Though youths grow weary and tired, And vigorous young men stumble badly, Yet those who wait for the LORD Will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles, They will run and not get tired, They will walk and not become weary.
"Also, the Bulldogs suck."
Simpson’s Season 2, Episode 1- Kneehouse of Horror
I heard a joke once. Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, “Treament is simple.. The great football team West Coast are playing tonight. Go see them. That should pick you up”. Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor.. I coach the West Coast Eagles”.
Adam Simpson had started 2015 so well. In early January, he sauntered into an office supply store that we won’t name until we get paid for it, and walked out with a White J.Burrows A4 4 D-Ring 25mm Insert Binder ($2.99), a Spirax 240 Page Notebook Insert ($3.61) and a Sheaffer 300 Black Fountain Pen with Chrome Plate Trim ($69.95). Moseying back to Subiaco Pattersons Domain Stadium [note to self, check what corporate bullshit these sellouts have whored themselves out to before posting] with a gleam in his eye and a song in his heart, Simpson strolled into his kingly office to begin his premiership manifesto- Das Fußball,eine Kritik der taktik und Strategie. He had found out that all the great coaches were doing this; Alistair Clarkson had famously written How to Lose Franklin and Influence Premierships in the lead up to their back to back flags, while Ken Hinkley- in true Port Adelaide fashion- had cobbled together the rather unusual Fifty Shades of Robbie Grey.
Opening the notebook to the last page, Simpson jotted down one line at the bottom of the sheet- and that was how we gone and won the premiership. He sat back in his chair. Scratching his head, he began wondering how the * to fill the rest of it.
Since then it had been a series of unfortunate events, including a lawsuit for stealing large swathes of a certain book series for his sugar-bowl related game plan. Almost-as-good-as-Alex-Rance defender Eric Marquenzie damaged his knee and the hopes and dreams of Eagles fans in the first official pre-season match against Carlton. Masten had refused point blank to get a haircut or stop hanging out with poor influences such as Sharrod Wellingham, and the whole team had an out of control painkiller party at the house of a colourful Fremantle identity.
Training had increasingly resembled the Bataan Death March, with the young coaching squad trying in vain to simulate the pressure of a big game situation. After literally crushing several players in a pressure situation involving a bathysphere and an underwater city, ADAM Simpson attempted to move training back from Rapture to Subiaco Oval, only to find that the grass had been torn, scuffed and probably smoked by voracious little hooligans at a One Direction Concert- and Chris Masten.
Despite all that, there was one ray of sunshine from where Simpson was sitting- the result of a Priddis miskick that broke through the plaster wall in the room next to his office. He knew that the Ol Faithful Round 1 game against the Bulldogs was waiting to start the season. In a surprisingly unrandom random draw from the AFL, the two were set to face off in the opening fixture for the third time in four years, with the Eagles winning comfortably in the previous two encounters. He repeated this fact over and over as he lay in bed, gazing at the stars through another Priddishole. Sleep was difficult at times, but he’d been hooked up with a concoction from the Crowley-Johnson laboratory.
As he drifted off, random thoughts flickered and passed through his mind- matchups, key players, Dermott Brereton in a skin-tight latex skiing suit, Russell Westbook on a farm, stand-up premises… depth charts… lilacs out of the dead land… something about sponsorships…
“Then put your little hand in mine, there ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb. I got you babe… I got you babe”
Simpson sat bolt upright. Every year it was the same.
They were playing the Bulldogs again. The team had injury issues. They were expected to finish mid-to-low table.
It was 2019. Or still 2015? 2014?
Wallowing in eternal mediocrity. An Ouroborous, feasting not just on its own tail, but a bowl of gluggy vanilla pudding, topped off with rice and unflavoured cream. Drifting in the eternal football wilderness, waiting to be eaten by wolves.
West Coast by 128.
Isiah 40:30-31
"Also, the Bulldogs suck."
Isiah 40:31b
Simpson’s Season 2, Episode 1- Kneehouse of Horror
I heard a joke once. Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, “Treament is simple.. The great football team West Coast are playing tonight. Go see them. That should pick you up”. Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor.. I coach the West Coast Eagles”.
Adam Simpson had started 2015 so well. In early January, he sauntered into an office supply store that we won’t name until we get paid for it, and walked out with a White J.Burrows A4 4 D-Ring 25mm Insert Binder ($2.99), a Spirax 240 Page Notebook Insert ($3.61) and a Sheaffer 300 Black Fountain Pen with Chrome Plate Trim ($69.95). Moseying back to Subiaco Pattersons Domain Stadium [note to self, check what corporate bullshit these sellouts have whored themselves out to before posting] with a gleam in his eye and a song in his heart, Simpson strolled into his kingly office to begin his premiership manifesto- Das Fußball,eine Kritik der taktik und Strategie. He had found out that all the great coaches were doing this; Alistair Clarkson had famously written How to Lose Franklin and Influence Premierships in the lead up to their back to back flags, while Ken Hinkley- in true Port Adelaide fashion- had cobbled together the rather unusual Fifty Shades of Robbie Grey.
Opening the notebook to the last page, Simpson jotted down one line at the bottom of the sheet- and that was how we gone and won the premiership. He sat back in his chair. Scratching his head, he began wondering how the * to fill the rest of it.
Since then it had been a series of unfortunate events, including a lawsuit for stealing large swathes of a certain book series for his sugar-bowl related game plan. Almost-as-good-as-Alex-Rance defender Eric Marquenzie damaged his knee and the hopes and dreams of Eagles fans in the first official pre-season match against Carlton. Masten had refused point blank to get a haircut or stop hanging out with poor influences such as Sharrod Wellingham, and the whole team had an out of control painkiller party at the house of a colourful Fremantle identity.
Training had increasingly resembled the Bataan Death March, with the young coaching squad trying in vain to simulate the pressure of a big game situation. After literally crushing several players in a pressure situation involving a bathysphere and an underwater city, ADAM Simpson attempted to move training back from Rapture to Subiaco Oval, only to find that the grass had been torn, scuffed and probably smoked by voracious little hooligans at a One Direction Concert- and Chris Masten.
Despite all that, there was one ray of sunshine from where Simpson was sitting- the result of a Priddis miskick that broke through the plaster wall in the room next to his office. He knew that the Ol Faithful Round 1 game against the Bulldogs was waiting to start the season. In a surprisingly unrandom random draw from the AFL, the two were set to face off in the opening fixture for the third time in four years, with the Eagles winning comfortably in the previous two encounters. He repeated this fact over and over as he lay in bed, gazing at the stars through another Priddishole. Sleep was difficult at times, but he’d been hooked up with a concoction from the Crowley-Johnson laboratory.
As he drifted off, random thoughts flickered and passed through his mind- matchups, key players, Dermott Brereton in a skin-tight latex skiing suit, Russell Westbook on a farm, stand-up premises… depth charts… lilacs out of the dead land… something about sponsorships…
“Then put your little hand in mine, there ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb. I got you babe… I got you babe”
Simpson sat bolt upright. Every year it was the same.
They were playing the Bulldogs again. The team had injury issues. They were expected to finish mid-to-low table.
It was 2019. Or still 2015? 2014?
Wallowing in eternal mediocrity. An Ouroborous, feasting not just on its own tail, but a bowl of gluggy vanilla pudding, topped off with rice and unflavoured cream. Drifting in the eternal football wilderness, waiting to be eaten by wolves.
West Coast by 128.
