Well the Rugby League World Cup has come and gone, and one of this blog's biggest fans, The Mayor of Mac Fields, his honourableness the great Crackmeister, has written in to convey his great disappointment that Chov did not rant on the tournament.
It's not that I don't do requests.
My response is largely summed up by the fact that it would be akin to taking candy from a baby, or suggesting Australian Idol isn't really a great way to identify talent.
That is, somewhat redundant.
But what inspired me was today's story that Ricky Stuart got fired up at the refereeing and suggested the Australian team was "stitched up" in the Final.
I love a good conspiracy theory, because they combine two things I love most about the world - morons and things morons say.
That, and the fact that good conspiracy theories don't get obscured by silly little details, like FACTS for instance.
What I would like to understand is how this conspiracy theory managed to arrange the following events during the match:
1. Darren "When I'm Drunk The Bouncer Looks Like A Tackle Bag To Me" Lockyer dropping the ball before grounding it for a try.
2. Billy "Stampy" Slater throwing the official Dumbest Pass of the Tournament and
3. Joel "Bubbler" Monaghan coat-hangering a Kiwi chasing the ball through.
I mean, you can say the penalty try decision was a "stitch-up", why make a conspicuous decision like that when it isn't necessary - weren't the Kiwis in front anyway? If you really wanted to stitch up a league game, I would suggest the easiest way to do it would be to give a team momentum in the way you police the ruck and the 10 metre-rule....very easy to give one team a leg-up and keep the other down that way. And it's not even obvious.
No, I'm afraid it's just a sook from Stick.
And I'm really hurt, because this blog has previously confessed a man-crush on Sticky, just because he is (like this blog) an angry angry man. And we need to stick together in these trying times, when we are an endangered species.
But he is talking out of his turd-tunnel on this one.
And so is John Kosmina.
Sydney FC are playing like planks and spending more time sooking than toughening up and it shows.
Also, they must be really pleased they spent all that money on John Aloisi. Big return so far.
And finally, Chov is branching out into a new realm - coming soon....a music review, one 10 years in the making!
Yes, it's true, Axl Rose finally released "Chinese Democracy". Build an Ark! (No, don't ask me how long a "cubit" is...)
Chov will listen, as a service to you dear readers, and report back soon.
And a big shout out to Maca "Purple Plums" McDonald....once he was known as El Maco Pudendo Magnifico - now he is just known as ol' Split Sack. But we love him and hope he recovers soon - who knew an impersonation of Buster Gonad from VIZ could go so horribly wrong??!
Monday, November 24, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Mothers, don't let your sons grow up to be chokers...or play for Tuggeranong...wait, that's an oxymoron!
Sometimes, things just go my way and I can't help but laugh.
I must live right.
Several weeks ago, the UCU Firebirds (scourge of the ACT Gridiron League), were playing our final regular season game against the Astros.
The minor premiership was up for grabs.
Earlier in the afternoon, the Tuggeranong Tornadoes had pushed themselves to the top of the table with a win. It now fell to us to win by sufficient margin to take top spot on percentages, and earn both direct passage to Capital Bowl XVI and a week off.
The Astros are a plucky team. It was a good, hard fought game and they beat us fair and square. It was close, but the game turned their way on several key plays, which, if you're going to win, you need to ensure fall in your favour. Which is exactly what the Astros did.
And then, in those closing moments of the game and in the immediate aftermath, two things happened which, both directly and indirectly, contributed to the UCU Firebirds taking out Capital Bowl XVI on this past weekend and lifting the championship trophy an unprecedented 4th successive time.
The Astros gathered in midfield to celebrate their victory and I tell you what, the sheer scope of their celebration overshadowed VE Day, Fourth of July, Bastille Day and Last Day of School put together.
I mean, power to them, they won. But f*ck me, boys, act like you've been there before and will be again.
In our somewhat disappointed post-game huddle, we noted to ourselves that there's only ONE GAME of the season worthy of that scale of celebration, and the final round of the regular season wasn't it.
Not even close.
But I guess we've learned that in the process of winning 4 championships in a row.
So we pushed that little kernel of hate deep down inside and let it simmer.
The second thing was, shall we say, poetic. It was as though some greater power was setting up the pieces; writing a grand script for fate to follow.
You see, our rivals from the Tornadoes had sat themselves in the stands to watch us, the UCU Firebirds, play for the minor premiership.
Obviously they had taken a vote (only narrowly defeated) on whether to wear Astros cheer-girl dresses and pom-poms for the day. You never heard such high-pitched squeals of delight! Oh, the joy on their little faces!
Best of all, they decided to sledge us, still battling on the field, with "CHOKE" noises!
You see, when you're sitting in the stands, your balls must grow to enormous size! It must have been uncomfortable to sit on those massive gonads, hey fellas? Massive, massive balls! Gargantuan balls! MASTODONIC BALLS!
And, of course, when you have such massive balls, why not sledge your rivals eh? Why not intimate we're chokers from right up close and personal, a mere 30 metres or so away, off the field and up in the stands? After all, you're the minor premiers eh? WHAT BIG BIG BALLS YOU HAVE, GRANDMA!
Choke, choke, choke said the Tornadoes. And oh, what fun they must have had, balancing on their massive testicles and making those oh-so-hilarious CHOKE noises at us.
I guess this is the secret of their (lack of-)success.
The next week,the UCU Firebirds replayed the Astros in the championship-game qualifier, and taught the Astros a 30-something point lesson entitled: "Winning When It Matters, Boys, Part 1."
Strangely, the Astros grand singing voices seemed to have petered out by the end of that game, which signalled the end of their season. Maybe they were out of breath running after us while we were scoring.
Job not done yet, though, oh no not yet, dear readers.
There was that small matter of meeting up with the Astros Cheer Bitches.....errr...Tuggeranong Tornadoes in Capital Bowl XVI for the championship.
You know...the REAL one, not the "minor" one.
The one where they actually give out the TROPHY at the conclusion.
The trophy that has been the possession of the UCU Firebirds for the past 3 years.
The trophy that Tuggeranong hasn't sniffed since...oh...2000? When I actually played there? Ye gods, has it been that long? Yes, it has.
No matter, I anticipated that they would heave their massive balls down from the stands onto the field and back up their CHOKE sledges in person.
After all, real champions don't just sledge from the distant stands, do they? Real champions back up their big mouths mano-a-mano when it's "helmets 'n pads" time, don't they?
And so, the tale comes full circle. Back to the part where some things just make me laugh when they go my way.
Because, after 4 quarters of gridiron on Saturday evening, there was, indeed, a CHAMPION decided.
And there was, also, a CHOKER after all...
And which team was which, you ask, dear reader...?
Allow the following happy snap to express approximately 1,000 words....
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....
Friday, September 19, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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.
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.
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