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The sportfans of Geebung are f*ckin angry about the way Chubby and his main man The Pulveriser have assassinated Australian Rugby and our national pineapple play til you die pride.

The Pulveriser – Bill Pulver, the block headed former market researcher from the posh part of Sydney town – is your humble correspondent’s equally humble view the worst sporting head honcho in the whole of the Wide Brown Land, with the possible exception of The Coat Tugger, the Olympic whatever-his-job-is John Coates.

But then again Tugger’s more of a trough-snouting chaff-bagger than he is an administrator anyway, so he’s probably disqualified from the downward spiral sport boss stakes, although given our sparsely populated Games trophy cabinet you have to admit that he’s done a sterling job anyway.

I’ll tell ya what though, this pair of galahs – both of whom are sucking a salary in the high $700k’s annually out of their sport (that’s more than 15 grand a week mathematically-challenged mug punters)  –  have more in common than just a love of over-priced property and a free feed, for just as The Coat-Tugger’s presided over the capitulation of the once-great Aussie five-ringed circus, the Pulveriser’s matched him by leading Australian Rugby down the path of Bledisloe test-dreading destruction.

Old Pappy Papworth had it dead on front, back and dead bloody centre when he put the Pulveriser in the frame as a deep-pocketed poser from the top-end of town who’s run the Rugby finances into the ground and couldn’t give a rats arse about Ra-Ra footy or its future as long as he can continue to sport a freebie Louis the Frog leather satchel to transport his fish egg and flash gourmet lettuce  on gluten-free calcium-enhanced low-GI wholemeal fresh baked bread in Frogland and sped first-class express to Sydney sangas.

Bullseye!

The bloke’s a joke, and ya need to look no further than his unbridled I’ll love him ’til the day I die – or at least until it’s either him or me, and then it’s every yuppie for himself – support for Chubby Cheika, the most overrated coach in the long history of the cosmos, a pretender who has built a ridiculously undeserved reputation as a you beaut bonza crackerjack rugby coach on the back of Izzy Folau’s NRL learnt and totally un-ruck, kick and maul brilliance.

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He’s Joe Janiak, that’s who Chubby Cheika is. A should-be Uber driver who struck it lucky with a brilliant stallion who took him all around the globe on his back,  just like Joe’s gelding Takeover Target took him around the world, from Singapore to Hong Kong to Tokyo and all the way to Royal Ascot sporting ill-fitting tails and a surely you must be taking the piss ya pisspot style top hat.

For f*ck’s sake, Chubby and Joe even shared the same jockey, even if they went by different names.

Smokin Joe stuck true to his battling stable rider Jay Ford because that’s just what cabbies from Queanbeyan do, but who the hell using logic can work out why Kurtley ‘The New Mark Ella (NME) Ha Ha Ha!’ Beale was- and still would be if he hadn’t busted his knee last year, about half a decade after his desire to play footy deflated – Chubby’s stable jockey and golden haired boy?

So beloved is Beale of Chubby that the supercoach somehow managed to spin NME’s any-bastard-who-doesn’t-have-a-wooden-leg-could-do-it effort running through Mack-truck sized holes caused by 3 Crusaders defenders hanging off an off-loading Izzy in the 2014 Super Rugby Final into a ‘Here Comes Superman’ call up to the 2015 World Cup team, and then shepherded him into a few seemingly impressive to the impressionable late-minute against tired-legs line breaks in a losing side.

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If you were the suspicious type you’d have to start asking under your breath if Chubby Cheika may not just be the second coming of Grand Slam Jonesy – a bloke the Old Mark Ella (OME) didn’t have a lot of time for – and that Mr Kurtley NME Beale may not just be one of Jonesy’s favourite superfly half-backs.

But geex, don’t be mentioning that, cos old Dead-Bolt and Doubting from the National Affairs Desk of Rupert ‘International Affairs on the Desk’ Rooting Murdoch’s stable might their backs up, and then the crusade against that c*nt 18C will be yesterday’s news.

And then poofters, queers, homos, fags, buftie boys, cock suckers, arse bandits, fairies, gaylords, shirt-lifters, lady-boys,  bum sniffers, soap droppers and straight-out f*cking sodomites  and sinners – it’s game on!

Bad boys, Bad boys, whatcha gunna do, whatcha gunna do when the paid Papal Knight’s boys are comin’ after you hey?

They’re be no pencil-thin pretender named Will Smith there to protect ya will there? No, the Man in Black’ll be off in some 18th century mid-western town sculling straight whisky and a beer chaser with Tommy-Lee Jones and listening to Miley Cyrus and Dolly Parton singing unplugged duets with Willie Nelson humming backing harmonies won’t he?

Never fear though susceptible sportsfans,  Chubby’s got ya another actor named Wil to entertain ya in the MIB’s absence, a dill named Genia, who until the supercoach selected him for the first game of the Bledisloe hadn’t picked up a ball in anger in 8 months, and not in a fair dinkum game on sunburnt soil for more than 18.

It was an inspired selection by Chubby – though exactly what exotic inspiration inspired him remains a bloody mystery – and was rewarded by our We-Thought-You-Were-Retired Wil being totally out-played by the man with the non-descript name of Smith, and seemingly spending the entire game missing in action.

So good in fact was Wil Genia, and so excited was his coach by the blank highlight reels as he watched them on the iPad in the bath, that it caused Chubby to leap in the air and cry ‘Eureka!’ just before he slipped and fell smack bang on his posterior. But even the extreme pain in the arse wasn’t enough to stop him implementing his Churchillian strategy to win back the auld mug names after an old society pommy mug.

If you can’t keep-a the coveted cup he reckoned, ya just gotta goddamn Cooper it!

And so in lobs Pound – aka Super Trooper Quade Cooper – back from the Rugby dead, and now all of a sudden against all odds the Aussie pick and go loving public is about to find out why the faux-fenian fifteenth generation Catholics believe that a cocoa-coloured Rabbi was actually a Christian who rose from the dead.

The Pulveriser, who not that very long ago regarded the Super Trooper as an inferior species to Judas, is now of course convinced that the indian-ink-riddled rude boy who melted down under the pressure of a sledge from half a dozen boners from the freezing works in Balclutha  – and has never psychologically recovered – is the remedy for all the ills that ail Australian rugby, because Chubby bloody says so and Chubby’s a world class coach who’s never wrong.

The whole shemozzle would dead set be fall on the floor funny if it wasn’t so seriously f*cked up, because these shiny-arsed shaman from the affluent North Shore are turning our land of milk and coal and gas and honey into an international laughing stock, and it’s an absolute f*cking disgrace.

Just look at the bloody Instagram! Sonny Bill’s got selfies with every bastard. Who’s Quade goner LOL with on camera in the Games Village? Bloody no-one, ‘cos the intercept pass-throwing clown who channels Carlos Spencer couldn’t even make the bloody team! And now Chubby’s chucked him in at fly-half ahead of Bernie Foley, the best player in the whole underperforming team!

What the hell’s going on fifteen-a-side arse in the air loving sportsfans?

There’s only one solution.

Sack the whole lot of the bastards and select the entire Melbourne Storm starting side then throw in JT and the Golden Boy Milford, and hurl Nathan Crackerjack Cleary,  Jacky Boy Bird, JT Jr (young Jasie Taumololo) and Monstrous Matty Scott on the reserves bench, and voila! Problem solved, and hand that bloody gold goon guzzler over Captain cuzzie bro!

Pulver, you’re pulverised.

Australia, we’ve won the Bledisloe.

ARU you’ve just saved near 800 grand a year.

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And best of all homeless folk the Ra-ra boys have now got enough extra cash to shout you a decent feed or three, and the pride you feel in our new-found 100% league-converted and presently undefeated Wallabies will keep you warm at night while you’re sleeping on the footpath outside The Pulveriser’s gated mansion and waiting for the Willy Webb-Ellis wrecking Waldo to get back home after a big night in the $1800 Kathmandu Made-in-Italy-and-lined-with-duck-fleece single sack at the St Vinnie’s CEO sleepout in the CBD.

Everyone’s a winner baby!

Even the bloody Wallabies.