Except perhaps when my scarf gets itchy, in all of football, nothing gets me hotter around the collar than the biased calls of a commentator. And when it comes to unashamedly twisting things to suit their perverted middle-class outlook, Channel Ten's main-man Stephen Quartermain has stamped himself as the full package.
I've seen Quartermain in public. He's the sort of shit-kicking fart-sniffer who, while parading his prambulator around, gives the impression to women of the opposite sex that he's good husband-material. The fact is, Stephen is a dud-root. Worse still, I'd go as far as to say that, while not openly homosexual, he should declare his true leanings.
Too add weight to my assertions that Stephen Quartermain is the living embodiment of death, the 'man' entrusted with slipping football into our living rooms at 17:42 every weeknight manages a smile and a joke from a face that reeks of the arseholes he's been sucking. It is every night, between breaks, that Quartermain manages to refrain from what he calls, "a taste for unwashed anus." Nice.
It is unwashed anus that Quartermain and the likes of him, respected sluts for the big end of town, crave as they haul their slippery bodies up the ladder of success. It's no surprise to me then that Stephen's mouth - a tight and mean opening in the media - is so feared and admired by every piece of arse that should have the misfortune of getting a good licking.
I don't mean to sound critical, but let's look at Stephen's attempts to insert himself into every single opening that is presented to a well-respected brown and gold-noser. Now that we've done that, it's time for a break. Stephen's legs would do nicely, thank you.
That the best Macedonian since Alexander the Greek played most of his careering down a hill with perfect balance, exsquisite poise, elegant utilitarianism, and sharp eyes is a testament to smoking marijuana or eating carrots.
That Alex ate carrots is as a given as it is that Mac the Marvel smoked them in the big one between the Woods with the Bongers. That he did so with only a few touches of the leathery thing he carried about his crotch with aplomb is yet more proof of his habits.
On that fine day when the drought broke, The Macadamian Marble, in the pressure cooker of a terse situation, made silk fom a pug's ear with a couple of lovely sausage rolls. It was all that his army needed to get the juggernaut rolling to their flag.
It couldn't have happened to a finer fellow than Mac the Marve. He played much of his days in the heavy traffic after his mother threw the ball on the autobahn and told him to felch. There he was a minefielder with the best of them; collecting others' possessions to appease his hobbit.
Only later did he assume the role of a smack forward and he did so with rare precision. Nailing gold through the eyes of a camel on a regular bias. Potshots that stilt cause Manichaen rainbows to peal out across the blue skies. If memory scares me correctly, twice was all his mop needed to clean up the filthy smallgoods.
If ever a bloated deceased marsupial was over the line in the pocket it was in the 1979 Grand Final between Carlton and Collingwood. That it was tapped from the carpark into the square to be dribbled through for a dribbler just adds more assault to the wound-up.
It was a short stocky man with short stocky arms and short stocky legs and short stocky short and curlies who shot out a mongrel from a long way out. He ran onto the crappy punt of a kick, his short and girlies pimping feverishly.
When he reached the dying marsupial sprawling for safety he peeled his meat and potatoes on the wet ground of the hollowed G. His short and stinky arm extending as he put a pimple-picker on the perished possum - for the pooping possum was over the chalk.
The carcass cartwheeled into the cacking face of a short and ballsy shrimpbag, part of a mosquito's feet, who duly popped it through the bug stacks. That the whole affair was completely missed by the men in white was appealling to wobbly-chuckers.
The running in elipsis man on the side failed to seeth. He refused to put his instrument to his lips. Not because he couldn't but because he was in the pocket of the then silver-spooners, now wooden spooners.
If anyone ever doubted the existence of our father who art those doubts were swiftly allayed by the performance he put in to lose the 1989 Grand Final to a hoard of men in brown undies. Truly the heathens did shite their pants that day.
God asserted his dominance from the opening morning of the first day, making the world out of nothing and slotting through the world's first man and woman. He kicked Eve with relish or chutney or mustard or tomato sauce.
By half-time Our Lord had created a flood and, in a very physical match, used himself like a projectile to break a non-believer's rib; later using it to make more people who he did smite. Moses himself couldn't have parted his ribs any better.
The Holy charge by God's people, however, would ultimately fall short of the promised land, with the Heathens holding on by six points in what would go down in history as one of the day's that God revealed himself. It wouldn't be untiil his son came along that his people would meet his son.
God's 17 disposals, 8 marks, and 9 goals, earned him a place in heaven, but it was the variety with which he collected his possessions, the miraculous marking, the booting of people's melons and kicking them out of the park that will live on in my VHS recorder.
When Mark "The Garden Nose" Yates came off the square to deliver a sandwich to Dermott "The Kid" Brereton in the 1989 Grand Final between Hawthorn and Geelong, ribs for The Kid went and lost the lot on a horse.
That they had packed it in in the first minute of 100 didn't stop The Kid from bagging three from deep in the pocket. It was a tip-top performance from an icon of the sandwich industry.
The Hawks at that time must have had very deep ones to keep that team together. Lots of bread in the pantry. Tight because of their jeans and loose because of their bread.
One of those kicks through the big sticks was from a particularly juggling mark that must have seemed pretty difficult to all but myself.
At the end of that day, that last sitting day of September '89, those three solid goals fom The Kidder added up to about 18 points - more than enough to cater for a win despite the delivery of a dirt sandwich behind the playground.
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