Following AFL football is a waste of time. There are better things to do in life. Think of all time you spend travelling to and from games, standing in queues before the game and at half time, watching overpaid gorillas chase a piece of leather, hurling abuse at the umpires, cursing the opposition guns, cursing your own team's duds, shuffling slowly out of the ground after the final siren, listening to shitty talkback radio, listening to shitty radio commercials, watching godawful TV panel shows, reading insipid newspaper articles, pre-season fluff pieces about Jobe & Timmy Watson, listening to Channel 7's crappy commentary, Bruce and Dennis tossing each other off and swearing at your TV screen like a crazy man, daydreaming of your team winning the Grand Final, posting mindless crap on Big Footy, arguing with some imbecile over who was better: Tredrea or Riewoldt? Hird or Buckley? .... and for what? Was your life improved? Did it help you achieve your goals? Did you wake up and find yourself living in a Toorak mansion with a beautiful wife and $10,000,000 in your bank account? All it really did was temporarily distract you from the miserable reality that your life sucks.
AFL football is like heroin: it's heavy users suffer through long periods of drawn-out anticipation and irritation, the occasional fleeting high, interspersed with a zombified, stupefied state of existence, their body and mind slowly rotting as the years tick by, the world passing them by.
Enjoy your AFL, schmucks. Here's some highlights of
Peter Daicos brought to you by McDonalds cheeseburgers and Carlton United Breweries.