When the thunder storms start increasing over the southeast
And south central portions of my apartment, I get upset
And a line of thunderstorms was developing in the early morning
I was ahead of a slow moving cold front, cold blooded
With, with tornado watches issued shortly before noon Sunday
For the areas including, the western region of my mental health
And the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally with my
Disconcerted precarious emotional situation
It’s cold out there, colder than a ticket taker’s smile at the Ivar theater
On a Saturday night
Flash flood watches covered the southern portion of my disposition
There was no severe weather well into the afternoon
Except for kind of a lone gust of wind in the bedroom
In a high pressure zone
Covering the eastern portion of a small suburban community
With a 1034 millibar high pressure zone
And a weak pressure ridge extending from my eyes down to my cheek
‘Cause since you left me baby, put the vice grips on my mental health
Well the extended outlook for an indefinite period of time
Until you come back to me baby
It is high tonight, low tomorrow, and precipitation is expected”
Tom Waits – “Emotional Weather Report”
Gorgeous late autumn sunshine over Lake Taupo. Sitting on the deck of a mate’s bach (shack for you itinerants) with a Moa pale ale, contemplating how many more years of indentured servitude before this is a permanent lifestyle.
When there was a decent footy match on Easter Monday I couldn’t get the Ithingameaflapp to work, but back at Papamoa Beach last night the bloody thing worked like a dream.
Ten minutes into the last quarter the Avenging Eagle was cock a hoop, as the Eagles has dominated possession for the last 40 minutes and were 3 goals ahead in a low scoring game. I started to pace. I’ve seen this movie before.
Carlton were a joke. The Eagles were inept. We bombed long to taller forwards than Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Manute Bol and Yao Ming. Our crumbers had their same elegant nimbleness, as we scrambled, rushed and dismissed countless opportunities.
The Blues were on the slab. Pale. Pulseless. But you can’t kill zombies. Our teenagers frolicked carelessly, while I yelled “watch out he can still come back and get you.”
I tempted fate by revelling in how pathetic and incompetent Bryce, Daisy and Robby were. But Carlton said we’ll see you and raise you a Sharrod, Josh and Nic.
4 goals up with 10 minutes to go. Garlett goals on the run. We give away a brainless 50 for Tuohy to add another.
I know what’s coming. I can’t sit and watch the inevitable zombie rampage at the end of all slasher flicks. I am pacing my mate’s kitchen drinking anaesthetising stubbies while the Avenging Eagle is transfixed by the pale light of the tiny screen.
“Its an express train coming – not the healing light,” but like all teen screen chicks she is deaf to imploring logic. Its all a blur. The horror. The horror.
As we sink into the quicksand of the Carlton avalanche, a hand reaches out of the slime. Selwood’s rushed snap from 20 metres out to tie the scores hits the top of the post. I know that the hand we have grabbed belongs to the zombie killer, not a kindly rescuer. All these movies end like this.
We don’t deserve to win. But neither do that weak, spineless mob with the Porridge guard look-a-like coach.
Mr. Mackay: I think some of you wrongly assumed that I had left you for good. But, as you see, nothing could be further from the truth. Only… I am somewhat disturbed to hear what has been happening in my absence. So now… We’re going to have a new regime here, based not on lenience and laxity but on discipline, hard work and blind, unquestioning obedience. Feet will not touch the floor. Lives will be made a misery. [At the door] I am back, and I am in charge here.
Fletch and Godber: [singing] For ‘e’s a jolly good fellow, for ‘e’s a jolly good fellow, for ‘e’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.
Kennedy dribbles a left foot poster. Shuey tries the miracle shot from the boundary when a smart footballer (not) would have centred it to the top of the square.
It’s over. How could you give any side 4 premiership points for that shambles of a game? I remember laughing uproariously at the last half of the Blues and Tigers. But THIS is not funny.
The Avenging Eagle tries all the traditional helpful placating lines. “Its only a game.” “At least they tried hard.” “They are only young boys.”
“I DON’T CARE IF THEY LOSE, I JUST WANT THEM TO FIND A DIFFERENT ##**!!! WAY TO LOSE.”
For the past 2 years we have had the poorest disposal skills, and the most boneheaded antiquated forward structure of any of the serious teams in the AFL. On the balance of play and work rate we should have won by 6 goals +. I can take being beaten by better sides like Geelong and Port, but I HATE losing to a spineless rabble like Carlton, just because of our own incompetence.
NOTE TO SIMPSON: You did not inherit a great legacy from St John of the Cross. You inherited the Lost Tribe of Israel, who need a few burning bushes and twelve commandments of skills and game structures from a Moses to lead them out of the Wilderness. Stop with the beatitudes and platitudes, and give it to us, and them, straight.
Your fans are not fools and idiots, even though you insist on treating us that way. Send Wellingham back to Eddie, or at least to the WAFL where Les has to suffer him and not me. Let NicNait play like a carefree kid in the park again, and stop trying to make a league footballer out of him. Its not in his nature. And play 2 little blokes (Cripps and Masten) at Kennedy’s feet in the 50 – PERMANENTLY – and try to kick a winning score. It’s work for 100 years and it worked for Blighty.
If I want to see waves of defensive water buffaloes slowly work the ball up the field, I’ll stay here and join the Waikato Chiefs.
3. Moa Pale Ale.
2. Green Lipped Mussels in white wine and garlic butter.
1. Lake Taupo views.