Round 1 Blues v Tigers Match Day Rant Thread

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I swear your at Eagles supporter but I wont get into that.

Like I said, if we hadve kicked straight and Richmond hadve kicked just a little bit poorly alot of these comments wouldnt be getting posted.

Young and less skillful sides can bring you to their level, because looking at it from an unbiased view it wouldve been a woeful game to watch. Alot of errors with a glimpse of briallance every now and again but those glimpses were few and far between.

I am sure youve played some type of sport, netball?

Teams can drag you down, and I am sure as hell Damien just wanted to keep the scores close and the fact Jack was playing so well was just a bonus for them.
 
with speed and skill through the midfield why don't we break lines link up and penetrate the fwd line with dash instead of bombs?
Did anybody think TBird had a chance when he went onto Jack?
 

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If you want to be pessimistic, up to you.

That fail attempt of schooling me, doesnt fly.

Unless there is something above a win, I havnt been following football right.

We didnt play that badly, its Round 1.

Its like any horse race, you dont want to run out of the steam on the home straight (Round 18+) as long as we keep winning, doubters like you wont post.

At least this way, we can see where our deficiencies are, something we havnt been able to do the last couple of years.

Not going to reply to anything more.
 
bluepride said:
If you want to be pessimistic, up to you.

That fail attempt of schooling me, doesnt fly.

Unless there is something above a win, I havnt been following football right.

We didnt play that badly, its Round 1.
Its like any horse race, you dont want to run out of the steam on the home straight (Round 18+) as long as we keep winning, doubters like you wont post.

At least this way, we can see where our deficiencies are, something we havnt been able to do the last couple of years.

Not going to reply to anything more.
Click to expand...

That's the spirit bp. :thumbsu:

If you can't take any good from the match last night in consideration of the key players we lacked and the woeful goal-kicking, I feel sorry for you.
As long as we can keep winning the centre we'll do much better than last year, and it seems clear that is exactly what we'll see this year.
Work to do, but I gather there'll be another 16 teams saying the same at the end of round 1.
 
We should send Brett Deledio some flowers and a thank you card for totally killing off any chance the tigers had by kicking it into Jeffery, who then proceeded to send the ball back over Deledio's head for a goal.

So good.
 
I believe it was Winston Churchill who said that "football is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a slice of bacon and placed on a pie floater".

Never was a truer word spoken, as I found out evening last while pacing the floor of my opulent mansion, awaiting news by post of the latest results of my beloved Carlton Football Club's outing against the hated Knitting and Other Womanly Pursuits Club of Richmond.

Hearken! As I tell you the story of that awe-some night.

News of the first quarter's play arrived, proffered to me in the soft, quivering, phalanges of my favourite page-boy.

On reading the news I was adrift. Long did I pause, and stare at my manly, Carlton-supporting hands. Heavy did those hands then beat at the panelling of my chambers. Judd of the Christ, doubled over and puffing like an altar boy at the service of his Vicar? Behinds numbering up to eight while goals numbering only two?

Would that I could take the nearest Whore-Beast of the Black and Yellow and throttle her to the very brink of death, before relaxing and beginning the satisfyingly ghastly torture once more.

But what did my thoughts count to the score of the matter? Surely the evenings play could not be afftected by my terrible rage? A man's reach be as long as his arms, not to the extent of his brain's unbridled hatred!

Any man foolish enough to utter such words within the wide radius of my exquisitely attuned aural canals should surely count himself lucky to escape with both of his lips attached to his face.

For I sukt in great breath and cursed the ladies of Richmond and all their progeny 'til the very timbers of my lodgings shook and rocked. Great oaths and summonings did issue forth, the maddest and terrible curses were sworn as I poured gallons of ale into my belly, the better to fuel my unholy indignation.

My chamber-maid burst into the room, eyes haunted by the merest thought that a wild, unholy beast had crossed from the anterior firmament to invade our world to attack her beloved master.

Lacking a vessel for my righteous rage I reached out and snapped her poorly-nourished body in twain. A nearby brandy balloon proved more than adequate in scooping up the entrails spilling from her sickly abdomen. Fussily, I must admit, for I had recovered my senses to recall the lessons of my Grand Shaklah, I picked out her liver from amongst the gore and began my work.

I will not bore you with the details of my incantations. Suffice I relate that the force of my magick was felt far and wide. Ewes agisted in neighbouring properties miscarried grotesque, seven-legged offspring. In the local tavern, Collingwood supporters grew teeth.

Such was the might of my wrath.

My task completed, I sat in front of the fire amongst silken cushions, twirling a goblet of maiden-blood in the light shed from the burning bones of the unfortunate young girl. I had paid seventeen bushels of dung for her but the price was well spent.

News arrived that the nineteen-and-one-half-point spread was covered and my wagers were safe.
 

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Ghost Who Walks said:
I believe it was Winston Churchill who said that "football is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a slice of bacon and placed on a pie floater".

Never was a truer word spoken, as I found out evening last while pacing the floor of my opulent mansion, awaiting news by post of the latest results of my beloved Carlton Football Club's outing against the hated Knitting and Other Womanly Pursuits Club of Richmond.

Hearken! As I tell you the story of that awe-some night.

News of the first quarter's play arrived, proffered to me in the soft, quivering, phalanges of my favourite page-boy.

On reading the news I was adrift. Long did I pause, and stare at my manly, Carlton-supporting hands. Heavy did those hands then beat at the panelling of my chambers. Judd of the Christ, doubled over and puffing like an altar boy at the service of his Vicar? Behinds numbering up to eight while goals numbering only two?

Would that I could take the nearest Whore-Beast of the Black and Yellow and throttle her to the very brink of death, before relaxing and beginning the satisfyingly ghastly torture once more.

But what did my thoughts count to the score of the matter? Surely the evenings play could not be afftected by my terrible rage? A man's reach be as long as his arms, not to the extent of his brain's unbridled hatred!

Any man foolish enough to utter such words within the wide radius of my exquisitely attuned aural canals should surely count himself lucky to escape with both of his lips attached to his face.

For I sukt in great breath and cursed the ladies of Richmond and all their progeny 'til the very timbers of my lodgings shook and rocked. Great oaths and summonings did issue forth, the maddest and terrible curses were sworn as I poured gallons of ale into my belly, the better to fuel my unholy indignation.

My chamber-maid burst into the room, eyes haunted by the merest thought that a wild, unholy beast had crossed from the anterior firmament to invade our world to attack her beloved master.

Lacking a vessel for my righteous rage I reached out and snapped her poorly-nourished body in twain. A nearby brandy balloon proved more than adequate in scooping up the entrails spilling from her sickly abdomen. Fussily, I must admit, for I had recovered my senses to recall the lessons of my Grand Shaklah, I picked out her liver from amongst the gore and began my work.

I will not bore you with the details of my incantations. Suffice I relate that the force of my magick was felt far and wide. Ewes agisted in neighbouring properties miscarried grotesque, seven-legged offspring. In the local tavern, Collingwood supporters grew teeth.

Such was the might of my wrath.

My task completed, I sat in front of the fire amongst silken cushions, twirling a goblet of maiden-blood in the light shed from the burning bones of the unfortunate young girl. I had paid seventeen bushels of dung for her but the price was well spent.

News arrived that the nineteen-and-one-half-point spread was covered and my wagers were safe.
Click to expand...

Never thought I'd see a Bigfooty poster channel Mary Shelley or Robert Louis Stevenson but that right there is brilliant. :thumbsu:

Where were you when I made my prose and poetry thread? :(
 
Ghost Who Walks said:
I believe it was Winston Churchill who said that "football is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a slice of bacon and placed on a pie floater".

Never was a truer word spoken, as I found out evening last while pacing the floor of my opulent mansion, awaiting news by post of the latest results of my beloved Carlton Football Club's outing against the hated Knitting and Other Womanly Pursuits Club of Richmond.

Hearken! As I tell you the story of that awe-some night.

News of the first quarter's play arrived, proffered to me in the soft, quivering, phalanges of my favourite page-boy.

On reading the news I was adrift. Long did I pause, and stare at my manly, Carlton-supporting hands. Heavy did those hands then beat at the panelling of my chambers. Judd of the Christ, doubled over and puffing like an altar boy at the service of his Vicar? Behinds numbering up to eight while goals numbering only two?

Would that I could take the nearest Whore-Beast of the Black and Yellow and throttle her to the very brink of death, before relaxing and beginning the satisfyingly ghastly torture once more.

But what did my thoughts count to the score of the matter? Surely the evenings play could not be afftected by my terrible rage? A man's reach be as long as his arms, not to the extent of his brain's unbridled hatred!

Any man foolish enough to utter such words within the wide radius of my exquisitely attuned aural canals should surely count himself lucky to escape with both of his lips attached to his face.

For I sukt in great breath and cursed the ladies of Richmond and all their progeny 'til the very timbers of my lodgings shook and rocked. Great oaths and summonings did issue forth, the maddest and terrible curses were sworn as I poured gallons of ale into my belly, the better to fuel my unholy indignation.

My chamber-maid burst into the room, eyes haunted by the merest thought that a wild, unholy beast had crossed from the anterior firmament to invade our world to attack her beloved master.

Lacking a vessel for my righteous rage I reached out and snapped her poorly-nourished body in twain. A nearby brandy balloon proved more than adequate in scooping up the entrails spilling from her sickly abdomen. Fussily, I must admit, for I had recovered my senses to recall the lessons of my Grand Shaklah, I picked out her liver from amongst the gore and began my work.

I will not bore you with the details of my incantations. Suffice I relate that the force of my magick was felt far and wide. Ewes agisted in neighbouring properties miscarried grotesque, seven-legged offspring. In the local tavern, Collingwood supporters grew teeth.

Such was the might of my wrath.

My task completed, I sat in front of the fire amongst silken cushions, twirling a goblet of maiden-blood in the light shed from the burning bones of the unfortunate young girl. I had paid seventeen bushels of dung for her but the price was well spent.

News arrived that the nineteen-and-one-half-point spread was covered and my wagers were safe.
Click to expand...

You, good sir, need help .... and lots of it. That post is of too high a quality for this thread.

Well played.:thumbsu:
 
Five said:
DandyNongs? :)
Click to expand...

Holy dejavu Batman.

Questions:

1. Were you sent back from the future to save or wipe out the human race?

2. Shouldn't you be 6 by now?

Good to see you Monsieur Cinq.
 
juicy_honey_rookie_2009_shop.jpg


Thy, if I must join the rookie list - so be it :D

steenburgenmary3.jpg


On Back from/to the future ODN, would you agree that Mary Steenburgen has that sexy aura that Reece Witherspoon lacks ;)

ps The clipart is for you Numbers - I know you have surely missed the visual stimulation :p
 
Ghost Who Walks said:
I believe it was Winston Churchill who said that "football is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a slice of bacon and placed on a pie floater".

Never was a truer word spoken, as I found out evening last while pacing the floor of my opulent mansion, awaiting news by post of the latest results of my beloved Carlton Football Club's outing against the hated Knitting and Other Womanly Pursuits Club of Richmond.

Hearken! As I tell you the story of that awe-some night.

News of the first quarter's play arrived, proffered to me in the soft, quivering, phalanges of my favourite page-boy.

On reading the news I was adrift. Long did I pause, and stare at my manly, Carlton-supporting hands. Heavy did those hands then beat at the panelling of my chambers. Judd of the Christ, doubled over and puffing like an altar boy at the service of his Vicar? Behinds numbering up to eight while goals numbering only two?

Would that I could take the nearest Whore-Beast of the Black and Yellow and throttle her to the very brink of death, before relaxing and beginning the satisfyingly ghastly torture once more.

But what did my thoughts count to the score of the matter? Surely the evenings play could not be afftected by my terrible rage? A man's reach be as long as his arms, not to the extent of his brain's unbridled hatred!

Any man foolish enough to utter such words within the wide radius of my exquisitely attuned aural canals should surely count himself lucky to escape with both of his lips attached to his face.

For I sukt in great breath and cursed the ladies of Richmond and all their progeny 'til the very timbers of my lodgings shook and rocked. Great oaths and summonings did issue forth, the maddest and terrible curses were sworn as I poured gallons of ale into my belly, the better to fuel my unholy indignation.

My chamber-maid burst into the room, eyes haunted by the merest thought that a wild, unholy beast had crossed from the anterior firmament to invade our world to attack her beloved master.

Lacking a vessel for my righteous rage I reached out and snapped her poorly-nourished body in twain. A nearby brandy balloon proved more than adequate in scooping up the entrails spilling from her sickly abdomen. Fussily, I must admit, for I had recovered my senses to recall the lessons of my Grand Shaklah, I picked out her liver from amongst the gore and began my work.

I will not bore you with the details of my incantations. Suffice I relate that the force of my magick was felt far and wide. Ewes agisted in neighbouring properties miscarried grotesque, seven-legged offspring. In the local tavern, Collingwood supporters grew teeth.

Such was the might of my wrath.

My task completed, I sat in front of the fire amongst silken cushions, twirling a goblet of maiden-blood in the light shed from the burning bones of the unfortunate young girl. I had paid seventeen bushels of dung for her but the price was well spent.

News arrived that the nineteen-and-one-half-point spread was covered and my wagers were safe.
Click to expand...

Tho throwest Pearls before Swine. :thumbsu:
 
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