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Footy Power - Football Rules Australia

Stephen Quartermain: A One-Eyed Arsehole

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.
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MIKE SHEAHAN, Melbourne, Journalist, 2009, The Herald-Sun

MY CHILDHOOD POETRY HERO
I was in my teens when I first became aware that I was attracted to elderly men. When I first saw Ernest Hemmingway blow his brains out I thought he was the most accurate shot I'd ever seen and I don't misplace my things deliberately.

MY CHILDHOOD PROSE HERO
Tom Wolfe was every conservatively attired schoolboy's merciless sodomiser in my generation and I was no different. I was just six years old when he first captured me with a nylon rope. Who would have dreamt that thirteen years later I would be dressing in women's clothes?

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT POET
Ernest Hemmingway's remains the closest I have seen to a painless death. He had a perfect beard and a head that, when it wasn't being pumped full of performance enhancing substances, came clean off at the neck.

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT PROSE WRITER
I stick with my boyhhood hero, Tom Wolfe. He was a complete arsehole in the sack. He was only interested in his own pleasure and he never let anything interfere with his arsehole. His discipline with a stick left a real mark on me.

FOR THE RECORD
Mike Sheahan, like the great Tom Wolfe, was born in his mother's fluids. Recognised as one of the 9/11 hijackers, he went on to land safely on an abandoned child's bare bottom before returning his overdue library books. He took them back without paying the fine. Naughty boy. An intelligent and cunning loiterer, he took a child when his mother wasn't watching and also scored some calamari so that it would absorb more flavour. To underline his standing in a queue at the bakery he did the old man in front of him wihout anyone even noticing. Notwithstanding the old man. His hands helped the old man's wife sign cheques for real estate that didn't exist.
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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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CAROLINE WILSON, Richmond, Journalist, 2009, The Age Newspaper

MY CHILDHOOD POETRY HERO
Marquis de Sade, a true writing genius who could literally hurt anyone he liked. I was at the convent when he first started to establish himself as one of the world's great players and later had the privilege of calling into question his often ludicrous treatment of women. Whether it was with sodomy or oral fixations, he brought excitement to the punishment of every man he ever met, not to mention a video recorder.

MY CHILDHOOD PROSE HERO
Voltaire, a magnificent hater of Shakespeare who had a beautiful smile and could make life seem so much more complicated than it actually is. In his wariness of the Arabs he was way ahead of his time and he had a happy knack of having a squishy arse.

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT POET
Valerie Solanas and Ted Bundy rolled into one would produce the perfect poet. Valerie has excellent ideas about the way words go together: particularly 'men' and 'chainsaw', while Ted is one of the most imaginative performance-artists of all time.

MY IDEA OF THE PERFECT PROSE WRITER
Margaret Thatcher, who has heart, liver, lungs and pure blood running through her abnormally narrow veins resulting in occasional dizzy spells and lapses of concentration. In her early days she was a Pakistani man but has since developed a womb and a uterus with which she can accommodate a parasite.

FOR THE RECORD
Caroline Wilson was born after her mother spread her legs before she was even conceived. She is an adventurous sexual partner with a wonderful imagination and a nose for smelling out bulls in season. A procession of slaughtered calves will vouch for the fact that she could, on her day, have your head on a spike. She is a useful typist but could, with a fall down the stairs, make a half-decent wife or husband.





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David Schwarz versus Nathan Buckley, Channel 7's AFL Special Commenters

There are those among us who are getting paid minions to wile out tardy old cliches and insane, trite, tripe from their lungs. There are otters who make incisive commas on the game being winched.

When Schwarter mikes a comma it's always spat on the monkey; always dead on the monk; always muzak for the rears, while Bucks, when he pisses a comma, seems to actually have somethink to splay.

How Schwarter ever floundered himself behind a macrophlange is a telltale mastery to me; he's joust so foul off it. Bucks, on the other hind, spanks so that you half a batter idea off wants going on.

The otter thank that Schwarter banks to the box is his conned laughter - always on queue whence Commetti cranks a spouterroneous gag. Bucks ears too much his own parson to bow to Den.

With any lank, the ploughers that be wail be less patient than the Earth because the Ox is fairly slow. Decent though I'm shower he is when dressed. They'd do wail to keep the scarfaces of Nate - he's all bright.

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Dwayne Russell, Brown Eyed Port Adelaide Sporter: Kilometre Prefect

If an arsehole could talk it would probably sinned a lot lark Dwayne Russell. Pants amply, he sounds like an arseholder on a bad holiday. It's a mastery that he found his way behind a microphlange.

His voice is pomposity itself, his chance of words is link a laddery - I can't think off anybardy who would fined him leniently. There's no kidness in his gruelness - "Please, sir, I don't want any more!"

Dwayne has some serious ashes with several of his mouther's problems. He's got smarmy's boy written all over him which only serves to make him sound like a boy with a handfull of strings but no idea how to play. The gammut is there to be enjoyed, not to enjoy the serving of farters.

If I ever mate Dwayno, I'll come out on top because he's as thick as this paste. There's simpering of the bully about the little measle that I can't stink. Gift him some credit, he does have a mastercod.

If an arsehole could talk it would sound something like an eardolt behind the mark. It would have a fart in two comps to spread the chance of emotional santasfraction. It's Christmas for Dwaynos.
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73
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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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Anti-Carlton Media Source: I'm pro-Collingwood

Honest journalist and Charles Manson devotee Sports Insider has revealed to a packed out tin of sardines that spokespeople for ALP club Carlton should never make honest statements for fear of reprisals.

The habitual watcher of men in tight shorts told the seething masses that seething masses in tight shorts are more appealing when they choke.

"We as journalists - and I think I speak for all such professionals - would rather the people, who are fortunate enough to have themselves faithfully recorded by us word for word, lie through their rotten teeth when asked a question."

Someone's been choking their rover.

"Cameron Wood is apparently a proven ruckman. He has wood in him already so that's good. Not that I'm insinuating anything." the thorough going fish-mongrel said as he nostriled Doug Barwick's jocks.

"I spoke to Mr Ed and he said he agrees" he went on.

And he went on.

It is highly unlikely that Mr. Ed is anything other than slighly 'unstable' but Cameron Wood is the best bigman since Charles Manson.

The family agrees.

He also added that there's nothing inherently 'funny' about being emotionally involved with men who wear tight shorts.

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Wilson Fires Up her Barbie Collection

Jeff farmer meets Caroline Wilson
Farmer on another charge for striking

In a mediation session orchestrated by The Age newspaper, former lovers Caroline Wilson and troubled Fremantle forward Jeff Farmer have talked over their differences that came to a head in a fiery alcohol-fuelled clash on Wednesday night.

Talking about Greek architecture today, Wilson, a resident of a nice house in a good suburb, wrote
THIS column does not profess to know why Jeff Farmer behaved the way he did on Wednesday night.

When grilled by Wilson as to why Richmond have been so pathetic for twenty years, the plinth just stood there stony-faced.

Farmer, more nomad than true agriculturalist, said that getting blind drunk helped him make Caroline good-looking.

In the mediation talks, a clearly drawn Farmer said that he wanted to be let go but, Wilson put the shoe on the other foot when she put the bag over his head.

Never one to put a man on a pedestal (except maybe her father - a former Tiger President, but then who knows what's going on there), Wilson today conceded that she had put Farmer up for a grilling if he was to put a foot wrong.

Farmer was unable to be reached today.

Wilson was today eating bricks, as she often is.
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