By now everyone with half a cerebral cortex and/or two-fifths of a clue knows full well that The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo™ is Your Only Source for up-to-the-minute sports news, views and booze-fuelled spews. But is The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo™ just wholly and solely about sport? Well, yeah. That's why it's called The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo™. Ignoramuses.
However, people still come up to me and say, Yobbo, is sport all you think about on a Hourly Daily basis? To which I of course answer that's Doctor Yobbo to you arsewipe, and you can take your You Am I references and stick them up your fundament. But no, it's not all about sport at The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo™. Despite what I just said before and stuff.
This Weak the Weak rifles through the dusty filing cabinet of Current Stuff and lets our eager readers in on the issues that matter. Ever felt uncomfortable about a controversial issue and wondered what your opinion should be? Worry no longer, you ignorant 'tard. Welcome to The Weak In Sport: Rated and Slated. Or, if you prefer, Slatered. Which presumably has something to do with an ignonimous departure from the scene in a haze of Charlie and the vapours from arthritis remedies.
OK, so most of it's still about sport - it's what it says on the label after all.
RATED
This Weak's imperial thumbs up go to:
Obscure, unpronouncable Czech Pilsners. They're spelt like the winning clue on the short-lived TV gameshow Wheel of Dyslexia. They're pronounced with the sound of Thor, Norse God of Thunder, gargling underwater with a mouthful of marbles. They taste like, really good, ay. Check out the Random Euro Shit aisle at Dan Murphys, take something home and tell me I'm wrong.
Phil Jaques. Consecutive hundreds against the Test-strength England attack. Come in Justin Langer, your time is up.
That new Commodore. It's a taxi. It's a rental car. It's a fleet runabout, a family trolley, a ubiquitous slab of metal. It's fucking gorgeous. It's the BMW 5-series that BMW couldn't figure out how to draw because their head of design Chris Mangle stuck all the design team's plastic rulers in the oven so the bastards can't draw a straight line anymore.
Jeremy Coney's pitch reports. He's on smack - he has to be - but for making a 30 second soundbite ref 22 yards of dirt thoroughly entertaining throughout the ICC Champions Trophy, much kudos. Likewise fat eejit Radar Riley's efforts trailing the field on-course at the Strayan Open over the weekend - some of the most inspired randomness ever to reach the airwaves. Though the reference to dipping his chips in Nanna's shagpile, or whatever he was on about, was a bit of a worry. Likewise anytime they actually put him on camera - ended up looking as drunk and tottery as he sounded.
Jose Mourinho. The world's greatest wind-up artist and purveyor of the don't-give-a-fuck attitude to end them all. More power to him. To best judge the impact of Mourinho on opposition teams, just have a chat to perennial European rivals Barcelona, who he's sledged out of contention in consecutive UEFA Champions League Of Champions League Of UEFA matchdays. Their midfield man Edmilson: "The worst thing about playing Chelsea is having to listen to Mourinho afterwards. He talks absolute bollocks. He should shut the fuck up." An outside chance for the world sledging title jointly held by Grenn McGlath, Skwarne and Marco Mattress.
Scarlett Johansson. For reasons completely different to the above.
SLATED
The Weak is royally not amused by:
Intelligent Design. Fairy stories masquerading as science, being taught to kiddies who don't know any better. Verging on child abuse.
Knuckles apologists. Seriously. Was Eddie that bad after all? You lot waged a campaign to get rid of him - Greg Growden of the SMH and Peter Jenkins of the Murdoch press - in favour of this fat old clown with less clue than Inspector Gadget and a game plan about as coherent and well-executed as the voice-over dubbing on the Flight Centre commercials?
Leaf blowers. Loud, wasteful and unnecessary. Use a broom you fucking lazy bastards.
The coaching of Richard Stuart. Tell me you couldn't do a better job than him in convicing the most talented rugby league team in history not to lose to outfits as rubbish as Great Britain (or to be more accurate, a couple of counties in the north of England) and New Zealand (for most of the game in Melbourne). Seems the Eastern Suburbs Chooks actually do know a shit coach when they see one, because they fired him and hired Chris Anderson. The organisation behind the Cronulla-The Shire Sharkies, being essentially a shower of 'tards, did the opposite.
Celebrity bullshit turning up on news broadcasts. TomKat's wedding. Madonna's re-enactment of the Stolen Generation. Brit 'n' K-Fed boganing up the place. How the fuck is this news, people? Get this shit off the 6pm bulletin.
The Killers. A clusterfuck of the worst of 1980s New Romantic whinge-pop and the high-pitched whining of emo, add to which dumber lyrics than a Vengaboys reunion gig and a practising Mormon as a frontman. Fuck me. Even Rock Star Colon Supernova suck less than these tools.
People hanging shit on Marcos Trescothick for being depressed and being dismissed from the Ashes tour, c&b the Black Dog, for 0. Likewise people hanging shit on Thommo for thinking he was hanging shit on Marcos Trescothick for being depressed, and being dismissed from the Ashes tour etc. Jeff Kennett: fuck off. As the man largely responsible for the perpetual levels of depression in the state of Victoria, you're not qualified to make any statements what-so-fucking-ever.
Victorians. Nuff said.
Graham Henry's ads on Sky Sports promoting the end-of-year All Blacks Eurotrip. Only those mired in NZ with regular access to Sky TV will know the true horror of these. Scenario: Ted Henry strolling pensively through a forest in black and white, haunting piano and strings underscoring his thoughts (echoey voiceover): 'They're a good side... It's a big challenge... I hate to lose... I want to win!...'
At one point in the ad before the England game he holds a rose, sniffs it, and turns to the camera: 'Beautiful... but dangerous.'
For the France game, we hear him think, 'They say its the country to visit if you're in love.' Then turns to the camera and tells New Zealand, 'But we're not very romantic. Are we.'
In short, the finest example ever seen of a man made completely of wood, in an ad made completely of cheese.
What do you think? I'm Tommy Smyth with a Y.
Actually no I'm not. If I was, I'd shoot myself.
The Doctor is OUT.
1 comment:
The Weak would just like to point out that the above comments ref Mr John 'Knuckles' Connolly and his conga-line of media suckholes (thanks v. much Latham, M.) were made BEFORE the Ireland-Wallabies game. But were in no way disempowered by the result of same, given that Knuckles got dusted.
Fuck-knuckles.
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