Our Dawn – a Great Australian
I think it was Groucho f*ckin Marx who famously remarked that any club that’d let him in wasn’t worth rockin up to. Well actually I’m sure it was, and the fraternally fond half-Frog clown was both half-f*cking right and half-a-fuckin six-pack short of a carton at the same time, cos’ the cunt callin himself Groucho who always used forget to shave his weird whiskers – or maybe not, disguises being handy at times – forgot to let you in on the joke.
That being that throughout his 87 year lifetime (Bradman wins again) no c*nt at the Cross no matter how ice-cooked or coked-up they were on the evening would ever let the bloke with the Commo surname in through the strip club door, and it wasn’t because Mr Julius Henry Marx was attempting unlawful entry with a dodgy ducket or ringin’ himself in under a false name. No sportsfans, no not at all.
It wasn’t the gate crashing thing, or passing yourself off as that wanker who works at the smokes counter at the Woolies around the corner so ya can get into a pub and drink free piss on the prick’s personal tab. We like that sort of thing. It’s as Australian as Dawnie Fraser’s borrowed via five-finger loan Nippon flag, or Baa-Baa’s big hit on Ellery in the Bicentenary year Grand Final – take that Jimmy Cook ya c*nt! – or even the foolishly forgotten pingers in Joey Johns’ pocket.
Nah punters, giggling Grouch didn’t cop a life ban from clubs in the Cross for any of those reasons: he got barred because he was a bloody Septic Tank, just like that Latter Day Faint, the hopped-up hock-shop junkie Ryan Lochte, the wanker that the fowl-loving writer L. Frank Baum based his Courage the Cowardly Lion character on in his seminal work of wankery, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, that boring as batsh*t stage play named after the pioneering prophet of pilferage and leader of the ground-breaking Kangaroo Gang, our very own Arthur Delaney.
The poor old King would be rolling in his grave if he knew that a dozen-odd Aussies had been dusted a day or two ago for the cardinal sin and capital offence of trying to crash a pub with no beer just so the birds could perv on Patty Mills and the blokes pretend that it was OK because Patty was undoubtedly gay and scream Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi to hide their hormone-OD’s hard-ons.
I mean for the love of f*cking Pizza, gatecrashing a high-priced party’s our national sport, and if every event was based on it we’d have a hundred 18 carat medals and the presses owned by the Colombian coke-cartels would be working overtime to make us 100 more.
Jesus H Christ on the Rio hill, it’s just like Julius Henry said – any party that won’t have us as guests is the only party in town worth going to. So how’s it a bloody crime to try to sneak in? What’s an Australian athlete supposed to do, buy a ticket or something? Next the bloody Brazilians will be tellin our pumped up Pauline’s and Peter’s in spandex gear to stop rootin or something, and then where will our failed medal hopes be? Up sh*t creek without a medal, a paddle or mad Paraguayan shag like Leryn (below).
These Brazilian bastards were the brigadiers-generals of good times, birthday suits, bald beavers and brazen bonking until that bloody little retard Ryan Lochte came along and cocked it all up, and now all of a sudden Carnivale has turned into Footloose, and it’s all that cowardly Septic Tank c*nt’s fault.
Good on ya d*ckhead, you’ve done your dash now.
Kevvie’s banned you from the Bunger. For life.
Take that and stick it up ya half-Cuban clacker ya cowardly Cain-stained c*nt!
You can clearly see by the look in Kevvie’s eye that he’s far from from f*cking happy with crying Ryan Lochte’s cat-like cowardly behavior.