Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
- Posts
- 5,053
- Reaction score
- 4,570
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Other Teams
- The Exers
“Well hello Mister Biffinator! Is that what I call you – Biffinator? I think that’s how you pronounce it! What an odd little name! Is it in the dictionary? Come into my odd little place and make yourself right at home. Is that alright with you? I am an odd-bod myself! You’re not going to stand on ceremony, are you? How very strange it is! Sometimes I talk to myself. I really don’t care what people think.”
Warily, I strode into the marble lined atrium of Sam Newman’s Docklands penthouse. It was lavishly furnished. The main wall was decorated with a mosaic of a Pamela Anderson lookalike; perhaps I was reading too much into it, but the red popsicle that had been speared into her mouth did little to predicate a woman of taste. Indeed, she looked like a whore with plenty of mileage on the clock. A huge silver phallus decorated a nearby coffee table. Mirrors were everywhere – not least on the ceiling - and nary a book was to be seen.
“Errrr, thanks Sam – it’s a real pleasure being here!”
“’It’s a real pleasure being here’ – why don’t you wait until tonight,“ he croaked lasciviously, “if you want to know the true meaning of the word ‘pleasure’!”
I took a closer look at my host. His face was cadaverous as if the natural wear and tear of life had been erased by . . . . . something. His lips were bloated. Where possible, I soon noticed, he preferred not to look people in the eye as if fearful of a genuine intimacy beyond a mere bonk.
“Now would you like a coffee? We have all sorts of coffee. Coffees from all over the world! Some of it is that Free-Trade stuff. Some of it isn’t. Does it really matter, I ask you? Josephine, can you come here for a second please? Only if you are free!”
The door that led into the kitchen swung open and Josephine – God bless her - appeared in her birthday suit. Her measurements were beyond perfection. Without a care in the world, she asked me whether I wanted coffee or tea and if so, what variety. Leadenly I ordered a latte.
“I will have a cappuccino,” the ageing Lothario hooted at the hooters. “With lots of cream – and use your personal vat Josephine! Make it sweeter than usual, my dear!”
Josephine’s perfect butt disappeared into the kitchen. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. Sam cackled like a hyena.
“Lovely girl – what a lovely girl,” he purred. “I have even met her parents. To think she was so shy when I met her. If you ask her nicely, she’ll let you eat your dinner off her gravity defying mammary glands! What a delightful practice! It turns every meal into a feast! Why don’t more households adopt this practice?”
I sat there in silence. I knew bugger all about Josephine but I was reasonably sure that she never envisaged this fate when she was a child playing with her grandparents.
“So why are you here, Biff-in-ator – did I get it right that time?” the Geelong great guffawed. “Why people are interested in silly old Sam Newman? What does it all mean? I don’t know. I think I am a pretty ordinary guy. Perhaps I will ask Eddie! That’s right – I will ask Eddie. Do you have his phone-number? Perhaps he will allow me to dial a friend! How terribly interesting! Now excuse me for a moment – it’s time for me to express myself!”
With effort, he arose from his chair and strode out onto a balcony. Much to my horror, he went ‘the full plank’. I sprinted over. The traffic below was thirty storeys away.
“Sam, what in the hell are you doing? Why are you being a dill? What sort of example are you setting as a public figure?”
“I’ll do what I want,” he barked back with his face towards the heavens. “I don’t care what people think. It’s none of their business. I don’t remember signing on as a beacon for youth. Tell Julia about it. Nor do I care what you think. I will break as many silly damn rules as I like. Besides, this is very relaxing. You should try it yourself! Stop being such a wowser! Know you’re alive!”
I returned to his living room in disgust to find that Josephine had deposited my latte on the table. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen. My old mate Ruderrection sent through an SMS at that point. “How’s it going with Sammy?” he asked. I reported back glumly: “he’s a rich man’s Billy Brownless but a buffoon all the same. What’s wrong with these Handbagger Arse-Clowns?”
Ten minutes later, I was on the verge of finishing my coffee and going home empty-handed when Sam hobbled back into the room with that trademark smirk on his face.
“So you’re still here are you Biff? How amazing! Wonders will never cease.”
“Sam, I have to go soon but can we please talk football for a few moments?”
“Talk about football; talk about football. What does that mean? How does one talk about football? What perspective does one adopt? Who says I know anything about football? I know how to kick a ball. Does that make me an expert? What about flick-passes!”
That was the straw that broke the Camel’s back.
“Mate, listen to me - you are nothing but a miserable Handbagger. Geelong’s recent success has got nothing to do with you, or Micky Turner, or the Nankervis brothers, or Terry Bright or Gary ****ing Malarkey. You were the Handbagger Generation and that’s true forever more. Frank Costa had to exorcise your corrosive culture to get the club anywhere near a premiership. For all your antics, no-one really gives a stuff about you. You’ve had your ten minutes of fame – it wasn’t even the full fifteen minutes!”
Sam Newman merely shrugged his shoulders at this tirade. But I wasn’t finished yet.
“And Sam, I wonder what they say about you back at Geelong Grammar. Yeah, I am sure you attend all those ra-ra reunions and remember the good old days in the dunnies – sorry, water-closets - but behind your back – yes indeed, behind your back - I betcha they regard you as a glorified jock with no class. Do you think those Old Boys get their jollies when they see you doin’ that imbecilic Street-Talk where you are actually more of a mongo than any of the decent people whom you accost!”
Sam now looked like a septuagenarian. With relish, I gave him the bird and darted over the door that led into the kitchen.
“Josephine, grab your clothes and let’s get out of here. Leave this jerk now!”
Five minutes later, arm in arm, we left the building. Who knows what the future holds but this much I can tell you.
Dees by 186 points.
Warily, I strode into the marble lined atrium of Sam Newman’s Docklands penthouse. It was lavishly furnished. The main wall was decorated with a mosaic of a Pamela Anderson lookalike; perhaps I was reading too much into it, but the red popsicle that had been speared into her mouth did little to predicate a woman of taste. Indeed, she looked like a whore with plenty of mileage on the clock. A huge silver phallus decorated a nearby coffee table. Mirrors were everywhere – not least on the ceiling - and nary a book was to be seen.
“Errrr, thanks Sam – it’s a real pleasure being here!”
“’It’s a real pleasure being here’ – why don’t you wait until tonight,“ he croaked lasciviously, “if you want to know the true meaning of the word ‘pleasure’!”
I took a closer look at my host. His face was cadaverous as if the natural wear and tear of life had been erased by . . . . . something. His lips were bloated. Where possible, I soon noticed, he preferred not to look people in the eye as if fearful of a genuine intimacy beyond a mere bonk.
“Now would you like a coffee? We have all sorts of coffee. Coffees from all over the world! Some of it is that Free-Trade stuff. Some of it isn’t. Does it really matter, I ask you? Josephine, can you come here for a second please? Only if you are free!”
The door that led into the kitchen swung open and Josephine – God bless her - appeared in her birthday suit. Her measurements were beyond perfection. Without a care in the world, she asked me whether I wanted coffee or tea and if so, what variety. Leadenly I ordered a latte.
“I will have a cappuccino,” the ageing Lothario hooted at the hooters. “With lots of cream – and use your personal vat Josephine! Make it sweeter than usual, my dear!”
Josephine’s perfect butt disappeared into the kitchen. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. Sam cackled like a hyena.
“Lovely girl – what a lovely girl,” he purred. “I have even met her parents. To think she was so shy when I met her. If you ask her nicely, she’ll let you eat your dinner off her gravity defying mammary glands! What a delightful practice! It turns every meal into a feast! Why don’t more households adopt this practice?”
I sat there in silence. I knew bugger all about Josephine but I was reasonably sure that she never envisaged this fate when she was a child playing with her grandparents.
“So why are you here, Biff-in-ator – did I get it right that time?” the Geelong great guffawed. “Why people are interested in silly old Sam Newman? What does it all mean? I don’t know. I think I am a pretty ordinary guy. Perhaps I will ask Eddie! That’s right – I will ask Eddie. Do you have his phone-number? Perhaps he will allow me to dial a friend! How terribly interesting! Now excuse me for a moment – it’s time for me to express myself!”
With effort, he arose from his chair and strode out onto a balcony. Much to my horror, he went ‘the full plank’. I sprinted over. The traffic below was thirty storeys away.
“Sam, what in the hell are you doing? Why are you being a dill? What sort of example are you setting as a public figure?”
“I’ll do what I want,” he barked back with his face towards the heavens. “I don’t care what people think. It’s none of their business. I don’t remember signing on as a beacon for youth. Tell Julia about it. Nor do I care what you think. I will break as many silly damn rules as I like. Besides, this is very relaxing. You should try it yourself! Stop being such a wowser! Know you’re alive!”
I returned to his living room in disgust to find that Josephine had deposited my latte on the table. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen. My old mate Ruderrection sent through an SMS at that point. “How’s it going with Sammy?” he asked. I reported back glumly: “he’s a rich man’s Billy Brownless but a buffoon all the same. What’s wrong with these Handbagger Arse-Clowns?”
Ten minutes later, I was on the verge of finishing my coffee and going home empty-handed when Sam hobbled back into the room with that trademark smirk on his face.
“So you’re still here are you Biff? How amazing! Wonders will never cease.”
“Sam, I have to go soon but can we please talk football for a few moments?”
“Talk about football; talk about football. What does that mean? How does one talk about football? What perspective does one adopt? Who says I know anything about football? I know how to kick a ball. Does that make me an expert? What about flick-passes!”
That was the straw that broke the Camel’s back.
“Mate, listen to me - you are nothing but a miserable Handbagger. Geelong’s recent success has got nothing to do with you, or Micky Turner, or the Nankervis brothers, or Terry Bright or Gary ****ing Malarkey. You were the Handbagger Generation and that’s true forever more. Frank Costa had to exorcise your corrosive culture to get the club anywhere near a premiership. For all your antics, no-one really gives a stuff about you. You’ve had your ten minutes of fame – it wasn’t even the full fifteen minutes!”
Sam Newman merely shrugged his shoulders at this tirade. But I wasn’t finished yet.
“And Sam, I wonder what they say about you back at Geelong Grammar. Yeah, I am sure you attend all those ra-ra reunions and remember the good old days in the dunnies – sorry, water-closets - but behind your back – yes indeed, behind your back - I betcha they regard you as a glorified jock with no class. Do you think those Old Boys get their jollies when they see you doin’ that imbecilic Street-Talk where you are actually more of a mongo than any of the decent people whom you accost!”
Sam now looked like a septuagenarian. With relish, I gave him the bird and darted over the door that led into the kitchen.
“Josephine, grab your clothes and let’s get out of here. Leave this jerk now!”
Five minutes later, arm in arm, we left the building. Who knows what the future holds but this much I can tell you.
Dees by 186 points.
