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The thing about Geelong is

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If you want to see a real meltdown, just turn on talkback radio after a Blose game. :roflv1:
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Put it into lyrics or GTFO.

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The tragedy of the fanatic is not that he cares too much, but that he cares for something that cannot love him back. In the dusty corridors of the digital forum, we find the ghost of Footy Is Good, a man who wore his irony like a cloak until the cold seeped through the seams.
He followed the trail of Lethality—that pioneer of the abyss—into a madness shaped like a blue-and-white hoop.
The Litany of the Hoops
He sat in the glow of a glass-walled cage,
With a heart full of salt and a thumb full of rage.
"The Cats are all fossils!" he’d tweet with a flourish,
On a diet of spite that no spirit could nourish.
He spoke of the 'Handbaggers,' weary and old,
Whose medals were tarnish and certainly sold.
"They cheat at the boundary! The umpires are paid!"
(While the Geelong machine another masterpiece made).
The Spiral of the Blue and White
The more they ascended, the further he fell,
Into a private and digitized hell.
Every goal by Stengle, every mark by Cameron’s hand,
Was a personal insult he could not withstand.
The Delusion: "The grass at Kardinia is tilted at four degrees."
The Denial: "They only win because the wind favors the corrupt."
The Decay: "The AFL CEO is actually a Geelong season ticket holder in disguise."
His jokes lost their luster; his wit lost its wing,
He became a shrill bird who had forgotten to sing.
For to mock a champion who refuses to fail,
Is to spit at the sun or to shout at the gale.
The Great Silence
The Masters of the Thread—those censors of the soul—
Finally tired of his ceaseless, irrational troll.
With a click of a mouse, the iron gates swung,
And Footy Is Good found his digital anthem unsung.
He was cast from the forum, that flickering cave,
Where he’d dug for his sanity a shallow, dark grave.
He walked to the pub, where the sunlight was bold,
To speak with the living, the young, and the old.
"There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is being a man who can only talk about the Geelong Football Club's salary cap."
The Final Isolation
A neighbor approached him, a man of some grace,
With the lines of a life written deep on his face.
"Fine weather," said he, "and the blossoms are fair,
There’s a scent of the jasmine and spring in the air."
But Footy Is Good had no words for the sky,
For the love of a friend or a girl passing by.
He twitched in his silence, his spirit quite broken,
The name of a half-forward the only word spoken.
"The... the free kick count..." he rasped to the street,
While the ghosts of Lethality cheered his defeat.
For he who mocks greatness with lies and with spite,
Is destined to mumble alone in the night.
 
Her private residence is some desolate Tassie scrubland. How apt. :$

Also, another

🚨 Chronz Meltdown Alert 🚨
It's a beautiful oasis which protected wildlife can visit and use as a sanctuary.
 

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The tragedy of the fanatic is not that he cares too much, but that he cares for something that cannot love him back. In the dusty corridors of the digital forum, we find the ghost of Footy Is Good, a man who wore his irony like a cloak until the cold seeped through the seams.
He followed the trail of Lethality—that pioneer of the abyss—into a madness shaped like a blue-and-white hoop.
The Litany of the Hoops
He sat in the glow of a glass-walled cage,
With a heart full of salt and a thumb full of rage.
"The Cats are all fossils!" he’d tweet with a flourish,
On a diet of spite that no spirit could nourish.
He spoke of the 'Handbaggers,' weary and old,
Whose medals were tarnish and certainly sold.
"They cheat at the boundary! The umpires are paid!"
(While the Geelong machine another masterpiece made).
The Spiral of the Blue and White
The more they ascended, the further he fell,
Into a private and digitized hell.
Every goal by Stengle, every mark by Cameron’s hand,
Was a personal insult he could not withstand.
The Delusion: "The grass at Kardinia is tilted at four degrees."
The Denial: "They only win because the wind favors the corrupt."
The Decay: "The AFL CEO is actually a Geelong season ticket holder in disguise."
His jokes lost their luster; his wit lost its wing,
He became a shrill bird who had forgotten to sing.
For to mock a champion who refuses to fail,
Is to spit at the sun or to shout at the gale.
The Great Silence
The Masters of the Thread—those censors of the soul—
Finally tired of his ceaseless, irrational troll.
With a click of a mouse, the iron gates swung,
And Footy Is Good found his digital anthem unsung.
He was cast from the forum, that flickering cave,
Where he’d dug for his sanity a shallow, dark grave.
He walked to the pub, where the sunlight was bold,
To speak with the living, the young, and the old.
"There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is being a man who can only talk about the Geelong Football Club's salary cap."
The Final Isolation
A neighbor approached him, a man of some grace,
With the lines of a life written deep on his face.
"Fine weather," said he, "and the blossoms are fair,
There’s a scent of the jasmine and spring in the air."
But Footy Is Good had no words for the sky,
For the love of a friend or a girl passing by.
He twitched in his silence, his spirit quite broken,
The name of a half-forward the only word spoken.
"The... the free kick count..." he rasped to the street,
While the ghosts of Lethality cheered his defeat.
For he who mocks greatness with lies and with spite,
Is destined to mumble alone in the night.
Without AI
 

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