Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Shame Shane's such a Shockin' Sh**head

Dear old Shane Warne. All blonde tips, bowling balls and boofhead behaviour. Many thousands of words have already been said and written about his skills as a bowler. Many millions more words have been said or written about his 'exploits off the field'. He seems determined to remain the poster boy for the rich and the retarded.

It is time for me to add my ten cents' worth to the sorry sage that is Shagging Shane - that lobotomised lab rat who keeps pressing the buzzer for the food pellet, only to get an electric shock over and over and over and over again.......

Firstly, let me rehash the ages old horror that most of us feel about the salaries earned by people who are able to fling a hard round leather object (and I don't mean his testicles) better than most. Divide this amount by, oh say about a hundred and you'll get the money earned by a cancer researcher or a social worker. Factor in that a chap such as Shonky Shorts also has considerable resources available to him - deportment/speech coaches, media representatives, marketing analysts, economists, public relations experts - and it only serves to increase the horror.

Forgive my lack of detail re the chronology and preciseness of some of Shiffer Brain's events, but they bear a bit of very shallow analysis. Firstly, the fact that he has been given the opportunity - for years - to travel and experience the cultures of India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and the West Indies, but has shunned their food. Instead he preferred tins of baked beans and Big Macs with the burger flung out and french fries stuffed in (I can't believe I know this stuff). Granted, this culinary crapulence was understandable in an eighteen year old as my own favourite meal at that age was a prawn cocktail, rump steak and chocolate mousse. However, most of us have expanded our tastebuds' range since then. But not Warthog Warney, oh no. He once hosted a meal at Melbourne's premier restaurant, The Flower Drum, but arranged to have a pizza delivered at the table for him to eat. None of that gourmet Chinese muck for him!

Shabby has long been known to like a fag or two. The red Marlboros, not the George Michaels. Incredibly, enough of his brain cells managed to survive the chemical onslaught of hairdressing bleach long enough to accept a $200,000 payment from Nicabate to kick the habit and set an example for Aussie youngsters. Sadly, the dye eventually burnt off all remaining functioning synapses and he was soon photographed puffing away on the cricket pitch, suckin' a ciggie in a bar and angrily chasing away one of his young fans after he caught him smoking.

Naturally, for blokes of his, um, mental magnitude, drugs entered the picture. Not coke, grass or even Eccies, but his mother's diuretic diet pills. A forbidden substance in even the cricketing circles, they were found in his urine test. Manfully, he blamed it on mummy and admitted that he wanted to lose a bit of weight before his upcoming media conference. Well there was a media conference all right, but it wasn't his weight that got people's attention; it was the sheer vacancy of thought and the overriding vanity regarding his physical appearance.

And then, there were the women who still seemed to like him regardless of his porky pig like physical tendences..... Bless his wilful little willy, Shane's game was SMS and lots of it. If he wasn't offering to lick red wine off the bulging body of a British nurse, he was annoying shabbier South African drag queens. Plenty of these conquests came forth to the reputable pommy newspapers such as 'News of the World' and 'the Daily Mirror', spilling all of the gory, "He was insatiable", details. It seemed that Shaggy Pants wasn't too fussy on the looks department as most of his nookie chookies were on a visual par with the livestock centrefold in the Rural Journal.

All through this, his wife, Simone, also a possessor of an empty fruit bowl brains-wise, regularly posed with her children on the front covers of Australia's finest magazines: No Idea and Womens Duh, shoving it down our throats that hers was a rock-solid marriage of fidelity, commitment and um, the goodest smartness or something like that. Wham-Bam Warney continued with his horizontal hobbies. Heaven help the floozy on his futon the night he ate baked beans on the tour.

Eventually his marriage ended, and 'poor old Simone' scored more magazine covers, a home renovation column (who knew she could renovate? Hell, who knew she could write), a gig on 'Dancing with the Stars' (the term 'star' is used in its loosest possible sense here in Australia) and several TV appearances in which she ran the gamut of emotions from A to A. Even I felt a tad sorry for Shane as he sobbed to all of us about his regrets, his desires to do anything to get Simone to take him back and how he would seek help to change. Sadly no, he couldn't remove his SMS thumbs, 'cos he needed them for chucking that red ball around.

But, a few days ago, our Bowling Bonehead was caught on film in a London hotel room with two women and a blow-up doll. These girlies, colloquially referred to by the media as 'models' but known more commonly as 'skanky whores', were quite happy to release the footage and again tell us of his prowess and willingness to try anything. Of course it takes two to tango, or, in Shane's case, three plus a doll. Again, I feel a slight tug of sympathy towards our blonde-tipped bozo - he was very obviously set up, but also he is very obviously dumber than a box of stilettoes at a lesbian hockey club.

It could be safely assumed that Shaggy Dacks would also have paid good money for receiving some kind of media training, deportment skills, career planning, marketing and public speaking, yes? At the very least, couldn't they have all banded together to make sure that he was to be babysat at all times by a team of experienced Retarded Rootrat wranglers - or at the very least popped into a strait jacket in front of Hi-5 until his next cricket test was on. Whoever is currently his manager should be nominated for their equivalent of the Fugly award, with the key achievements being:

  • having your client rip-off a $200,000 sponsor
  • get caught taking slimming pills
  • SMSing several dozen women whilst shagging at least another dozen; and
  • being photographed in a menage a FOUR (we'll count the blow up as a participant)

.... well done for protecting your client's anonymity and personal life! Hey, wait a minute - is George Best really dead or is he now living in Australia....?




1 comment:

Deep Kick Girl said...

Oh Kath, what a cack! You are so right about him - what a first class doofus! He is like a caricature of himself, it's hilarious. I just feel sorry for the kids - as they get older it's going to get harder to gloss over the fact that their dad is a world class dickhead.