we have faced our ghosts and now its time to enjoy our foirt foray into spring and at the same time enjoy the stumbles of others far less fortunate....so
Take the Tigers, now please, take them. Unfortunate critters really, they gave us a great poem by WB and @#$%&! all else since. I think they'll finish 9th again.
Lest we forget there is Collingwood, now poised for a Swann dive into the depths of their black stripes - They shall discover this season, the true meaning of depth - its something you fall into, a plummet, a screaming, flaming, bouncing buffoonery of wrong choices - much like Dale's hair.
Of course Sheeds in never far from the limelight, the nothing up my sleeves, nothing in my head madman who always casts a shadow by speaking in riddles sillier than those of Nostradamus. The media hang themselves upon his goose-stepping words, blind themselves to a simple fact - the bombers should finish last with 3 wins - and will not because an old man demands eternal youth - this is how the bombers end not with a bang but a whimper....
West Coast have had me in ecstasy all week. Have they peaked? Have they sugar-coated themselves with the snowy powder of ego? Hey babies, take a walk on the wild side.
The Saints - no really the Saints - expect them to do really well again and again to come home empty handed - ahhh how just that they have found a new way to torment themselves - only a saint can outdo the devil!
Speaking of Demons, I hear Robbo thinks Melbourne can go all the way. Yep the Preacher has been preaching to his converted but
my guess is that even with their Maclean's ring of confidence they'll be lucky to sit as high as foruth by yultide's arrival.
Fremantle might shock us all and make the finals and lose them just as easily. They have the stork and plenty of babies but they may just have the wrong touch of the west coasts - mind you that makes them a perfect home for Tarrant baby who flies high and kicks less goals with every passing year.
The Lions just plain and simply shit me - I think it comes from having a coach with a squealing voice and a face as ugly as my poor departed grandfather's dead arse! I hope they come last and fear they will (which means the AFL will find a way to give 'em some boost - perhaps they'll go undrug-tested for a few more years)!
Circling the dead arses we have the Crows, carrion feeders, stinking breath's befoullers of all we love and breathe. These birds love to roost up high but always come a cropper in Septembers warm winds. Scavengers are like that. They breed well and lack the substance to accomplish great deeds.
And in any storm there is Port with their puked out jumper and puked up song. I hope Port settle in for the long haul - lest say about 3rd last, a pissing little tug boat at the end of a glorious convoy.
We must not forget the Hawks singing in their piss and shit, swine of the football world, bandy-brained Johnny-come latelys (and lately not coming at all) who swagger into every preseason, choke on their words and swiftly fall. Far well bright brown and yellow piss heads of the fall! You'll soon teeter and fall like the shit carriers you really are.
The 'Scrays seem to be good things- everyone loves a dead horse continent with the sad dogs eyed supporters and the bare cupboards - @#$%&! 'em I say, those bare cupboards will remain that way for at least another year.
And with the sad Doggies sit the sad Cats purring in their little town mentality as if winning sometimes actually means anything - notice how they all puff up their chests and speak with that squeaky irritating voice of Bobby Davis. The cats will display another brilliantly apathetic season, what do you expect - cats are a law unto themselves and disappoint everyone - especially themselves.
We have the Roos bounding into the ether, the yardsticks of failure, the homeless, boneless, blind never-weres of the competition. The question is simple - will they be around next year or the next?
Lastly with have the Swannies, the old red and white minstrels who once sang to us with gay abandon and tight red pants but who now play the game far too serious for any one's good. I reckon they get so down they all self-incinerate while sitting on their couches pretending the woes of others will never touch their gold noses.
So it'll be us, the baby bluebaggers who sweep the season into a huge pile pof navy blue glories. Heck even if I am wrong I'll be right 'cos we've seen our uncle @#$%&! our mother and have lived to tell the tale!
Go Blues!
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