Footy Power - Football Rules Australia

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November 11th 2008 @ 23:02

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Adam Hartlett

Adam Hartlett, a lot of meat on his head, is a hamstrung hobbler with a leg like a mule and the brain to match. It's under pressure that the leg that lands him on the big stage becomes too tense and snaps at the back resulting in a spell in the seconds.

The Hair: more on the face than on the scalp says so much more than the other way. A round haughty fist. High-brow. Knacker-dragger. Lashes of cream. Visage of

. Armpits down to the ground. Latches on to handbags. Runs like a heffer on fire.

The Teeth: what happens when cousins consummate their innate desire. Behind a rubber-rim of a lip. Bites things betwixt and between. Grinds to a plop! Wears deep in the head. Sinks them into your bottom. Tears off. Talks through a clenched anus.

The Skin: keeps it together. Heals when broken. Bleeds from the inside. Layer upon layer upon layer. Gives the game away. Breaks out in a rush. Feels things with it. Hides the unsightly innermost workings. Picks scabs. Eats them. Slip, slop, slaps.

Gianni Versace says: "It'll always remain with me that bullet that lodged in my pelvis. It's just one of those things that, no matter how hard I try to escape a brutal death, I won't be able to avoid. I probably have it coming to me. I mean, a suit on a woman? What was I thinking? Women look like men, I think."

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November 10th 2008 @ 02:11

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Shaun Hampson

Shaun Hampson, a dopey dope-smoker with his hand on a hammer and his eye on your unguarded cranium, can run really awkwardly and for short distances with a hammer and with a gait that'll have you wondering how to escape with your life.

The Hair: just another day in paradise, for you and me. Brushes with a severed hand. The crowning glory of his inherent ugliness. Can't pretend. Any longer. All over the shopfront. Wears it in a bun. Some on his head when coming through the canal.

The Teeth: keeps them under his hat. Sharpens to make a point. Defiles his vaccum. Sucks them at will. Pushed them out with his word-articulator. Bites down when not to. Said to hurt. Not like that. That's the stuff. What are you stopping for? Gets lots of hits.

The Skin: folds it up and keeps it under the armpit. Wears pretty thin. Burns in the muddle of the day. Under the hot sin. Carries it around. Wears it well. Strikes a cord over your head. Wraps it around. Pulls it tight. Carries it around over the shoulder. Brags.

Mark Philippoussis says: "I first realised that there was something special about me when I could hit a small object really hard and in the vicinity of where I wanted. After that, I had no qualms about thinking that when a women said "no" she really meant "unless you can get me to leave my drink unguarded." It turned out she was right."

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November 8th 2008 @ 01:20

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Barack Obama

Barack Obama, someone you wouldn't want to see in a dark alley - even if you could, hangs around in dark alleys where he lives with his husband and comrades plotting to stick you up with a pencil-sharpener and a packet of dead matchsticks.

The Hair: it's not what you'd call straight. Frizzy. Short on substance. Absorbs the sin. Keeps the brain at cardboardbox-room-temperature. Colourless. Stinky to the touch. Nothing to go by. Keep it under your that. Comes away in clamps.

The Teeth: keeps them by the side of his head. Chews your rear off. Sucks them. Says to say, cheese. Nothing like the grill of a hearse. Death itself. A perfect fit. Gets thongs stuck in between. You've got some green stuff. That's got it.

The Skin: death rides a hearse. Black as the farty pits of that hill. Tastes salty. Swollen glands. Lays in the thing. Calls it, very close. Runs away with your longings. Says that. Couldn't arm a fly. Reeks of sincerity. Sheds it when necessary.

Jerry Seinfeld says: "When I was told that I had inoperable female reproductive organs where my anus goes, I was shocked. Nurses had been telling me for months that my anal-bleeds were something I should get examined. Until I did, I never would have known that it wasn't natural to only bleed every now and then. Yes, I didn't."

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November 5th 2008 @ 23:08

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Richard Hadley

Richard Hadley, a knee-trebling slow-twitching fibro-house-warming workmanlike-perfuming defender, is a bit on the close side of constantly checking where his opposing number is, and in that regard he means business is fine, thanks for asking.

The Hair: stumble on the chin. Head tanned just so. Churlish behind the rear. Browned off. Robs two sticks to get her. Covers the things on the side. Dressed by the bland. Works for next to nothing. Runs on guess. Extends himself at every photo opportunity.

The Teeth: stick out like dogs'. Best not to say. My mother always told me. Chews through electrical cable. In the roof. Scurries around. Wakes in flight. An awful jawful of the things. Eats anything. Known to man. Likes the sewers. Prefers company of stranglers.

The Skin: ruddy. Cruddy. Hen-peckered. Keeps the vile bits from falling to the floor. Blisters in the sin. Keeps the nasties out. Runs on batterings. Never can say goodbye. Finds some issues a bit ticklish. Reads the articles. Kept every issue since forever.

Rene Descartes says: "If it's a crime to wear women's underwear and rub my nipples with my chaffeur's disembowelled butler then, I'm a criminal. But who are you to judge me? You'll find that I don't have one of those. Try aound the back......There. Don't stop!"

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November 5th 2008 @ 01:15

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Shaun Grigg

Shaun Grigg, always a bit of toe in hand, is an unnaturally footed bile-carrier. In your face. Up your bum. On your hammer. Weighs his position. Curries the bile. A bag of calcium architecture. Late on his feet. Armpits like the furry pits of you-know-where.

The Hair: non-descript. Too neat to be true. Anal as a head on a shoulder can be. Sideburns over the eyes' holes. Plays on the fringe. Good with numbers. Strong on the comb. Light on the product. Big on the scales with a bag of dead dogs' legs.

The Teeth: jaw at right-angles. Tingles when he sees you. Tinkles the ovaries. Vies for possessions. Mirthful of the things. Laughed so hard. Passed myself. Masticates in public. The jerks on you. Bruises towards the gum. Inhales food but doesn't smirk.

The Skin: folds are off the chart. Tinned in a can. No booby's bottom. Cracked with too much sin. Pales in a dark place. Braises easily. The scar's the limit. Robbed it. Smiles like a bucket of dead fish. Wears the thing out! Winks in the cold. Covers the rust.

John Laws says: "When I was a small boy, I would spend hours on the trampoline. When my turn was over, I would hang around the springs; unhook my bra and rub Alan Jones' face in my heaving and undeveloped femininity. So, yes, I know what you mean. I feel like I need to heave."

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November 3rd 2008 @ 22:52

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Bryce Gibbs

Bryce Gibbs, a flesh-faced foot-boweller, can do a lot of things well. Poise around the groin. Daft hands are terrific. Bit hefty in the legs. Culpable of praying in a variety of positions. Snot-arse. Willing to, dare I say, make sacrificial acts to shave our shade.

The Hair: that cuts it. All over the place. Spiky here. Tufty there. Some shade of shit. Riddled with product. Can't keep his hands out of the stuff. A cretinous dispossession. Eyebrows on the way up. Nostril hair keeps the shit from entering the cranial cavity.

The Teeth: at last count, too many to count. Irregular shape. Big grinders near the back make the ladies go all mushy. The sharp ones cut the custard. Sharp at the front. Blunt in the ear. Holds a smoke in his vagina. Chews cigars. Just blurts it out. After all that.

The Skin: splotchy and dotty. Scratches it with a bucket of sandpaper. Attaches sandbags to it to make it sag. Looking to put some things under the surface. Superficial. White as a pair of new fangled undies. Burns in the sun. Hates the thing. Warts and all.

Herodotus says: "When I first hit upon the idea of writing history, I was looking over Thucydides's shoulder. He would often parade me around the streets in a bag on his back. He forgot that I had that big sharp object in my arm. A femur. I took it from my elbow and stabbed him, repeatedly. I then hit upon the idea of burying his body in his wife. You should have been there. All in good time."

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November 2nd 2008 @ 22:42

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Brad Fisher

Brad Fisher, unable to kick over a jar of jam, has spent years refining his carefully constructed public appearance so as to conceal violent thoughts, that he occasionally acts out in the carefully constructed privacy of his garage.

The Hair: this player, aware that premature ejaculation often accompanies premature baldness, is unaware that after you've done it a few times you get the hang of cutting it to make it appear that it's not really happening at all.

The Teeth: my dead uncle, having it off with his daughter, once told me that the teeth are a true indicator of a person's inclination towards having sex with his daughter, which is why he never let this player anywhere near the house.

The Skin: there are sausage-rolls that have been in the pie-warmer for weeks on end that have more life in them than this player's all-over body-organ, which makes it even more suspicious that he says those stains are tomato sauce.

Greg Chappell says: "One of my deepest regrets is that I never pursued my dream of becoming a school-teacher. When I look out the bedroom window and see the children going off to school, I think to myself: 'I wonder if I started masturbating would anyone see me?' It's too late now."

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October 30th 2008 @ 23:30

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Brendan Fevola

Brendan Fevola, a face that sits in front of his brain like some strange instrument for detecting the outside world, has a look on his face that says that his brain is capable of telling his arms to grab you by the skin and rip your bladder out through your mouth.

The Hair: if an unbalanced cut is an indication of an inclination towards violent acts of depravity then I'll have the short back and long sides, thanks. This player, stuttering on the big stage, has a head of hair in a constant state of shooting upwards and inwards.

The Teeth: when dentists told this player that he'd never walk again, he, this player, got up out of his chair and made the stunning realisation that his legs had been grafted into his mouth, which merely serves to enhance the delicate precision of his fart-skills.

The Skin: after being horribly disfigured protesting a justified war, this player, his unfashionable attire burnt into his skin, stole someone else's soul-suit off the washing line and a pair of his own grandmother's eyeballs which he gouged out with his left knocker.

John Newcombe says: "I'm not easily offended, but I have to say that ever since the Empire went Imperial, the godless hoarders have come to know the true meaning of the words 'anyone for a tennis ball doused in petrol inserted in their anus and then set alight?' I rather thought so. I thought not, rather."

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October 29th 2008 @ 00:11

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Jake Edwards

Jake Edwards, the sort of cocked-back head you wouldn't mind knocking into next week, is an illiterate meat-head. For this, you'd consider sitting down over a steak with him so that you could teach him the meaning of the word pain, as in the OED.

The Hair: unless you like flossing while masticating, it's best if you remove the hair from this meaty meat-head's chinny-chin-chin. If you do like doing the former while doing the latter, then you can just broil or roast the thing, until your cheeks fall.

The Teeth: when this meat-head bites into your arm, because you looked at him sideways, you'll know the true meaning of the word ouch. He might contend that the meat on your humerus was just cause, but you'll gouge his arse out, digitally.

The Skin: you could try drying it out over the course of several meals, and then making shoes from it or you could stretch it over a cylinder and make beautiful music. If you decide to do neither, just make sure you don't get caught in your fly. That absolutely kills!

Stefan Edberg says: "I really don't know why my forehead is so shit. I mean who ever heard of someone with a better backhand than their forehead. I'll tell you who has a shit forehead. That ball-girl I abducted, raped, sodomised but returned safely."

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October 27th 2008 @ 22:55

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Cameron Cloke

Cameron Cloke, a strapping flagellator in the spirit of the finest self-mutilators of yore, is best described as indescribable. If you bumped into him in the street he wouldn't hesitate to give you a good dressing-gown and a slipper in the eyes.

The Hair: it doesn't take much imagination to imagine Cameron sitting on the toilet, because he routinely sends happy-snaps to all his friends. I remember the first time he went to the toilet in bed. He imagined I was standing over the toilet.

The Teeth: you'd pray that Cameron would sew his lips together again, when you see him unfurl a buck-toothed smile that'll send you into fit on some new trousers. His charred-body you could only recognise as his from another's by his.

The Skin: welted and forlorn, Cameron's racially sensitive soul-suit is a mixture of his mum and his dad who he butchered, ate and skinned one fine day. If you see their son, hide and then hit him really hard with a few blunt remarks and run.

Jeff Thomson says: "Don't tell anybody but, I think I might have a prolapse of the anus. Every time I drop Cathy Freeman off at the pool, I nearly touch the water. Just one thing though, I think I might have been farted by my own mother."

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October 25th 2008 @ 22:39

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Andrew Carrazzo

Andrew Carrazzo, a shrunken head on this body, has a head that you'd swear you'd ask a bag for, if you were asked politely. The body, which we'll get to later too, you'd ask a sharp blade for and a few more bags, please. The big green plastic ones.

The Hair: the best thing about Andrew's hair is that it gives you something to grip when you're cutting his head from his wriggling body. It is wriggling that you'll have to snatch him off the street, bundle him into the car and put your foot down.

The Teeth: when you're knocking out his front ones to make way for whatever you want, you'll be aware that Andrew brushes away from the gums. So healthy are they, you'll wonder about preserving his soft, forgiving head in the refrigerator for later.

The Skin: there's more than enough to cover his internal organs, and it's with this in mind that you'll seriously consider luring Andrew to the butchershop, where you'll order him about with a meat-cleaver, and put him in the window with a sprig of thyme.

Rod Marsh says: "People often stop me on the street asking for directions. I'll tell you what I tell them. You follow this road for about a metre, then take the first left; when you see the big sign, take a right and follow that road for about two minutes, sitting on about 160."

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October 24th 2008 @ 00:33

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Steven Browne

Steven

Steven Browne, reprehensible reprobate and rebounding defender, has the look of a young man on the move; hopefully not next door to you, I might add, but I won't. As a neighbour, you wouldn't dare do unto him what he would do to you, unless you are.

The Hair: if Steven's hair could, you should grow it long to cover up the unsightly business going on under it; namely, his face. You'd wish, if you happened to be seated opposite him, that you, yourself, could be cast into a farting bucket of arseholes for relief.

The Teeth: Steven's should be sewn into the back of his head, so he can get an idea of what it feels like to have it done to him. You couldn't possibly imagine the agony his dentist goes through when he's opening up Steven's cavity for a good lick: pure hell.

The Skin: despite many skin-grafts, Steven's soul-holder, leathery as buggery, is as leathery as the nose up your arse. Dermatologists, getting the gist through a quick skim, are dismayed about the horrible bags and rings under his arse, yet they say nothing.

Gai Waterhouse says: "I see Steven around the traps, from time to time. We're just not sure what kind of things he likes to eat. I'm told that he eats rocks, but I've never seen him. I think my husband is trying to kill me. If anything happens to me, I want to be cremated."

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October 21st 2008 @ 02:25

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Cattle, 2009

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Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Paul Bower

Paul

Paul Bower, the defender of all things worth defeaning, gives one the impression of some famous person you've never heard of, which is quite embarrassing. If given the chance, he'd take you off mercilessly, whipping you to shreds.

The Hair: what can you say about the most disgusting head of hair in human history that hasn't already been said? You should start by checking your facts, because I think you'll find that Paul's hair is really rather fetching, indeed I do.

The Teeth: it's not unkind to say that Paul's teeth, rotten to the core, are, if my facts are anything to go by, all rotten to the root. If he ever smiles in your general direction you'll know what they mean when say that he's better off not.

The Skin: you've probably seen old cups of coffee with nicer skins than the one Paul's soul lives in, until such time as he falls off and pisses into the next. If you do see my coffee, don't touch it, or I'll rip your head off and use it as my own.

Seve Ballesteros says: "I'll never forget the first time Paul introduced himself to me in the gents'. I nearly fell of my stool. He was claiming to be able to tell the future by looking into my arse. He said the arse was the window to the soul. Bollocks!"

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