Game Day Shitmound Tuggers vs. Westturd Bullflogs

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Yeah, because he knows if he fails with the Tiges the only place that will offer him a coaching job is the Tassie team
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Aristotle Pickett Tugger legend Nathan Brown is a reprehensible campaigner for spruiking a betting company.

You should be ashamed. Shame, Shame, Shame.
 
I recall as a kid my boring boomer uncle Jack had to watch me one night and took me with him to the local council meeting during a lecture on the history of local soil composition. The speaker, an elderly gentleman with a monotonous voice, was particularly fond of discussing the varying levels of clay and silt found in the region over the past century. Each slide of his presentation was more text-heavy than the last, filled with dense charts and indecipherable graphs.

As he painstakingly described the pH levels observed in the 1950s, the murmur of the air conditioning unit seemed to provide a more engaging narrative. My gaze drifted to the clock above the exit door, its second hand ticking with excruciating slowness. I began counting the dots in the ceiling tiles, finding this exercise strangely more captivating than the endless soil saga unfolding before me. Every glance back to the clock revealed only minutes passed, though it felt like hours.

Even that was less boring than this match.
 
I recall as a kid my boring boomer uncle Jack had to watch me one night and took me with him to the local council meeting during a lecture on the history of local soil composition. The speaker, an elderly gentleman with a monotonous voice, was particularly fond of discussing the varying levels of clay and silt found in the region over the past century. Each slide of his presentation was more text-heavy than the last, filled with dense charts and indecipherable graphs.

As he painstakingly described the pH levels observed in the 1950s, the murmur of the air conditioning unit seemed to provide a more engaging narrative. My gaze drifted to the clock above the exit door, its second hand ticking with excruciating slowness. I began counting the dots in the ceiling tiles, finding this exercise strangely more captivating than the endless soil saga unfolding before me. Every glance back to the clock revealed only minutes passed, though it felt like hours.

Even that was less boring than this match.
I wonder if the speaker was related to Saveloy Rockstar
 
I recall as a kid my boring boomer uncle Jack had to watch me one night and took me with him to the local council meeting during a lecture on the history of local soil composition. The speaker, an elderly gentleman with a monotonous voice, was particularly fond of discussing the varying levels of clay and silt found in the region over the past century. Each slide of his presentation was more text-heavy than the last, filled with dense charts and indecipherable graphs.

As he painstakingly described the pH levels observed in the 1950s, the murmur of the air conditioning unit seemed to provide a more engaging narrative. My gaze drifted to the clock above the exit door, its second hand ticking with excruciating slowness. I began counting the dots in the ceiling tiles, finding this exercise strangely more captivating than the endless soil saga unfolding before me. Every glance back to the clock revealed only minutes passed, though it felt like hours.

Even that was less boring than this match.
But not as boring as this post…

TL;DR
 

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