What My Boss Barked at Me in Regards to the AFL Grand Final

I thought I was going to be subjected to all manner of talk about the goddamn AFL grand final today at work. I wasn’t. Life can be surprising.

There was only the one mention of it and it was short and surreal and featured my unorthodox and acerbic boss screaming up beside me in his shitbox Brumby. The thing was smoking. You know that bogan slogan, ‘black smoke don’t mean it’s broke’?  It does not apply here. That Brumby is busted. He leaned out the window to enquire how I was going and denied me any opportunity to respond by barking “Christ I was happy the Swans got up – I don’t go for them but JesusGod no fucken way was I gonna sit there and watch that Franklin bastard win anything!”, immediately throwing the Brumby into gear with a great lurch, planting his foot and departing in a spray of sand and topsoil. I didn’t have anything to say in response anyway, it probably worked out for the best. Much like the game itself. From what I understand. Given that I understand absolutely nothing and am AFL agnostic.

The Dogs are Having a Party! And Bellamy is Invited!

One more game, the Big One, and then the fall of civilisation i.e. THE OFF SEASON. Again. Christ. Cultural bankruptcy beckons.

Well, in the meantime, I hope it’s not rational opinion, objective analysis and up to the minute betting odds you’re here for. If it is, you are clearly lost. You are probably one of those dickheads who are not only inept navigators but are also unable under any circumstances to ask for directions due to your overinflated ego in which case I will offer unsolicited directions STRAIGHT TO COOPER CRONK’S WEBSITE coopercronk.com. Douches will find it informative and inspiring. Everyone else will find it squirmy-funny and unsettling on a sliding scale. Exactly how unsettling you find it will depend on your tolerance levels for new age rhetoric and raging narcissism. Mine, as it turns out, are low. Lower than Clint Eastwood’s balls, if you will.

I look forward to the day when I can invest emotionally in a grand final. Hoo boy won’t that be something? In the meantime, we have the Bulldogs playing the Storm. And while it’s a shame the Raiders or the Sharks didn’t get through (and what a final that would have been and one day will be god willing please god), it’s fantastic the Rabbits and the Broncos didn’t make it either. One hand washes the other, and so forth.

In any case, I’m not too concerned with who wins. I see pros and cons for each outcome.

For example, on the one hand I would love to see Craig Bellamy getting a giant bucket of Gatorade dumped over his head. Which indicates I would like the Storm to win.

On the other hand, I would love to see confetti and shredded raffle tickets mashed with glitter and whatever other garish pulpy matter they void onto the field and the heads of the victors from the air above rain down all over Michael Ennis. He does such a good job, not only playing a vigorous and antagonistic brand of football and captaining a team but in keeping track of what make and model of car every player from every other club drives so that he can cut any opponents brake lines at only a moment’s notice. That’s a real one-percenter. Take note, aspiring sociopaths. I would like to see him holding that big trophy thing aloft while grinning toothily and I would like  knowing that all the while the hamster wheel inside his head was still turning, turning….

If this is indeed the outcome, let it be known that the real reason for the Bulldogs’ hot blaze of glory has little to do with Des Hasler’s scientific and analytical style of coaching and penchant for making players ingest imported calf-blood milkshakes and everything to do with the fact that HE CREATED A NEW TEAM SONG PARTWAY THROUGH THE YEAR TO ‘MAKE IT RELEVANT’ AND WHEN THE PLAYERS, WHO ALL COLLABORATED ON THE LYRICS (AS IS EVIDENT) BELT IT OUT THEY ARE LED BY FRANK PRITCHARD ON GUITAR. It climaxes with the following:

“The Dogs are having a party,

The Dogs are having a party,

And (insert defeated team) are in the bin!”

Well, we’ll see about that. Literally. On Sunday.

Anyway, continuing with the one hand washes the other theme, I’d also love to see Cameron Smith really inconsolably upset, stricken, ashen, bereft, but, by the same token, I’d quite like to see him pleased and at peace too. I like to despise him and enjoy despising him but every time I see him on panel shows and hear him give his lucid analysis I end up thinking he’s great and admiring him for the obvious ice that runs through his veins. Is he going to make a great coach one day OR WHAT? It is my personal dream (not the only one, but one of several) that he coach the Raiders one day. To September glory, obviously. It is important to have long-range goals and dreams. That’s what the professionals tell me. The ones with framed qualifications hanging on their walls. But I digress. The other thing that impresses me about Cameron Smith, aside from him being very cool and very controlled and thus the ultimate big game player is that he is a great lover of history. I understand this to mean that he spends his free time on elaborate civil war reenactments and listening to Wagner’s operas at very high volume. Blake Ferguson and Sandor Earl spend theirs at Time Zone. Playing Guitar Hero.

Actually, I don’t really need to see Cameron Smith happy at all. I just remembered all those Origins. I’ve seen quite enough. Too much, as it were.  

This brings me back to Bellamy. Everything about the Storm brings me back to Bellamy. He’s the only thing I actually like about the entire outfit, including but not limited to the playing roster past and present, the shady fiscal history of the club and their associated moral transgressions, their colours, their mascot, their name, the name of their home ground, their wrestling skills and subsequent talent for slowing the ruck down to a slow benzodiazepine crawl, their staunch structure and their annoying and frequent habit of winning games with ease. What’s to like?

Well, Bellamy.

Bellamy coiled like a reptile in the coaching box.

Bellamy radiating a barely suppressed rage.

Bellamy contorting his elasto-silicone face into all manner of gruesome and painful expressions.

Bellamy inflicting irreparable damage on Mount Franklin bottles.

Bellamy rolling his eyes in their 360-degree-gyro-reticulated sockets.

Bellamy extending his telescopic hyper-stalk neck to full height.

Bellamy conveying the impression of a man perpetually on the edge of violent explosion.

Bellamy actually exploding violently.

Bellamy.

Recently Bellamy said that, retrospectively, he finds his behavior in the coaches box “quite embarrassing at times. [But] not all the time.”

“I don’t particularly worry about it too much but I don’t like it when they see me going off and saying the things I shouldn’t be saying. It is embarrassing for me and a little alarming for people at home watching.”

It’s not alarming, Craig. It’s awesome. Don’t change.

Names I Have Called the Canberra Raiders This Year

I have called the Raiders many things this year. This is what happens when you have a very loosely edited blog serving as a dumping-ground for your unconscious. You liken your team, often unfavourably, to a great variety of… things. It’s okay though. I love them.  

They make me foam at the eyes. They make my face turn an unhealthy shade of puce. They make me snap phrases such as “do I look like I had a good weekend?” Basically, they are a team that throws up regular challenges to one’s faith, endurance and sanity. I love them for this*. As such, and in the interests of my emotional equilibrium, we share an understanding and open relationship that allows a free-flow of opinion and emotion. It’s a bit one-sided, our dialogue, but that’s okay too. They’re busy. Busy doing whatever the hell it is anyone does there in that capitalist wasteland Canberra. Busy BEING AWESOME.

Some of the things I have likened the Canberra Raiders to / called the Canberra Raiders this year:

A Russian novel

A country song

A broke down busted fairground

The foolish interlopers who while looking for gas or directions are set upon by marauding hillbillies and raped every which way in one of those seventies exploitation movies

Unsuccessful contestants in a game of Catch The Oily Pig

Refugees from a Dickens novel

Perpetrators of my regular and alarmingly violent tension headaches

A third-world country with third world hygiene standards

Boil-ridden degenerates (see above)

1980s Warsaw

Courtney Love at her messiest

Old men sucking Werthers Originals

Clam chowder

A busted arse

The best team to follow in the comp bar none

 I miss them already.

 *It’s like Seinfeld’s ya gotta see the bayyybee woman says while changing her ugly baby’s shitty nappy. “But because it comes out of your baby it smells good!”

The Best Town in Tasmania

“Let’s go back to the Peninsula. We can stop in at Doo Town.”

“Doo Town? Again?”

“It’s a good place. I like it. Doo Town!”

(together) “Doo Town!”

“Doo-Doo’s.”

“You ape. That’s what you’d call yours isn’t it?”

“Doo-Doo’s. Or -  -  Doggy-Do’s! Doggy-Do’s!”

--- variations on this basically formed the basis of most conversations in the proceeding days. It was a good time.

Things No Daughter Wants To Hear Her Mother Say

Something bad has happened

I’ve had an accident

I had to run

It was this close

I didn’t make it

Have you got a plastic bag I can put these in?

Jay-Z's Mental Health Advice

Mental Health Advice from Jay-Z’s ‘Get Your Mind Right Mami’

Mamis! Wanting to get your mind right but not sure how to go about it? Here’s how.

1.Relax yourself; let your conscience be free

2.Make yourself hot -  the topic of discussion in every nail shop

3.Say bye to Reebok, say hi to Chanel -  say hi to Gucci, Prada as well

4.Take a look in the mirror, be proud of yourself

5.Brassiere get right  - A to a D cup -  weave get tight, pedicure your feet up

6.Hold this work in your dentures

7.Relax mami, let the Belvy flow – inhale the ‘dro, exhale it slow

8. Fuck with Hova. He can take you out of this hell

 

Metallica Song Dedications For Rabbitoh Players

Damage Inc.  – Greg Inglis

Overkill – Adam Reynolds

Blitzkrieg – Michael Crocker

My World – Greg Inglis

Battery – Ben Lowe

King Nothing – John Sutton

Wherever I May Roam – Greg Inglis

Crash Course in Brain Surgery – Sam Burgess

Bad Seed – Isaac Luke

Motor Breath – Chris McQueen

Fixxxer – Greg Inglis

Don’t Tread on Me – Nathan Merritt

Master of Puppets – Greg Inglis

Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth) – Eddie Pettybourne

So What – Shaune Corrigan

The Frayed Ends of Sanity – Roy Asotasi

Nothing Else Matters – Greg Inglis

Aint My Bitch – Luke Burgess

Whiplash – Nathan Peats

All Within My Hands – Greg Inglis

Invisible Kid - Andrew Everingham

Carpe Diem Baby – Dylan Farrell

Better Than You – Greg Inglis

Trapped Under Ice  - Jason Clark

Leper Messiah – David Tyrrel

Human – Justin Hunt

Some Kind of Monster – Dave Taylor

Die. Die My Darling - Greg Inglis

Hero(es) of the Day – Josh Dugan, Sandor Earl, Joel Thompson, Blake Feguson, Reece Robinson, Josh McCrone, Sam Williams, David Shillington, Glenn Buttriss, Dane Tilse, Josh Papalii, Joe Picker, Shaun Fensom, Shaun Berrigan, Jack Wighton, Mark Nicholls, Tom Learoyd-Lars, Jarrad Kennedy, Travis Waddell.

Welcome Home (Sanitarium) – Greg Inglis

Fade To Black – Greg Inglis.

This is Pretty Much All I've Done With My Life So Far

OhMama MY MIND. I’m going out of it.

I thought last weekend was bad. This is worse. But by worse I really mean better. Because obviously it’s fucking awesome and exciting and this week I have been as happy as I ever expect to be.

The tension, though, it takes a toll. I have an edgy nature and a diagnosed anxiety disorder and have carefully assembled my life in such a way so as to remove or negate as many extraneously stressful or disruptive elements as possible. Friends, for example.

Finals football is taking me right to the edge and I’ve also ramped up my coffee intake which has in turn ramped up the strength and duration of my facial twitches and people have been confined to their beds with leather straps for less or so I’m told but anyway it’s been great it’s been real.

((I’m just kidding about the facial twitching business. The majority of my twitching occurs when I eat big green feta-stuffed olives at Christmas time and it’s usually confined to one eye.))

After taking Monday off and giving serious consideration to not going in all week I showed up on Tuesday but warned my boss not to expect much too much as “It’s a big week for me.” He is used to my nonsense and he doesn’t ask questions, aside from the rhetorical ones he barks continuously (see several posts back). Like yesterday, noticing that I was extremely early “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE YOU SHIT THE BED DID YOU” at a volume that suggested he was communicating from the midst of a roaring blizzard and not, you know, leaning into my car window and about fifteen centimetres away from my face.  

All week I have been slightly obsessed with Josh Young Bull Papalii. His fiery exchanges with Paul Gal took me completely by surprise. They also seemed to surprise and unnerve Gallen. Here is what The Young Bull said: “Furnsey just told me to look after Gallen out there, it was a big ask and I still can’t believe I finished it off. He’s real experienced and a real scary guy, too.”

Here is what the Old Bull said: “I don’t really care about Papalii, he hit a dog shot with a swinging arm, and once in the back without the ball. He was coming from the blindside a lot. He got me high and from the back, he did well the boy.”

I feel terrible for Gal and wish the Sharks could have made it through too so I can’t go to town on this too much. I’ve tried. What happens is I think of Gal giving the Origin losers speech this year and last, and Gal being interviewed after the Raiders knocked them out, and Gal finishing his eighth double scotch of the evening at home in Cronulla every night since Saturday like a character out of a Raymond Carver story, blankly staring into the middle distance and considering the irrevocable march toward middle age, early-onset arthritis, death, and the very real possibility that the Sharks may not win a premiership on his watch and perhaps anybody else’s watch either during his lifetime which is rapidly ticking down tick tick tick jesus christ it’s enough to make you sick it’s enough to make any man take to drink hmmm that reminds me look at that mine’s empty again ANN?? ANN!!!!!  

But, Papalii. He really did do well. Every item written about him mentions his soft voice, his shy nature, his gentle soul and his enormous appetite. All viable topics. But - and I can scarcely believe it myself - no one has addressed the enormity of his thighs. I don’t know. Perhaps – just a hunch - my priorities differ from other people’s. Someone complained that this blog had become increasingly “unnecessarily homoerotik (sic)” to which I said a. no homoerotika (sic) is unnecessary and b. are you familiar with rugby league at all hello?

I don’t think it matters what I write about the thighs. If your world view is anything like mine and you see the chilling dystopian landscape through a graphic, luridly perverted lens you will be mesmerised by the comically muscular thighs and the unfortunate cut of short from which said thighs burst forth from volcanically in the above photo and will find your eyes swiveling back there because you find the sight so attractively appalling.

His head is also hilarious. My brother says it reminds him of a totem pole. I say it looks like something you would see on Easter Island. Either way, it too is enormous, and awesome, obviously.  - *Automatic eyeball swivel* -  But sweet jesus those are some truly thick thighs!! Thicker than molasses. Thicker than thieves. Thicker than Trent Barrett. Not as thick as Mark Gasnier.

Issues My Brother and I Have Discussed This Week

A List of issues my brother and I have raised and discussed re. the Raiders Rabbits game over the course of the week, bearing in mind that every communication has ended with one or usually both of us sighing and murmuring “heady times”, “isn’t it exciting” or “I’M SO FUCKING EXCITED I WANT TO KICK SOMEONE IN THE SPINE”

1. Who will Josh Palalii who we now refer to only as The Young Bull be instructed to get on top of this time? Taylor? Or Crocker? We have decided that we hope it is Crocker. We hope he unsettles Crocker like he did Gallen, and causes him to blow whatever fuses are left in the burned-out back-lots of his brain, thereby earning him time in the sin-bin. This is highly likely.

2. Jack Boom is back! We love Jack Boom. We are happy for Jack Boom. We expect to see him come off the bench and inject exuberant youthful aggression into the game. Jack Boom!

3. What is Joe Picker doing in the starting lineup? He was in the game for the final fifteen minutes last week and had no touches and made no tackles. He was a ghost player, in other words. Joe Picker needs to step up “or it’s back to the Bega Roosters for him.” Joe Picker also needs a haircut. He looks like an extra, sex unspecified, from a Motley Crue video. Absurd.

4. Only two forwards are on the bench. We hope that is enough for the big men of Souths.

5. “The odds between Souths and Canberra are widening. You know what that means don’t you?” “No, what does it mean?” “Souths have a very large supporter base who like to have a punt…And they punt with their hearts, not their heads. In other words, it means they are stupid!”

6. Dugan will be goal kicker. We hope he has been practicing by day and by night, as well as visualising himself popping curling hooking and landing clean balls as he listens to Tupac and as he sleeps. We hope it doesn’t come down to a penalty kick ala 2010 Raiders Tigers ie. THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED AND A PART OF JARRED CROKER DID TOO. We hope someone else is practicing too, in case one of Dugan’s flimsy limbs malfunctions or is bent backwards and twisted like an allen-key by someone again like how Jeremy Smith did last week THAT DOG THIS IS THE REASON NODDY KIMMORLEY LAPSED INTO A REVERENTIAL TONE AND CALLED HIM “ONE OF THE GREATEST THUGS OF THE MODERN ERA” RECENTLY DON’T FUCK WITH BAMBI BITCH AND ANYWAY HAHA YOU’RE PLAYING FOR THE KNIGHTS NEXT YEAR LOL WHO?

7. Greg Inglis must be shut down. It is essential. If you feel this point needs further elaboration or embellishment, seek out Joey Johns.  

8. How much we hate Souths.

9. How much we hate Souths.

10. How much we hate Souths.

Things My Boss Has Barked At Me

 -  -

What’s wrong with your back, rooter’s rick?

Darren can’t come in today his dog’s in heat

He’s got that bipolar! I don’t understand it but I think yer go off yer head?

No flies on you is there

No not that Bruce, big fat Bruce

That prick’s on the meth have you seen his eyes behind those glasses?

Creeping Jesus hasn’t been over here bothering you has he?

That fucken Junior I wish he had been deported

You’re like a daughter to me

I’m too fucken old for this

Carrrn the pies

Paul Gallen Boo-Boo

From the I Fucked Up files:

I have made an appalling discovery no not microphones hidden in the kitty litter worse than that it’s the sudden realisation that I have been spelling Paul Gallen’s name wrong FOR TWO YEARS. The only legitimate explanation aside from me being retarded is that the mere thought of Paul Gallen puts me in an altered state of consciousness and he’s lucky I’ve been able to type his name at all such is the brain-scrambling effect he has on me. He gives me vertigo. Well, I’m sorry.   

Anyway, here is evidence that Gal can be light of heart. Unless he is choking on that apple. Why is he even eating an apple anyway it doesn't seem right. Fruit? Pooh to fruit. He should be eating roasted swan.

There’s more.

ToddBlog would like the record to state that the person identified as J-bo in the previous post’s photo was not J-bo but in fact  - as she astutely pointed out -  “a short, stocky man”. J-bo is not short, she is not stocky and she is not a man. ToddBlog made a boo boo. Toddblog apologises for any distress this may have caused. ToddBlog was suffering from strobing eyes for most of yesterday after the heady night prior. ToddBlog is only now recovering its equilibrium.

Here is a nice photo to smooth things over. J-bo IS NOT PICTURED although she does look a lot like Drew Barrymore now that I think about it. Jesus Christ my eyes must really have been malfunctioning yesterday. Sorry girl.