In the pre-roll, Bo and Sunny Obama, Portuguese Water Dogs to the President of the United States, train some of the puppies set to paw their way onto the GEICO stadium. Their real activities are secret. We're instead shown the propaganda of exercise, healthy eating and kids with weird contortions on their faces (people may refer to these as smiles?) as they exert themselves outside the comfort of Cheetos laden clothes and soft drink stained furniture.
On a field of many, it's a team of one. Over 30 puppies in the rotating line-ups on the grounds of Animal Planet Stadium. Each dog to their own scoreboard and mowing the play down as they see fit, if they grab the toys. Counterprogramming against the human league in Super Bowl XLVI - Battle of the spreadsheets and text editors.
Sambol at the ready and it's a dicey flavour of burning hotness gracing the lips and tongue to deceive on actual temperature. Very much the pain threshold of testing fatigue. Breaking point past here and no lines in the grains of rice. Tasty fat lips and counter time to swap coins aplenty for the hole in the pocket holds nothing more than disappointment. And no coins.
Pad See-Yew with a crack of an eggshell and the tip-off is underway. Heat builds quick with a shank of plastic down the front. Apparently it works double. Optimistically blind, a row steal the seats one behind, leaving the front all clear as the resolve.
No water on the water gate makes it a gate of dry illusion. One where dashing back and forth is not for the slippery of feet. Whatever lands on the rock with the back of the skull is best.
Zone out to the cold sweats, the break into the city is a step off on the station before it all goes underground. After that, time is no longer an ally but a lying, filthy, cheating cur.
Juicy fat peach in hand quells the uproar in the stomach. Contorting against the dismal array of cool breeze hitting over the skin on the day's way through. Frankie say relax, but Frankie is dead from exhaustion with vultures dashing hairs of salt into his eye sockets. Pepper, anyone?
Pork chops on a sizzling plate and the look of rice stewing in the sauce is enough to break out a plate of vegetables in oyster sauce. Long enough and the people in the toilets start waiting for one brave soul to open the doors out. Prospective three lands two and the split cut into the deal is about the same either way. One note, one seat less.
Back streets and alleys feature cobblestones, loose steps and cardboard to walk across. Feel the freezing breeze as the legs crumble and give to one mother of a wind chill. Nobody rubs this close late at night without it being down William Street. Or with metal slugs in the chamber. Perspective and all, so very clear and charming to the crowd. Rain drops keep falling on the head, but that doesn't mean anything for the fire in pig's bed.
After a lacklustre start to a lacklustre series, QLD opened up the game with an early try borne of a crafty kick into the NSW zone. Four points up looked like a handy lead in a low scoring game riddled with mistakes.
No joy could come to the team supported by a vandal willing to paint a town's icon two shades of blue in preparation for a match. This is certainly true for the first half where NSW failed to gain any points whatsoever in response to the QLD score of 14.
Failing the live & personal touch, viewing the "big fight" between Danny Green and Anthony Mundine on a "big screen" in a "local pub" seemed like a good idea. The Kogarah Tavern seemed a likely place for a good vantage point. But by the time of arrival - i.e. the beginning of the Elmahod bout, it was already packed. A lucky thing, given that pubs were expected to fork out $1500+ to show the event to the loud drunken mob. The mood of the evening seemed to sour slightly in accordance with the amount of beer being slurped down enormous gaping foodholes. The repeated cries of "go the waratahs!" would imply that elements of the crowd had lost control of what was really going on.
Darkness is the Kingdome. Spotlights roam around and the cheerleaders and dancers sparkle on the floor. Late for a weeknight in the city, tip off is thirty minutes behind the ticket time. Oils on the right reeks heavy of sweat, a pinch on the back of the throat and the light rises up with the food staying down. Basketballs descend from below, lobs high hit hard on the other end of the parabola. Danger? Only from the one that waits in rafters to bonk the one looking for their seat.
