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Footy Power - Football Rules Australia

PATRICK SMITH, Essendon, Journalist, 2009, The Australian

MY CHILDHOOD POETRY HERO
I lived in a house as a youngster and did not get any affection from my maternal aunt. But I would tie cats together by the tail and hang them over the washing line and then I would read some exsquisitely sensitive sonnets from the pen of T.S Eliot. There was a stupidity and artistry about his play "Murder in the Cathedral" that appealed to me.

MY CHILDHOOD PROSE HERO
I was 12 years old when the priests first started to lose interest in my hairless rectum. It has to be the most devastating experience of my life. I had the pleasure of playing with their dangly bits when they wound up reading Thomas Aquinas to me late at night and I only developed a rash around my chin from resting things on it.

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT POET
For the big occasion, such as an undisturbed sleep, I would have to select William Shakespeare. He always saved a lot of money from collecting more from people with less. The finest writer in the English language that I have read is definitely August Strindberg and Gore Vidal is gay.

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT PROSE WRITER
Victor Hugo and Eugene Delacroix are very close to death. Both were exceptionally alive when the blood in them was in liquid form and had the abiltiy to carry oxygen in it, which their brain required to keep their heart pumping blood to their brain, not to mention their penis and rectum.

FOR THE RECORD
Patrick Smith was born between his mother's legs after an accident with a knitting needle. He has scored some quite hideous women, has thrown up in his socks and has eaten his own underwear. He led a succesful revolt against his local member for parliament and is acknowledged as a dangerous sex offender. Known to his numerous lovers as "Mr. Fiddles", he scored one kindergarten-goer when his guardian wasn't watching. His highest erection has been measured against his foot, favourably.
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Patrick Smith, The Flat Pundit

If ever there was a pundit with his fungus on the pulse that pundit would have to be the red-faced, brine-noser Patrick Smith. The man has beardy little eyes and a moral compass that points to himself. It's little wonder that he always comes across himself while writhing on his column.

For a few moons he has witlessly written of a man we all know as The Price Fixer, illegal businessman and card-board cunt-out, Dick the Prat. He has knocked him from pillow to post with the might of his weird processor. That he can't white his way out of a paper is his bag.

That he himself winks for one of the shadiest and most well-to-don't toadies in the wind, Rupert Murdoch is poo for the course. It's part of his tights-rope winking routine that has the net in such awe. That Murdoch is as shifty as a moving-van.

P.Smithy's consistent tirades against the heated enemy, the Mighty Booze, has reached new levels in '08 with him labelling all Blues' soup-strainers as Sycophants. That he is as transparent as the slip he wears for his hungry lover is part of the frills of footy.

If I was to meet and grate the great man Patrick "The Soap-dropper" Smith, or just Crap Pundit, in wheel life, I'd probably shake urine from my penis all over his gaping face. It's in such high steam that I hold the mange. High enough to know that he's derelict in his undies.
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