What a KHunt.

Karmichael Hunt, showing a complete mastery of the AFL-skill "falling over spectacularly and for absolutely no apparent reason". Note the absence of the ball anywhere in this shot.

Karmichael Hunt, or, as this blog prefers to call him, The KHunt, last week officially announced his intention to leave rugby league and the Brisbane Broncos to sign elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

But, really, who the f*ck cares?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Khunt estimates how many drunk women he can squeeze into a dirty toilet cubicle for sex at the QLD celebration post-game party.

However, there's also the lifestyle on the Coast, which didn't entirely escape the KHunt's attention.

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

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

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

Yeah, the KHunt really enjoys the city all right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And last night the three superstars' managers admitted they would not ignore future offers from the AFL to defect."

So....no ACTUAL offers. Just three managers admitting that, if asked to suck uncircumcised cock for money, they WOULDN'T SAY NO STRAIGHT AWAY.

Really, where's the f*cken story?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"AFL has certainly struck the first blow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slight difference of opinion there, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unexplained Mysteries of the Universe

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

Which means he thinks a lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mystery is presented thusly:

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

How.

The.

F*ck.

Did.

That.

Happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Email them to chov54@bigpond.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The f*cken dope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Man Utd were "nervous" because Liver Poo were top of the table,
2. Man Utd manager Sir Alex Ferguson runs / rules / is immune to / dictates the entire refereeing and disciplinary structure of English football,
3. and also sets up, in his spare time, the entire fixture list of english football to suit Man Utd and cunningly deny Liver Poo any advantage.

4. Man Utd are descended from the Knights Templar and are all masons.

5. Carlos Tevez knows what's in Area 51 (he comes from there).

6. Man Utd "fixes" the Top 50 music charts.

7. Man Utd faked the moon landing.

8. Man Utd are withholding proof of cold fusion, extra-terrestrial life and a cure for cancer from the world.

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

Without any hint of irony, mind you.

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

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

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

DESPITE THIS F*CKEN PANTS-WETTING CHOKE JOB OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, Liver Poo fans worship this f*cken tool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafa is muchos f*ckwit.

And thas a fact, no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm glad you asked!

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

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

So it's just a tax.

That's it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaah, rich people, I hear you mutter.

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

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

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

Stupid f*ckers the lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Chov no longer cares.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not enough, apparently.

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

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

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

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

So HE WHINGED.

OF COURSE.

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

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

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

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

HOW DARE THE F*CKING FATHER STICK UP FOR HIS DAUGHTER, EH?

Did Watmough apologise?

F*CK NO!!

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

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

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

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

And “hard core” NRL fan.

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

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

F*CK NO!!

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

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

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

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

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

Dumb, dumb, f*cking dumb.

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

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

Respect women.

What a f*cking concept, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can’t do it.