Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
A stag beetle reviews the Australian cricket team
05/17/2012Posted by on
G’day mate! Hehe, I love that Ozzie accent. Let’s slap another shrimp on the barbie! Oh man, I just couldn’t resist it that time. Them Ozzers are just mad. So lively. So loud. So utterly and compellingly racist. I guess that’s what happens when you are stuck down there on a crappy island in the Pacific Ocean with nothing but deadly insects and a rubbish sport to keep you entertained. Not that there is anything wrong with insects of course. In fact if I am honest, I don’t mind cricket too much either. And the whole racism thing – who isn’t just a teensy bit territorial and suspicious of outsiders? I tell you, if a woodlouse snuck into my hole under the stairs and tried to cosy up under my lump of belly-button fluff I would tell him to clear off.
Right then. Ever since Shane Warne quit as Australia’s best bowler so that he could spend more time getting plastic surgery done on his face, the Australian cricket team just ‘aint been the same really. Where are the characters? What happened to all the fun pranks like setting fire to the team bus and then shagging your own sister in the middle of the road? Back in the day, I used to love crawling out to the middle of the field after a game had finished. When they removed the stumps from the ground there was always a nice, round hole for me to sleep in. Obviously I had to be on the lookout for owls on the way there ‘cos they are greedy buggers who love to gobble up little bugs for a quick snack, but once I was there I was happy as Larry. Sometimes the woodlice would ask if they could come in as well but I just told them there was no way they were getting anywhere near my hole. No way hozay, no way.
Anyone remember Merv Hughes? He was a legend back in the 1980s although he couldn’t actually bat for shit; people only liked him because of that crazy moustache of his. It sort of made him look like a paedophile but boy did he look fierce! I was always worried that a bowler would mistake me for a cricket ball and send me flying through the air at Merv. My concern was not so much about having my guts splattered all over the place, but because Merv was rubbish. The hairy oaf would miss and then I would land slapbang in the middle of his hairy lip. The mere thought of those testosterone-filled tendrils scrabbling around my backside gives me the creeps.
Mind you, his scent would be good for warding off woodlice.