invade the Iain Tomlin School of Music and slaughter all the inhabitants thereof. Who had displeased him in some way, which has not yet been agreed on by scientists.

In 1940 he attempted to form a syndicated chain of franchise brothels called "McDonald's", which he hoped would serve a footlong hotdog called the "Big Mick", but the sour cream topping proved a disaster with customers and he eventually sold the name to Ray Kroc in 1954 for $3 and a washed-up greyhound. He shot and killed the greyhound in 2003, during an argument over a game of bocce, apparently unaware that it would some day grow up to become Mickey Mouse and earn millions upon millions of dollars.

In his spare time he trained to become an ambulance driver, though the Australo-Tasmanio War of 1245 ended before he ever saw action. Between the end of the war and the early 1950s he tried his hand at a number of trades including paper-cup salesman, stunt-penis, and working at a Qatari radio station as a financial analyst. A failed sex-change operation in the spring of 2008 didn't deter Maca from being voted Gay Porn's Man of the Century at a glittering awards ceremony that year, the cost of which was estimated at some $6 billion US and led to a brief outbreak of cholera.

A short and incomplete list of some women that Maca has ruined for other men:
* Miley Cyrus
* Condoleeza Rice
* Joan Kirner
* Miley Cyrus
* Miley Cyrus
* Senator Penny Wong
* Miley Cyrus
* Todd Carney
* Miley Cyrus

Not much was heard from Maca after he wrote, produced and starred in that great Broadway play "Livin' in Sorgues and Lovin' It", although after his death the theme-song (a duet with Celine Dion) was covered by Human Nature and led to renewed interest in his back-catalogue, particularly in Portugal where his song "Facial Piercing Can Suck A Fart Out Of My Ar$e" was made the national anthem in 1960.

The Chov
The Chov first garnered attention when he invented the United Nations in 1066 AD. Seeing as nothing else of any interest or consequence happened that year, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Chemistry for his daring work.

Some other tops things that The Chov has invented include:
* pancakes
* gravity
* The Roman Empire
* the true value of Pi
* the concept of packing hundreds of crazy clowns into tiny cars.

Never one to rest on his laurels, The Chov also founded the city-state of Atlantis during one of his humanitarian trips to Africasia, where the original Atlantis was located. Monuments to his brilliantosity could probably still be seen there today, but the last place The Chov remembers leaving Atlantis was in his jeans pocket before he threw the denims in the wash basket.

After starting, and winning, WWII, The Chov built the Amazon River with his bare hands in 1832. During construction work, which caused the death of some 1,000,000 innocent people, he met his future bride, Warrior Queen Samazon on the set of now infamous porn film "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang". Although he was nominated for 17 Academy Awards for his own performance, the film shocked critics and was eventually banned in 113 countries.

Despite only making a handful of appearances during the 1850 English cricket season, he topped the goal-scoring charts and lived in a palace in Kiev for 14 weeks to win a bet.

He was then forced to retire from politics in disgrace after childhood friend Zimbu the African Elephant exposed endemic corruption during the extremely suspicious local council election results of 1990 in Panagarh, a small town in India, located in the Kanksa police station of the Durgapur subdivision in the Bardhaman District of West Bengal.
The Chov is now a crack-commando in the secretive Polish Ninja Commando Squad and writes hard-core porn scripts for midgets.

Danger: It's All Relative

"Tastes like chicken!"

According to ananova this (probably barely literate) daredevil from a nondescript village somewhere in China called Wangzhuang (translation: The People's Superior Bird's Nest Stadium Apartments) reckons he has "...been eating live snakes for 10 years."

Far out.

And it started, as ALL THESE SORTS OF THINGS DO, with a DRUNKEN BET BETWEEN MATES.

"He started by eating one to win a bet with friends..."

Unfortunately the bet has long since been paid out when his neighbour did, as promised, present him with approximately 11,000 rolls of toilet paper he had been hoarding beneath his house. Despite this, crazy snake eating man just decided to continue because he likes the taste of F*CKING DEATH ADDER.

"From then on I became addicted to eating live snakes," he said. His mother must be proud.

Interestingly he likes to wash down a COBRA F*CKEN SANDWICH with, of course, beer. (What else?)

Perhaps this is so the snake, which let's not forget is still ALIVE during the process, gets trolleyed on booze down in his gut and doesn't BITE THE LIVING F*CK out of his upper intestine. And f*cking Mylanta is NOT going to fix that, thanks very much.

"It's a bit smelly, but they're very delicious," he exclaimed - although watching villagers said the sight gave them goosebumps and two vomited at the scene. (And were probably arrested for 'unauthorised digestive expulsion' and beaten badly). One strange fellow hovering around at the back, though, admitted to being "strangely aroused" during the performance.

Apparently Martha Stewart chimed in with a tip to beat the "smell" whilst eating live snakes:

"STOP F*CKING EATING THE AR$EHOLES YOU IDIOT."

Wen (that's his name) says his son is now following his lead and has eaten eight live snakes this year. Dinner time must be a real f*cken hoot in this house. Wen Junior is the only kid in his school that NOBODY WANTS TO SWAP LUNCHES WITH. And THIS is in a country that enjoys eating the ERECT PENISES of TIGERS.

But Wang Tianming, a doctor specialising in digestion at a local hospital, said Wen could suffer nerve problems and risked infection from parasites.

This is why Wang is a digestion doctor not a f*cken wildlife expert, because if he thinks getting a bit nervous and needing a smoke to calm down and maybe getting a few ticks or worms is the WORST outcome in this situation he WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION to the part where this man said he was EATING LIVE F*CKING SNAKES for crying out loud.

But you know what, here's a bigger warning for Crazy Wen, and anybody else out there who wants to chow down on "snakes".

HERE is another guy who filled his throat with live specimens of hot, thick, 'snake' for 30 odd years....and we all know how THAT turned out....

"POSITIVE: Sometimes it's not the best thing you can be."

Great Geniuses of the Internet: A Case Study

Chov-Blog Groupies, let's welcome to the stage, this week's winner, Mr "Sergey of Australia"!

But, first, some filler.

Recently, some f*ckwit saw a photo on Google Maps with a lens flare or some other boring f*cken photographic effect, and immediately concluded it was genuine bona-fide evidence of UFOs.

As you do.

The Daily Rag, always on the lookout for stupid $hit to print, ran it immediately at http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,24785075-5001021,00.html
and gave the work experience kid who saw it on the Reuters wire a pay-rise and a new office.

The title of the story is "Does this Google Map snap show a UFO over Sydney?"

Of course the correct and standard response is "Of course not you f*cking dimwits" and we're done here.

But that's where the "Comments" section comes in, to save the day and inject some peerless comedy into an otherwise nondescript event.

You know comments sections. They make me weep for joy at their sheer beauty, for without them we would never experience the sheer ecstasy of reading the inane ramblings of nimrods - long may they reign.

Here, in completely unaltered, smoothly-shaved virgin glory, is Sergey's offering to the world, produced (as far as I can tell) when Sergey took a break from smearing faeces on himself and the walls and headbutted the keyboard with his face, producing a string of text he was satisfied accurately represented his visions and the last conversation he had with Ahura Mazda (conducted during ad breaks for the Australian Idol Finale, a program Sergey thought was a disturbing and hard-hitting documentary).

* "Why everytime we see the evidence of "UFO" everyone gets impressed so much?"

It's not evidence, moron. It could be snot on the f*cken camera lens for all you know. And nobody seemed all that impressed, except for YOU. Sergey took all his clothes off and rubbed peanut butter in his ar$e crack he was so excited.

* "the contact with earth is happening for thousands and thousands of years. Even if YOU don't beleive in what have not yet seen for your own eyes, that's fine... "

I don't believe what I have not yet seen? It's kind of like he attempted a double-negative, but f*cked even THAT up so badly it became a very DEEP philosophical musing.

* "But there billions of other planets in the universe and billions types of different civilizations..."

Sergey's address is 1 Bonehead Place, CRAZYTOWN. He has a sign out the front, "ACHTUNG! NO GRAMMATICAL CONJUNCTIONS NO PLEASE, THEY MAKE ME BRANE HURT YES MUCH BILLIONS".

* "some of them obviously do have a technology that we unfortunately cannot yet even imagine properly..."

Translation: They have anal-probes so advanced we can't even imagine them. But Sergey draws them on the walls of bus-shelters whenever he can because he's trying to educate us.

* "Than smarter you are than easier for you to understand it."

This is simply The Single Greatest Sentence Ever Typed.

* "w hat you call "UFO" will obviously not try to get in contact with the monkey or people who live in their own 10meter world.. what would be the point?"
Posted by: Sergey of Australia 3:05pm today

We call them UFOs, but Sergey calls them by their first names - Justin, Nigel and "Probey".

And so this Opus Magnifico comes to a premature end, just when it seemed Sergey's genius was just getting fired up and he could have revealed so much more to us, like why the Voices tell him to drop his pants and start manipulating himself on the train every morning.

Brilliant.

Our new Spider Overlords are here. Obey them or die.

Sweet merciful titty-f*cking Christ.

Mutant spiders from f*cking Mars have arrived on Earth. And they are going to kill us all. It's too late to repent, it's all over people.

Some grandpa from Cairns, taking a break from writing angry letters to the local Bowling Club, wandered out into his back garden (to collect the large number of tennis-balls hit there by neighbourhood kids, which he refuses to return) and came across the F*cking Unholy Motherf*cking Geezus of All Spiders.

Killing and eating what was a f*cking ostrich but has been sucked so dry is now only the size of a finch.

Mmm, tastes like chicken.

What sort of f*cking web snags a f*cken BIRD for f*ck's sake?

The web of the SPIDER of F*CKING ABBADDON, THAT'S WHAT. Made out of sticky silk and strengthened with thousands of DEVOURED SOULS.

Disney rejected the heartwarming story of Billy Birdy and his spider friend, Fangy, and their zany adventures. They thought it was "too gay".

Nobody can tell me, ever again, that spiders perform a useful service in nature, because here is an unholy ABOMINATION and eight-legged FREAK injecting about 14 litres of VENOM into a bird, whilst I am still bitten by f*cken mosquitoes in the world. With motherf*ckers like THIS why are there ANY insects left?

Noah, the stupid old bearded dickhead, could have certainly left two of these hideous mutants OFF THE F*CKEN BOAT, and CHOV WOULDN'T HAVE COMPLAINED.

Daddy, what's happening to Twittles? I don't think that spider is really "whispering in his ear" at all, like Mummy said. Is he ever going to sing his happy morning song again? Is he?? Is he???

Begone o SPIDEROUS MOTHERF*CKINGUS GIGANTICUS. Back to the f*cking FIERY PITS OF HELL FROM WHENCE YE CAME!

The ONLY good spider.

***ADDITION****
For the multitude of anal-retentives who emailed The Chov, yes I realise that the 'trick' is making the spider appear larger than it really is, and yes it is all in the camera angle and proximity of the camera to the HIDEOUS PROFANE BEAST, and also that the finch is really not that big a bird.

But that would make for a pretty lame f*cken blog post. Idiots.

Plus I just really really really f*cken hate spiders. So kiss my hairy wrinkly lolly-bag.

The Chov - abusing his fans since 2008, because they love it.

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, 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 "HotBitchWivesWhoLoveToBang.com".

Blame the pimple-faced McDonald's kid.

Why didn't *I* think of that!?

Now I don't know the truth of how the pics of the two all beef patties got onto the world wide web - I really don't.

And I can't verify if any of the pics contained a glimpse of "special sauce".

And I'm not saying that Tina isn't perhaps a "healthy choice" and "tick-approved" herself - or that she isn't "steamin' hot" like the coffee.

I just want to know if Phil throws away the pickles?

And if his favourite menu item is the "McDipper"?

And were they looking to "eat-in" or were they looking for some hot "take-away" action?

And did McDonald's warn them there might be traces of "nuts" in their product?

And were the "buns" artificially sweetened?

And was the "beef" really 100% local produce?

So many questions, so few answers.

Special Annnouncement: New Australian National Anthem!

This is a special announcement.

When we get around to voting for the Official God-King of Australia, an election which I shall surely win, I have already decided what my first action as the new ruler shall be.

It came to me some time ago, but the idea really crystallised last night.

You see, official partner of the Chov, known as Queen Samazon the Unforgiving, has given your humble narrator the vague task of selecting wedding music for the upcoming nuptials.

So Chov, starting at "A" for "AC/DC", started through his back catalogue of music in the hopes of selecting suitable and appropriate music for the day.

A quick glance at Chov's notepad of possible tunes after 10 or so minutes reveals that AC/DC could well be the wedding band and save us all the trouble. What says "I love you" better than the soothing tones of "Hell's Bells"? It even contains the peal of bells, surely a wedding-like soundtrack if ever there was one? And if the guests aren't going to dance to "Thunderstruck" then bugger the lot of 'em - they wouldn't know a toe-tapping good time show-tune if it bit them on the wazoo.

And then, in a moment of near-blinding clarity - an epiphany of sorts - an idea so f*cktastically brilliant seized me that I had to open myself a beer just to calm myself down and question myself as to whether it actually happened.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to announce Australia's new national anthem when Chov becomes God-King:

For Those About To Rock.

Released: 1981
Written by Young/Young/Johnson
Track length 5:44

This could well be the Greatest Song Ever Written and, therefore, could not be bettered in my mind as the anthem for our great nation.

If there is a God, and the very existence of Natalie Basingthwaite suggests it might be possible, he surely created the human ear JUST SO HUMANKIND COULD F*CKING WELL LISTEN TO THIS SONG.

If you are unfamilar with this masterpiece, nay, GRAND OPUS, then get thee to a place of download immediately.

Even if you have heard it, whip out the CD or the MP3 and LISTEN TO IT A-FRIGGIN-GAIN.

In fact, create a 5000 song playlist on your I-Pod and make every song "For Those About To Rock". And then set the list to "shuffle-random". Forever. You won't need to listen to another song ever again.

As usual, when I assess my own ideas, I can come up with absolutely no flaws.

Imagine every school in Australia starting the new day of learning and academic advancement with a ROUSING RENDITION of "For Those About To Rock"!

All FIVE F*CKEN MINUTES AND FORTY OR SO SECONDS OF IT.

And in case I forgot to mention it, including the FIRING OF REAL MOTHERF*CKING CANNONS. At the appropriate moments.

To hell with you, Saint Kevin, you wimp, and your 'computer on every desk' fairy-whip. This country needs F*CKING CANNNONS in EVERY SCHOOL PLAYGROUND.

Imagine further, if you will, the mighty flag being raised as the cannons fire and the masses of children and teachers greet the new day with HEAD BANGING and HEAVY METAL DEVIL SIGNS. FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK.....BOOOM!....etc etc

F*ck me dead if I don't have a tear in my eye right now I'm SO F*CKEN PROUD to be AUSTRALIAN.

You want to test immigrants before they get here? Well make 'em sing our new national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK! And if they can't imitate an Angus Young headbang whilst air-guitaring the rhythym section to this ORGASM OF THE EARS then they can't get in. Simple. WHAT OTHER PROOF COULD YOU POSSIBLY NEED?

Can you imagine, if you will, how fantastic this would be at every Olympics and Commonwealth Games when one of our great athletes wins a gold medal??!

No, of course you can't - nobody can imagine that NIRVANA ON EARTH, it's too good.

But just TRY to picture how much better Stephanie Rice would have looked on the top step of the medal dias, one fist on the air and PUMPING, head down and BANGING, foot BOUNCING UP AND DOWN, singing along with lung-bursting enthusiasm as "FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK...!".....BOOM! etc etc crashed out of the speakers and echoed around the arena!! ALL FIVE F*CKING GLORIOUS MINUTES OF IT, WITHOUT PAUSE.

Finally, we will have the perfect antidote to the All-Blacks and their womanly 'Haka'! Let 'em do their little girly dance, then roll out the 18 FOOT SUB-WOOFERS onto the field, point 'em right at Richie McCaw and KABLAMMO! "STAND UP AND BE COUNTED...FOR THE A$$-WOOPIN' YOU'RE ABOUT TO RECEIVE!..." BOOM! etc etc. We will wonder why we wasted all that time with Waltzing bloody Matilda.

Wait 'til foreign diplomats and leaders get a load of acka-dacka up their tailpipes at GROUND-SHAKING VOLUME just as they step off the plane. Instant respect!

Think of this added bonus - NO MORE WARS. That's right. See, when other countries hear our national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, in case I forgot to spell it out - they will immediately be so impressed by the size of our MASSIVE BALLS that they will wet themselves at the mere thought of F*CKING WITH US.

Plus, think of all the f*cking CANNONS we'll have! BOOM!

Uruguayan fans annoying us by trying to whistle over the top of our anthem just before playing the Socceroos? TURN IT UP FOR 'EM. In fact, stick one of them IN THE F*CKEN CANNON. Whistle THIS you twat.

State funerals? "PICK UP YOUR BALLS, AND LOAD UP YOUR CANNON....."....BOOM!

Australia Day fireworks? "THE SKY'S ALIGHT WITH THE GUITAR BITE!"....BOOM!

School marching band? "HAIL HAIL TO THE GOOD TIMES, 'COS ROCK HAS GOT THE RIGHT OF WAY"....BOOM!

What am I saying? Cannon in the singular?

I meant TWENTY ONE F*CKEN CANNONS.

In EVERY SCHOOL.

And they better be spit-polished every friggin' day.

ChovBux2K8 Extravaganza Announced!!

The Chov - being his usual, super ultra-cool self.

Born in a time not so long ago, in the experimental birthing unit at Port Kembla Hospital (proudly in the shadow of the Port Kembla "Stack"), in the optimistic land of Wollongong, Matt "Chov" Chrzczonowicz was born.

Admittedly an unusual name, you will be surprised to learn he was named after an unusual saint - the Polish patron saint of haberdashery and quality footwear, Saint Chov. The hero of our tale lived a carefree life with his three brothers amongst the sulphur-laced clouds of the BHP steelworks on the south-western shores of the irradiated blue-green waters of Lake Illawarra.

Early on he had an interest in music and joined now legendary local band "The Doodletown Pipers", playing piano accordion, and later, jazz flute. Their lone full-length LP, "We're the Doodles!" is now a much sought after collector's dream. But it's such a fine line between musical genius and pure insanity, and Chov's musical stylings left all wondering on which side of the line he actually stood.

Disillusioned with the morally vacant life of the wandering troubador, Chov turned to sports in an attempt to distract himself from constant thoughts of self-pollution. The blood of Europe flowed in his veins, drawing him to the round-ball game, where he once, as legend has it, scored from behind halfway TWICE in a single match. He also played his part in helping now defunct Warilla Sports FC lose every single match of the 1992 season, a feat made all the more peculiar considering the fact they were undefeated through the pre-season. Chov's best contribution of the year was to sledge Sasho Petrovski, whose flaccid goal-scoring was of no assistance to Kiama - a fact Chov took no pleasure in reminding him of.

Only a complete and utter lack of talent prevented young Chov from proceeding through the ranks to play Illawarra Steelers first grade, but his ability to hit the net-cord on any tennis court in the greater Illawarra region, from any position on the court, is the sort of skill spoken about in hushed and revered tones.

Undaunted, he eventually found his way onto the gridiron field, where his massivosity served him well. In an unprecedented display of coat-tail riding, Chov the Gridiron Godzilla chop-blocked and blindsided his way to no less than 5 championships in his adopted sport, and will forever remain a legend in his own mind in pads and helmet.

However, when realising that his dreams of achieving stardom in the USA would remain only dreams, he settled into public service, performing a role that even he can't adequately explain with any credibility.

And now Chov is to wed his Princess, the lovely Samazon, thereby ending his wild untamed single life and quelling all rumours of his "lifestyle choice" and love of showtunes in one fell swoop. Despite on-line petitions and court-injunctions, this once famed "DeathMatch Dating" competitor will now hang up his assless leather chaps and abandon the dating scene in favour of wedded bliss.

In a hit-out on the cans befitting one who lived on the cans for so long, we are planning a day and evening of festivities on Saturday September 6th in Wolllongong, ninety minutes from everywhere but a million miles from care. There will be tall tales, a few refreshments, sporting endeavours, dabbling in the black art of gambling and laughs aplenty. If you are worried about missing your loved ones, don't worry - they won't miss you.

The residents of Wollongong have been warned that ChovBux 2K8 is coming, and are speaking with relevant suppliers to ensure stocks of beer and meat for the weekend are sufficient. The dams are being stocked, the livestock tethered and lady folk forewarned. All is in readiness to send Senor Chov into the bliss of married life. We have the relevant sponsors on board.

We are letting you know that you have been specifically chosen from a field of millions by our specialist panel to take part. This early warning siren is so that you can organise leave passes, get the kids minded, arrange for the dog to be fed, think of yet another excuse for a weekend with the lads, ensure your parole is scheduled etc etc.

Whatever it is you need to do, do it!

As the date gets closer, and if you have registered your interest with the committee, final details of the schedule and venue(s) will be forwarded.

If you can come for the entire weekend, that's tops. If you can only make the Saturday evening, the management understands, but your presence at some point is entirely NECESSARY.

If those of you with small, girlish, hairless balls need some assistance in negotiating time away, here's a few excuses compiled by our panel of experts to get you started or that you may even choose to use*:

* "Honey, just going to the shops, see you Monday!"
* "Pumpkin, Kev Rudd has been on the phone, needs my advice on a few things, see you Monday!"
* "Gorgeous, Chov is getting married!! He might need my advice on how to be a good husband, see you Monday!"
* "Sweety, I've just heard that the saints, oh yes the saints, I say the saints are marching in and dammit, for once I'm going to march with them - see you Monday!"
* "Darling, I need to get in touch with my inner child, see you Monday!"
* "Dearest, it's the voices in my head again, telling me to follow a star - see you Monday!"
* "O Love of my life, I am collecting cans for charity this weekend, see you Monday!"
* "Pet, Chov is getting married!! I need some time to get my head around the idea, see you Monday!"

Start making arrangements!

It's going to be a vodkatastic and beeriffic weekend! Head to the Gong, tell people you're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Chov, and leave your inhibitions behind!! DON'T MISS OUT - LAST CHANCE (Chov really thinks this time marriage will be forever)!!!

* Management accepts no responsibility for consequences suffered as a result of usage.

This post was kindly provided by special guest contributor - they call him The Crackmeister, and the day of his coronation surely can't be too far away.

Quick Flashes of F*cktardity #1

Just a quick shout-out to the f*cken useless peanuts at Utopia Records at Broadway in Sydney.

Send me an email on the 11th to tell me you're closed on the 10th.

F*cking genius, that.

Clap......clap......clap.

Oh, and I see that my beloved St Louis Rams have signed up Trent "My Head Hurts" Green as their back up QB for the next 3 seasons.

He's 36, mind you, and the reason he's sticking with football is because medical science rejected him for use in scientific experiments as his brain has been f*cken CONCUSSED into F*CKEN YOGHURT.

So, yeah, excellent. After our porous offensive line allows Marc Bulger to be back-slammed for the 18th time in Week 1 next season, separating his throwing shoulder and ending his season, coach will turn to Trent and say "you're in". At which point Trent will smile and drool and point at the crowd and say "...looook....pretty colours....."

Of course, the NRL season kicks off this weekend, so the Chovster will shortly be publishing a whip around NRL preview that will make Rusty Crowe's f*cken pussy "Book of Feuds" look like the panties-wetting piece of f*cken fairy-floss that it is. Hopefully he reads this and tries to throw his phone at me, Souths-supporting tosser. F*ck him and the pink rabbit he rode in, in.

Stay tuned.

And a big shout out to my peeps Thumbelina and Back Door Benny Bolton, charging into the semi-finals of 11th grade Illawarra Cricket with the apparently mighty Rail Razorbacks. They are the team EVERYBODY wants to play in the finals. Of course Centrebet has suspended all action on the match until the status of Thumbelina's digit has been ascertained. A club spokesman refused to comment, but this from the cricketing legend himself (with no attempt made to correct spelling or grammar):

"do you know how many times a week u bump your thumb? if you didnt its about 49trillion times"

Rest easy, Rail faithful, your future is in good thumbs.

Get your SHOULDER off my CHEST, you damn dirty APE!!

Every now and then, some f*cktard comes out with something that is so f*cktacularly stupid that it almost gives me a f*cken aneurysm just thinking about it.

It takes me into a zone that is beyond ranting, where all I can actually see are colour explosions and the video montage that Alex DeLarge was subjected to as part of the f*cken Ludovico Technique.

With some considerable effort I can finally bring myself back into a state that sort of resembles "shaking with rage", which is how I am 90% of the time anyway, so it registers as "normal" on the patented Chov RAGEometer (TM).

Then I have to re-write this blog about fifteen f*cken times, because every time I start writing about the incident that got me angry in the first place I get a RENEWED urge to start "Singin' In The Rain", my droogs and brothers, or having your humble narrator listen to "Beethoven's Ninth" and KICK THE F*CKWIT-NESS out of F*CKWITS who need it. Desperately.

See what happened was some drunk tosser at the cricket last night threw off his clothes and decided to "streak" - that is, advertise his under-sized torkler to the world by getting nude and then sprinting onto the field faster than a Frenchman who heard the word "Achtung!"

Now it's amusing when my youngest brother ruins the Street Xmas Party Annual Backyard Cricket Challenge by doing it, but that's because all the neighbours are d1ckheads anyway, and the only fun thing about it is belting the 9 year old from no.32 for 112 runs off one over.

But there is a time and place for streaking and the cricket, no matter how funny you think it is whilst drunk, isn't it. It's at a mate's wedding, for instance, or at the kids' school Xmas pantomime, where it's funny and ought to be encouraged: or, holiest of holies, when ample-breasted girls decide to streak. In which case praise be to God, we humbly thank thee for the beauty of the world and your infinite wisdom in creating boobs etc etc.

But, I know, this donger-dangling sausage-fest streaking $hit will happen so I deal with it. The streaking itself isn't the problem that has exploded several blood vessels in my rage-filled eyeball.

See, what befell the streaker was not, as he envisaged, tripping over the end of his one-and-a-half-foot schlong in a final, glorious dive through the stumps to thunderous applause from the crowd.

What he got was a Andrew Symonds-sized dose of "toughen-the-f*ck-up, bitch", instead.

Symonds simply dropped the shoulder as the nude moron skipped nearby and F*CKING DECKED THE STUPID PR1CK, who woke up later in the comforting surrounds of a holding cell, catered by the QLD constabulary, and asked for the tattoo of Symonds' shoulder to be removed from his chest, please. And a hot Milo. And perhaps if anyone saw his spleen lying around, that might be handy if that could be returned, too. Last seen erupting from his anus after he ran into a f*cken wall. Ta muchly for that.

For this action alone, Symonds should have scored 1000000000 points towards next year's Allan Border Australian Cricketer of the Year medal, and I will be watching the f*cken vote count carefully to check that justice is, in fact, done in this regard.

Now this morning I was hoping, despite Australia's loss in the match overall, to see front page headlines announcing a one-man ticker-tape parade and book-signing extravaganza, with possible TV sitcom pilot, visiting every single Australian city, starring Andrew Symonds, hero of the people. And, at each event, you could pose for photos alongside Andrew's balls, which would tower over you and cast a shadow across the crowd.

And, if you happened to be the f*cken incompetent mong who was in charge of "security" at last night's event, you could get a free spot on the tour and your job would be to close each day's festivities at the Carnevale de Symonds by KISSING HIS F*CKEN HAIRY BEANBAG in THANKS for doing YOUR F*CKEN JOB FOR YOU, and PROPERLY.

So can you imagine my dismay, nay, F*CKEN GARGANTUAN ANTI-F*CKTARD APOPLEXY, when instead of these glorious headlines I am forced to read, with my own eyes:

"Cricket officials have said Symonds will not face a penalty, but the burly all-rounder may find himself in strife if the man makes an assault complaint to police."

Words fail me.

Let me get this straight - f*cktard of galactic proportions runs onto field, naked and drunk and against the law, gets shoulder-charged into next week (he's going to be early for his court appearance), but if the poor put-upon f*cktard COMPLAINS, then Andrew Symonds could be charged?!?!?!?!?!!??!?!?!?!?!?

Let me express me incredulity a little more by simply typing a bit more punctuation.

?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!!!?!?!??!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!??!!?!?

There, that ought to do it.

Allow me to play the sub-editor for a moment, and re-write the quote AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED:

"Cricket officials have said Symonds will be rewarded with an Ambassadorial role on Australia's behalf to the UNITED F*CKEN NATIONS, and, if the man makes an assault complaint to police, the burly all-rounder will get to smash the STUPID F*CKTARD repeatedly with a cricket bat for FIFTEEN MINUTES at the direct invitation of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The event has already attracted interest from Foxtel's Pay-TV arm, who have expressed a desire to televise it live on a pay-per-view basis. Experts agree that it has the potential to become the most-watched event in Australian television history."

Not to mention that any number of NRL clubs ought to be talking to Symonds this morning, especially clubs that have paper-bag tacklers like Preston Campbell on their roster.

But even if this outrageous piece of F*CKTARDITY wasn't sufficient to almost invert my colon in ANGER, good old "Reg of Sydney" had to utilise the f*cken "comments" facility, didn't he?

Thanks for f*cken nothing, INTERNET.

Yes, he f*cken well did, and in doing so made me want to f*cken euthanase him with a F*CKEN 40,000 FOOT LASER that would have obliterated, with PRECISION and in the most F*CKEN AGONISING MANNER POSSIBLE, not only every fabric of matter that contributes to Reg being the f*cken waste of carbon and oxygen that he is, it would also have destroyed all evidence that Reg ever existed and stained the Universe with his breathtaking f*ckwittosity.

Allow Reg to express himself:

"All i (sic) saw was the Adelaide man running pass (sic) Andrew Symonds, what Andrew Symonds did was wrong."

Who the f*ck is "Adelaide Man", Reg you f*cktocious 'tard? A new discovery by archaeologists? Like f*cken "Java Man", only less intelligent and with a forehead that slopes 3 degrees more? And what was he doing, running "pass"? What, some sort of f*cken rugby league decoy set-piece? It was the CRICKET you stupid f*cken craptacularly f*cktastic MORON.

But there's more!

"He had no right to shoulder the sticker (sic). He should have left it to the cops that was already after the sticker (sic sic sic f*cken sic)."

At this point I realise I am rising above my station and taking on a F*CKEN INTELLECTUAL GIANT. With f*cken grammar like that, I can't understand why Saint Kevin the PM even NEEDS to improve EDUCATION. Where do YOU think Reg falls on the A to E scale? Note: A is the best, and E is f*cken waste of time, and Reg is a new letter all his own, somewhere about 50 clicks past Z.

And "sticker"? What the f*ck? I can understand if Reg's galactic intellect had maybe mistyped "stricker" to at least get it ALMOST phonetically correct, if he were from New Zealand (which would explain a lot of things, right there).

But even that LOW LOW LOW f*cken standard was TOO MUCH TO EXPECT FROM REG.

"Again, we see his mates saying it was OK. Sorry it was not OK"

Well, Reg, that's where we finally agree.

It was, indeed, NOT OK for you to somehow think it necessary to SHARE YOUR F*CKWITACIOUSNESS with the rest of us in this world.

And, yes, I too am SORRY YOU DID.

There, now I feel better.

And then Skippy the Bush Kangaroo got f*cken blasted with a shotgun. The End. Now go to sleep Timmy.

I have to admit I like it when two sides go to war and I give neither a "flying" nor a "f*ck" either way.

It enables me to sit back and give both sides of the rant equal air-time.

Or I can just point and laugh at everybody; i.e f*ck the lot of 'em.

In the latter category would fall two of my favourite groups of recalcitrant f*cktards - the A.C.T. Government (a local council on steroids) and mincing, whining animal liberationist-type wankers.

Not that I hate animals. And you know I *love* the idiots in politics. It's just that I am a laaaaaazy man. Waaaaaay too lazy to give a "flying" or a "f*ck", as I mentioned, and certainly not to the rabid extent these two sub-species of humanity do anyway.

So what's got them all angried up and looking to come out of their corners swinging (girlish) haymakers?

Well, apparently there is a mob of some 400 or so kangaroos that have taken up residence in northern A.C.T climes. And not only are the dirty foreigners not assimilating with the Osstrayn way of life, roight, they aren't paying stamp duty or land rates to the A.C.T government.

Which means they get what all other A.C.T rate-payers get when they're late with rate-payments - pursued to the death by hired yokels with f*cken shotguns, hooning around in the back of Holden utes with f*cken enormous bullbars and 32 different spot-lights on the roof.

The usual, you know.

But enter the federal Defence Department, whose land, technically, the roos are inhabiting and filling with roo-pellets on a daily basis.

Haunted by the ghost of Steve Irwin (who still won't shut the f*ck up), the Department sought instead to evict the roos and, in the typical bipartisan fashion for which Australian governance is known, basically boot their fat lazy hoppity-hop f*cken ar$es over the border into N.S.W and let THEM deal with the overgrown f*cken jumping-rats.

Now this must have upset the contracted roo-shooters, who had driven their utes all the way from the insignificant $hit-splat on the map called Bull's Turd in remote QLD and had already purchased "vital equipment" (152 cases x Victoria Bitter, 50 bags x crushed ice, 12 x eskies, 14 boxes x Four'n'Twenty party pies, 3 x Bonds blue singlets) in anticipation of the cull.

So Comrade John Stanhopeless, Party Commissar for the A.C.T government, decided "f*ck that" and put a stop to any kangaroo migrations over the border.

Now how did he do that? Build a f*cken fence? Issue a writ? Raise one eyebrow menacingly?

Well, actually, he refused to issue "export permits".

So apparently the kangaroos MARKED FOR F*CKEN DEATH are a civic-minded sort, and wouldn't dare contradict any bureaucratic contrivances designed to keep them where they are for easy targeting - after all, yokels find it hard to hold the shotgun straight after 26 stubbies so the roos better stay the f*ck still dammit.

Now it's the animal-lover type fairies who are getting upset and peppering Comrade Stanhopeless with questions. And, as is always the case when this happens, the good Comrade squirms and writhes like a f*cken cornered rat looking for an out.

"Errr.....," he bul$hitted quickly,"...well, see, a smart smart man called a science-test, wearing a white lab coat, and glasses so he must be real clever because only smart people wear glasses (it's from all the reading they do get it) told me that it traumatizes the Skippys to get moved."

Yes, it's much better for them to be chased around by squealin', pig-fellatin' bumpkins firing shot-gun pellets at the rate of 26 every 5 seconds from the back of a bouncing ute being driven at about 500 kilometres an hour.

F*ck that's calming. Nine out of ten kangaroos nominated that image as their preferred "happy place" in a recent Morgan survey. On the other hand, showing them footage of "moving" made most of them wet their pouch or cry "mummy" which is f*cken significant because kangaroos can't f*cken talk. Or answer surveys.

Also, Comrade Stanhopeless said that he's tried moving them before and it didn't work, so there.

I think he's recalling the time he drove out to Googong Dam and got out of his BMW when he spotted some roos, running and waving his arms and yelling "Gwan! GIT! GWAAAAN! GIT!! GIT! GWAAN! YA MONGRELS! GWAAN! " for about 3 minutes, at which point at least 1 of the roos gazed over at him disinterestedly. And then returned to $hitting contentedly in the grass, which, as I understand it, is all that kangaroos actually do, besides occasionally committing spectacular suicide by jumping into speeding cars on the Federal Highway.

"Well I'm out of ideas" remarked the good Comrade, and that was that.

The next day, crack teams of specially trained inbred hicks blasted some 900 roos into red spray-paint and used the word "yeeehaaaw!" about 5000000000000000 times in only 24 hours.

Comrade Stanhopeless claimed at the time that this Duke Nukem-esque bloodbath was necessary, because the roos were "threatening Canberra's water supply", so obviously he had either uncovered a sinister terrorist plot by the kangaroo community to detonate a dirty bomb and blow up the dam, or else they were planning to COMPLETELY IGNORE the STAGE IV WATER RESTRICTIONS and water their lawns WITH UNTIMED SPRINKLER SYSTEMS!! Egad! F*cken roos! Lil' bit of f*cken KABLAMMMO too good for 'em I say!

Of course, Comrade Stanhopeless got caught out on that one, too.

"Documents obtained by The Canberra Times...showed the cull was opposed by senior government scientists and had been ordered as a result of complaints by neighouring farmers."

Now that just f*cken irks me, because I complain about MY neighbours all the f*cken time and I haven't seen THEM get shot yet. What are my f*cken land rates FOR, anyway?

"They claimed kangaroos were evading professional shooters on their properties by fleeing into the foreshores reserve."

Well I'm not f*cken surprised, considering even a f*cken kangaroo can probably hear the hee-haws playing their Lee Kernaghan CD at f*cken flight-path volume from about 25 kilometres away.

See I can just imagine ole Clem, chewing on a grass stem and complaining to gathered reporters "Well, yeh, them roos is jes gettin away now isnt they?" and shaking his head sadly, before heading inside to have 3 minutes of 'relations' with ole Merle, 'cos it's Sat'dee after all and there ain't been this much fussin' and fartin' in these here parts since young Johnny McJohnston got caught with his d1ck in Nana Thompson's show-winning blue-ribbon 36 kilo pumpkin - and thinkin' 'bout that gets me a bit hot 'n bovvered, Merle me good ole girl, so whip down the britches and git riddy.

Yet again the entire A.C.T government, the legion of imported roo-shootin', sheep-shaggin' good ole' boys and Clem are outwitted by kangaroos that, er, don't stand f*cken still.

So denying the roos the ability to 'export' themselves over the border, as well as canceling ALL A.C.T LIBRARY PRIVILEGES, will obviously make sure the crafty little f*ckers have no choice but to stand still and take a .22 round right in the pouch.

Now the very thought of that brings tears to the eyes of Mr Pat O'Brien, who happens to be President of the Wildlife Protection Association, and also happens to boycott merry-go-rounds because they are an "offensive and unrealistic portrayal of horses". Pat also has an not-unimpressive collection of photos of horse-penises, which he likes to get out at BBQs to impress guests with.

Now Patty, who has a girl's name, is riled up. Sadly, he isn't threatening to run naked in front of the roo-shooter's bullets in order to protect the roos. However, he is threatening to have an almighty sook.

"The Rudd Government and ACT Chief Minister John Stanhope will face SIGNIFICANT PROTEST ACTION."

Presumably this will involve the impressively terrifying MASS PUBLIC TYING OF KNICKERS INTO REALLY REALLY TIGHT COMPLICATED F*CKEN KNOTS.

But then, most fairy-airy types are presently too preoccupied by lobbing acid onto Japanese whaling boats and trying to shag unshaven hippy-chicks to f*cken care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pure. Comedy. Gold.

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

Johnny Utah: "Not so far..."

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

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

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