Published on August 23rd, 2006 | by Hans Fruck0
Dear Piece of Shit…
I’m a happy-go-lucky kinda guy. But you piss me off. Yes, you – fuckwad. On Saturday I saw you; it was during the broadcast of the Brisbane v West Coast match. The boundary rider was on the field doing a cross back to the commentary box, and there you were, quite unabashed, demonstrating your piece-of-shitness to a national audience.
You know what I’m talking about – all that leering and playacting as you peered over the shoulder of the boundary rider at the camera. The mobile that you had clamped to your ear as you called all your mouth-breathing friends, telling them to tune into Channel 9 – quick, quick! – so that they could catch your idiotic face on TV.
That goggle-eyed tongue-poking face you pulled was pretty lame the first time. What made you think it would reach the heights of hilarity the 20th time? If you were 12 years old, I could forgive you. At 12, everyone’s a peanut. But judging by your stubble and the copious amounts of beer that you were sloshing everywhere as you pogo-ed up and down in the left- and then the right-hand corner of the screen, you haven’t been 12 years old for at least a decade.
At first, I confess, I was merely resigned to your juvenile antics. But you persisted in behaving like a moron. And persisted. And persisted. Until by the end of your glorious 70 seconds on TV, the red mist had descended in front of my eyes, and I would’ve gladly beaten you to death with your own scrotum.
Perhaps the most devastatingly inane chapter of your 70 seconds of ‘fame’ happened roughly between seconds 45 and 55. That’s when you abruptly calmed down. I assumed that you had realised what an absolute prat you were making of yourself. I was, of course, wrong. Perhaps all that pogo-ing brought on a sudden bout of indigestion? Or caused some of your brains to leak out your sphincter?
Whatever the cause, you stopped. Immediately, my anger began to subside, and I briefly dragged my eyeballs away from the screen. Only to be re-infuriated when I glanced back. Yes, there you were, back at it again, capering around in the background like some kind of mentally deficient cross between Gene Simmonds and Richard Simmonds.
But why? That’s what I really want to know. If appearing on television is that important to you, why would you take the opportunity to behave like a twat? I realise that you probably come from the banjo-playing sliver of the gene pool, so it’s not like I expected you to start reciting Tennyson, or pull out a violin and play Mozart. But if you’re gonna ring your friends and tell them to turn on the TV or slip a tape into the VCR, wouldn’t you want to memorialise yourself in some way other than face-pulling, pogoing, and grinning like idiot?
And that’s why you are a piece of shit, and I hate you.