Friday, 29 July 2011

Sage Advice for Jarryd Hayne.

What are the social adhesives that unite and bind us? Alcohol? Swearing? Sport? Combine all three, throw in the word 'mateship' and call it Australian society. Or utopia/dystopia, depending on your personal bent. Or a night out in the Cross for Jarryd Hayne.

I didn't think Hayne could get any more boss but he totally did last week and I totally falled all over myself a little more with regards to his unbridled awesomeness. But I also hollered 'WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW JAZZY?' when I first heard news of the head-butting, so....I don't see much of a future for us, frankly.

Those of you who commit everything I write to memory (i.e. all none of you, fuckers) will know that my brother and I have been communicating by way of Metallica song titles. Yeah, been working out well, thanks for asking. We dropped off after the weekend, wrung out after all the talk of warfare and psychological trauma and impending doom and the like, but the references are still creeping in (like death). Brother:
'Hayne head butted him twice! 'Self defence' he says, more like Seek and Destroy'

My take on Hayne is simple: Bitch is a trailblazer. Step aside members of the general public and allow him to blaze his trail and go about his awesome business unmolested already! It would be a terrible thing if footballers were forced to become heavily guarded, roped-off untouchables. These times are grim enough already, leashing footballers would be another step down the flaming, hell-bound ladder we're all variously positioned on.

In light of this I hereby offer Hayne the same sage advice I extended to Todd Carney: Straight on, baby. Hold Steady. On keel.

Further, I will remind him that Australia is home to some 20 million feral pigs; and that this number increases substantially if you count Kyle Sandilands and the fuckers that antagonise NRL players who have the nerve to be out in public and mixing with the hoi polloi come the small hours.

I'm all for loose truths and licentious lip, make no mistake. They're the founding principals of this blog, come to think of it, but this doesn't mean I'm down with raving pieces of meat trying to tarnish the Shiny Sparkly people who walk among us.

We all have our chinks and cracks, footy players are no different. Tell me you wouldn't want to unleash a volley of head-butts on some drunken fuckwit spraying insults and Bundy-infused spittle in your general direction at 3 in the morning? Exactly.

Superstars should be allowed to roam among us unencumbered, if for no other reason than that they enhance the generally grim atmosphere of everyday life and bring a sparkle-and-shine to even the dullest or most dreadful proceedings.

You can't tell me that seeing Toddy Carney tearing apart a Red Rooster meal deal in a food court wouldn't lift the gothic slaughterhouse vibe of the place and temporarily transform it into a cathedral of golden light and gorgeousness, can you? No, no you cannot.   

Hayne is one such superstar. It stands to reason that while most people will come away from an encounter sprinkled with Hayne-scented stardust, some will come away bloodied and broken-toothed. It's mathematical. Like how after a big night there's always the possibilty that you'll come to and find glitter in your knickers y'know? Yeah, Jarryd Hayne's just like that...*sidles off whistling sketchily*....

On that note...Good talk. Glad we had this talk.

P.S. I wrote this post playing Lil Wayne's Got Money on repeat:
"Bitch I'm the bomb like tick, tick." 
I know, it's the perfect song, right? What can I say. Some people match wines with foodstuffs, I match songs with blogposts.

P.P.S. Hey, Jarryd, you know I didn't mean to insult your god. Don't be shy, hit me up. Just not in the Chris Brown way please kay thanks.

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