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!?"

Touchy, touchy! Ooooh!

It seems my last post struck a nerve!

But the flood of pussy-cat comments from down south did solve a mystery for me, at least.

The mystery I was struggling with was "Where did all the Tornadoes Tough Guys go? The ones who made the choke sledges from up in the stands?". See, I went looking for all these tough guys last week, on the field at the Grand Final, but they had all DISAPPEARED.

But, imagine my relief to see my comments section filled with their trash-talk again. A WEEK AFTER THE GAME. So they were ok after all.

Here's a free tip, Tuggers, maybe those tough guys who do all the sledging from the grandstand should sign up and actually play? They sound tough. If they are half as tough as they sound from the stands, you might win something.

Pussy cats.

Classic stuff though. This is the team that mouthed off 2 weeks from Grand Final day, then were quiet as mice for 4 quarters of football time, but all of a sudden a week later they have enormous 'NADS again over the internet!

El Pussy Gato Tornado.

But let's get on to the stars of the show....ladies and gentlemen, your 2008 Tuggeranong Tornadoes, Mouthiest Team In The West!

From Cody #38 (Is #38 his IQ? The number of cheeseburgers he eats for breakfast? A mystery)

"blogs gives every spastic a mouth that should't talk" (sic)

Well, not just blogs my learned friend and scholar, comments sections also, evidently.

How about that, 9 words and about 4 errors of grammar, spelling AND punctuation. I am dealing with an intellectual giant here, folks.

Don't worry Cody #38, if you ask Mummy really nicely she might help you with the big words you'll learn next year in second grade.

And here's a free tip, bitch-tits, visit http://www.thespasticcentre.org.au/ and offer to be a volunteer. Then call them "spastic" and see how far you get, Big Man #38. Are you jealous they can spell better than you or something?

And here's the first offering from a Tuggers Tough Guy who calls himself "Anonymous". Funny, I checked the team-sheet on Saturday, and there were no "Anonymous" brothers signed on to play. But here they all are. I think, in Latin, it means, "Macho Macho Man", Village People style.

"I'm pretty sure this Chov bloke spent most of the game flat on his back."

True. Laughing.

"Your team beat us but if you as a player don't do anything don't talk shit."

Well f*ck me dead, Doris, I think we're reaching the boy here! Please print this sentence out and pin to your dressing room wall, pin-dick - it could be the motto of your entire club! If you DON'T DO ANYTHING, SHUT THE F*CK UP.

"There's a little thing called sportsmanship, you won the game, congrats, sincerely, but stop being a cock."

Well, first of all, Freddie Mercury said that little thing was called "love" but hey, you might be right. And it's not sincere congrats when you are still sledging a week later, micro-balls, so f*ck yourself. And if I wanted to be a cock, I would make CHOKE NOISES IN THE STANDS WITHOUT ACTUALLY WINNING ANYTHING, THEN I'D SOOK AND CRY AND SLEDGE A WEEK AFTER THE LOSS. F*ckwit. Kiss my beanbag.

And here's "Anonymous" again, it must be a big family.

"This is the most offensive and disrespectful blog that I have read by a person who considers himself a sportsman. As a player who represents his team and ACT gridiron you have shown your pettiness by ridiculing your opponents instead of focusing on praising your team."

I almost felt guilty after reading this. See, the Tuggers Head Coach is a class guy head-to-toe. Absolute class-act. I barely know him, but I would vouch for him in an instant. Top bloke.

He wasn't the target for all this. Not at all.

But his class deserves better than a bunch of catty little bitches who want to talk some smack and then CAN'T F*CKEN HANDLE THE PAYBACK.

From what I understand, he actually put his head in the stands during the CHOKE SLEDGES and told his boys to pull their heads in. If so, kudos to him. But the damage was done, and our motivation was already sealed.

So don't f*cking forget, little girls, who mouthed off first.

Maybe someday this head coach will get a team that he deserves - one that reflects his personality and will play hard, play fair, play to win and shut the f*ck up win lose or draw because they have some class and dignity. That's what he deserves, because he is class.

But, given the number of bitch-whines I have read here today, that team in Tuggeranong could be a million miles away. I hope he heads off to Gungahlin to start a new team, maybe that one will reflect his class better, instead of the current team he has, which only brings down his reputation by association. It's his call, but he deserves better, pure and simple.

And, for the record, there are several former team-mates of mine down there who I also don't have any beef with. You know who you are. You do. I know you're pissed off, but this isn't about you. I know you bitch about me, but I don't care, we have played hard on the same team once upon a time, and played hard against each other, and shook hands afterward. That's enough for me. Take it how you like, but I'm not aiming at you. If you sign up for Monarchs, and I hope you do, I'd love to play alongside you again.

But your f*cken team-mates? The ones who want to make choke-noises? F*ck them. Give them a can of "harden the f*ck up". They won't like the taste, but it's what they need.

"Anonymous" wasn't done yet.

"The problem with putting things in writing is that they can be used as evidence to perhaps remove someone from the league?"

Oooooh! What a sledge! What else you gonna threaten me with, little girl? Cancel my library card? No cartoons until I finish my homework? Tell me Santa Claus isn't real? Classic.

"All this from a guy that didn't play all season and just rode the coat tails of your teammates into the finals, then play so poorly that your coach yanks you!"

Funny stuff. Actually I got ejected. See, what happened was I tackled one of you fairies, and you cried so loud the refs thought you broke your vagina. So I got sent for being too mean to you poor little bitches.

"Its funny how your team has done a great thing by winning 4 championships but are one of the least respected teams in the league?"

I know who you are!

You're the fat chick who gets picked up right on closing time, goes home with the guy, does a whole lot of dirty stuff for a few hours, wakes up to find the guy gone, and discovers XXX photos of her performance on the internet, BUT STILL WAITS BY THE PHONE FOR HIM TO CALL!

That's you isn't it!?

And now you're at the stage where all men are bastards and you don't have any respect!

Poor thing. Write a letter to Dolly magazine, this blog can't help you.

Here's a run-down of how we view the league:

ASTROS: A few of us used to play there, and still have good mates and good memories there. We respect this team, they play hard, they beat us good a few weeks ago and we leave it on the field with these guys. Even Tony Connor, who everyone else wants to slap except me. I might be the only one lol. Tony talks shit, but he backs it up ON THE FIELD (did you get that Tuggers?) and "once a team-mate always a team-mate". I've got Tony's back anytime. Except I can't catch him. Mitch too, class act in our day. Jaron is outright the best player in this league. No problems with any of these dudes, not a single one, even the ones I don't know.

After they beat us, a few of them came around to our club after the game to talk some shit. Which was crappy, but hey, we took it.

And then, when we beat them a week later, you know what happened?

Those guys came back again, because, as they put it, "if we do it when we win, we've gotta do it when we lose".

THAT, Tuggers bitches, is what we call "being a man." Not the crybaby shit you wimps are STILL spewing.

In fact, several of these twits actually partied with us after the Grand Final as well. Which was odd, but who cares, a pissup is a pissup. And they PROVED THEIR MANHOOD, BITCHES. They took their loss like a man. And we respect them for it. Buy 'em a drink anytime.

GLADIATORS: If they gave a trophy out for guts, these guys win. Barely enough guys to fill the team-sheet, and they gave us all we could handle this season. Awesome. Loved it. They even trash-talked me when I jumped offsides, (made me laugh anyway) but they shook hands and took it like men when we came back and won. Respect.

Jeremy, on the sideline, is an outstanding human being and great lineman from years ago. Props to him. Dom is Dom, which means he's 10,000 times better than me, and he and I have talked shit to each other for years, but we still can laugh at each other. Get that Tuggers!? Yeah, we sledge and talk shit to each other, and we laugh about it - that's respect.

And the best guy of all wasn't there this year, but my man Oldy, "Moolah Man" - the classiest and most decent human being I've met in this sport. Outstanding guy. You da man, Moolah, you know it. It's harder and harder every year to politely decline your invitation to come play for you guys - you know I can't do that. But just the thought of lining up next to the Moolah Man again is good for a smile. Aaah, the old days.

CENTURIONS: What does it mean, Tuggers pussycats, when half your own f*cken team packs up and leaves to form a new club?

How f*cked up is that?

Let's read that again....you're such a bunch of f*cken obnoxious wankers, that HALF YOUR OWN F*CKEN TEAM COULDN'T STAND YOU EITHER! And some of the guys that you ran off - f*ck you should be kissing their beanbags because they kept your club together for a long time. And THAT'S how you repay them? F*ck, you're all class ain't ya?

Centurions don't like us because they don't like our coach. Well get in line. We have no problem with them, their line plays hard and whatever the bullshit, it stays on the field. That's called "being a man." Unfortunately for you, all the manhood left your building when the Centurions left huh?

Which brings us to you dumbf*cks. Does anyone actually like you? Or respect you? Oh sure, we cried ourselves to sleep after the Grand Final, because although we beat you three times in a row and shoved your CHOKE SLEDGES UP YOUR F*CKEN ASS, you didn't respect us. Yeah, it f*cken kills us. No really. It does.

"Congrats on your win, being a bad sportsman and karma will pay you back in some way."

It did, it punished us with severe hangovers for days afterward. But let me ask, do you class choke sledges from the grandstand as "good" sportsmanship, pussy cat? What was the karmic payback for that I wonder?

"What happened to all the comments about losing to the Astros on purpose?"

What the f*ck are you talking about? I can't understand you amongst the choking.

"Didn't hear your name at league presentation either?"

Ladies and gentlemen, a new entry into the Big Book of Things Losers Say!! Hooray! Oooh, you're so catty, bitch! I've been crying ever since, really. But you might have seen one award I got....it was the big one at the end....the League Championship Trophy. Did you see it? It was quite big. It goes to the team that wins. That was us. I'm looking at it right now. I might make love to it when I finish this blog. If you want to see it, scroll down and check out the photo. It's as close as you've ever been to it while I've been around.

"Looking forward to seeing you sitting on the bench again next year while we all have fun playing!"

Happy-clap time! Let's imagine rainbows! Let's all have fun playing! Oh, goody goody Ermingtrude, we shall all have such delightful fun! Oh, rather, Melody Crossingthwaite III, you do go on!

Well, actually, my Firebirdys do have fun. We win. It's not rocket science. Good to hear you enjoy your losing, though. And you know what, I'm ok with that.

"Anonymous" again...
"How many of the "four in a row" wins have you competed in?! One or maybe two wins is not really 4 in a row!!"

I have to be fair. It must be hard to learn the big numbers. But I guess you should understand this number - 3. It's 3 actually.

You know the number 3 don't you? Yeah, I know you do. Because 3 is the number of Grand Finals YOU'VE LOST IN A ROW.

Here's a number too big for you to grasp, though, so maybe you can get a grown-up to explain it to you....six. Six altogether, little girl.

And finally..."Anonymous" rings in...didn't see that one coming eh?
"Taking credit for other peoples work?

priceless"

Love it. I'm getting advice on winning from these guys. I wonder if Jenna Jameson gives nuns advice on how to pray?

But I have to he honest. I hate being #2. But that's what I am. I'm only the #2 best-ever coat-tail rider in ACT Gridron history.

#1 plays down there. You know who he is. He knows who he is.

He's infamous across the entire league for it.

He's the guy who single-handedly caused two-thirds of the Astros to move to other teams.

Because he was the guy who contributed the least, but had the biggest f*cken mouth. And judging by his comments here, he hasn't changed. Even when he's run out of coat-tails to ride.

Congrats, dude, you are my better. #1 for you. When I need you, I'll ring this little bell here, and you can put on your gimp mask and come running like a good little bitch.

Now all you little Tuggers crybabies, dry your tears and go fetch someone smart to explain the big words to you. If you ask me nicely, I might give you your pride back, princesses - I keep it in a jar in my shed. Nine years you pussycats had to find me on the field and put me in my place, and not one of you ever did it. But here you are, puffing your chests out in cyberspace. Who the f*ck invited you anyway? F*ck off to your own little corner of the world, with the choke sledges and the manga-porn.

Maybe someday you'll learn the place for your talk and your choke sledges is on the field. Maybe. If you're man enough, come play Monarchs and maybe we might teach you about it. I'll be there, what about you princesses? Come put me on my ass at practice, then, Tough Guys. I'll be waiting. Something tells me I'll be waiting a while, considering I've been waiting years already.

What? Scared of being yelled at by our coach? F*cken princesses. No, have it your way then, it seems to be working for you a real treat.

In summary, here's a factoid for you, and I'll really try to dumb it down for you.

Six grand finals, six championships.

What that means is, precious little princesses, neither you nor any of your little boyfriends ever beat me when it mattered.

Ever.

And you never will.

Ever.

But you know the thing you'll never understand, halfwits? It's that the six don't mean squat. Six could be 12 or it could be zero. It's not what I'm going to remember in 25 years. What I'll remember are the mates and the good times, and both are in plentiful supply with the Budgies.

Budgie til I die, boys.

Mothers, don't let your sons grow up to be chokers...or play for Tuggeranong...wait, that's an oxymoron!

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

I must live right.

Several weeks ago, the UCU Firebirds (scourge of the ACT Gridiron League), were playing our final regular season game against the Astros.

The minor premiership was up for grabs.

Earlier in the afternoon, the Tuggeranong Tornadoes had pushed themselves to the top of the table with a win. It now fell to us to win by sufficient margin to take top spot on percentages, and earn both direct passage to Capital Bowl XVI and a week off.

The Astros are a plucky team. It was a good, hard fought game and they beat us fair and square. It was close, but the game turned their way on several key plays, which, if you're going to win, you need to ensure fall in your favour. Which is exactly what the Astros did.

And then, in those closing moments of the game and in the immediate aftermath, two things happened which, both directly and indirectly, contributed to the UCU Firebirds taking out Capital Bowl XVI on this past weekend and lifting the championship trophy an unprecedented 4th successive time.

The Astros gathered in midfield to celebrate their victory and I tell you what, the sheer scope of their celebration overshadowed VE Day, Fourth of July, Bastille Day and Last Day of School put together.

I mean, power to them, they won. But f*ck me, boys, act like you've been there before and will be again.

In our somewhat disappointed post-game huddle, we noted to ourselves that there's only ONE GAME of the season worthy of that scale of celebration, and the final round of the regular season wasn't it.

Not even close.

But I guess we've learned that in the process of winning 4 championships in a row.

So we pushed that little kernel of hate deep down inside and let it simmer.

The second thing was, shall we say, poetic. It was as though some greater power was setting up the pieces; writing a grand script for fate to follow.

You see, our rivals from the Tornadoes had sat themselves in the stands to watch us, the UCU Firebirds, play for the minor premiership.

Obviously they had taken a vote (only narrowly defeated) on whether to wear Astros cheer-girl dresses and pom-poms for the day. You never heard such high-pitched squeals of delight! Oh, the joy on their little faces!

Best of all, they decided to sledge us, still battling on the field, with "CHOKE" noises!

You see, when you're sitting in the stands, your balls must grow to enormous size! It must have been uncomfortable to sit on those massive gonads, hey fellas? Massive, massive balls! Gargantuan balls! MASTODONIC BALLS!

And, of course, when you have such massive balls, why not sledge your rivals eh? Why not intimate we're chokers from right up close and personal, a mere 30 metres or so away, off the field and up in the stands? After all, you're the minor premiers eh? WHAT BIG BIG BALLS YOU HAVE, GRANDMA!

Choke, choke, choke said the Tornadoes. And oh, what fun they must have had, balancing on their massive testicles and making those oh-so-hilarious CHOKE noises at us.

I guess this is the secret of their (lack of-)success.

The next week,the UCU Firebirds replayed the Astros in the championship-game qualifier, and taught the Astros a 30-something point lesson entitled: "Winning When It Matters, Boys, Part 1."

Strangely, the Astros grand singing voices seemed to have petered out by the end of that game, which signalled the end of their season. Maybe they were out of breath running after us while we were scoring.

Job not done yet, though, oh no not yet, dear readers.

There was that small matter of meeting up with the Astros Cheer Bitches.....errr...Tuggeranong Tornadoes in Capital Bowl XVI for the championship.

You know...the REAL one, not the "minor" one.

The one where they actually give out the TROPHY at the conclusion.

The trophy that has been the possession of the UCU Firebirds for the past 3 years.

The trophy that Tuggeranong hasn't sniffed since...oh...2000? When I actually played there? Ye gods, has it been that long? Yes, it has.

No matter, I anticipated that they would heave their massive balls down from the stands onto the field and back up their CHOKE sledges in person.

After all, real champions don't just sledge from the distant stands, do they? Real champions back up their big mouths mano-a-mano when it's "helmets 'n pads" time, don't they?

And so, the tale comes full circle. Back to the part where some things just make me laugh when they go my way.

Because, after 4 quarters of gridiron on Saturday evening, there was, indeed, a CHAMPION decided.

And there was, also, a CHOKER after all...

And which team was which, you ask, dear reader...?

Allow the following happy snap to express approximately 1,000 words....