Bloggers, eh. What a bunch of self-immersed, egotistical, whiny, desperate, look-at-me, try-hard sad cases. "Oh, listen to me, I have opinions, I'm worthwhile... the tedious minutiae of my meaningless existence is of such obvious interest to the citizens of the world that I must broadcast it across the world wide web..." Pleading for the attention, credibility or respect they clearly didn't get as children, as their parents ignored them, their peers reviled them, and their latent ADD went unmedicated. Blogs give these pathetic, rightfully marginalised cretins a voice for the mawkish, irrelevant, cringingly ill-conceived sentiments that fester in the back of their tiny minds like virulent salmonella on three-day-old KFC remnants.
Welcome to The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo. I am he, and evidently, I am a blogger. They weren't in the habit of prescribing Ritalin in the mid-Eighties, apparently. For the vomitiferous abortion of bad taste you see before you, you can either blame that, or various drunken mates of your correspondent who demanded this shit be worldwide. (Careful what you wish, Mofo...)
This shit began as an intermittent, half-arsed sports-related diatribe dispatched about the place via email, and has grown and developed to become what you see today: an intermittent, half-arsed sports-related diatribe on a free blog site. 2005's missives are archived at right, retaining all the freshness and flavour that topical humour always does when reviewed months or years later. 2006 brings a new format, new challenges, but more than likely, most of the same jokes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do making paper stunt-planes out of the cease-and-desist letters from Russell Crowe's lawyers.
Therefore, for 2006, peace and goodwill to all mankind, and up the fuckin' Rabbitohs.
The Doctor is OUT.
No comments:
Post a Comment