Traitor and ex-Australian spinner Steward McFrill aka Stewie McGirl aka Stuart MacGill (in more politically correct circles) hasn't featured on this blog since 2005. Can you believe that? I sure can. Bastard let the team down when we needed him most.
Anyway, so here's not-so-young Stewie, doing his best impression of -yes, you guessed it - a little McGirl in a pink frock. Not that Cow Tse Tung has anything against Pink.
I love pink. I mean, I just drank this shit diet energy drink called Pink this evening instead of having a meal so that when they milked me on the first day of 2012 tomorrow, I'd produce a viable alternative to Red Bullshit and V for Vagina.Got Milk?
Peter Siddle and Ryan Harris Training for the India-Australia Test Series 2011-2012.
Word is that Rayon Harass's (aka Ryan Harris to you educated ones, and Lion Hallas to you chinky Asians) parents named him so because they thought he was like rejuvenated cellulose. After a forced hiatus due to purported injury and spurious-liquor-intake, I can't see no cellulose, but cellugain and again, the cellulite seems to be anything but lite, Rayon.
Here's Cheater Liddle (aka Peter Siddle), who's actually not a liddle cheater but a big one at that. You might say that's an extremely uninformed opinion, but I bet you hadn't seen this photo of Liddle subtly threatening physical violence against Harass with his toy dagger...
A reliable source tells us that top odour fartsman, Ed Cowan, no relation to Edith Cowan, or Edith Cowan University was actually called Ed Coward before he stank up Australian cricket. Don't believe this source of ultimate truth? Look at the evidence above. Even choker South African coach Mickey Farter scares this fellow!
Man, so much for liberty, equality and fraternity. This Fake IPL dude writes funnier shit than me. And, he's got insider info on IPL - works for me, because my pubes are out of control. WTF? There goes equality out of the cricketing satire window. Then there's the perplexing matter of whether Mandira Baby IS the Deep Throat, or whether Mandira GIVES Deep Throat? Is that even propah grammar? Who cares - IPL is a form of cricket followed by illiterate Indians anyway. Preserve your Queen's for a tougher day.
Anyway, who cares who this dude is, as long as he makes an ass of himself, or gives us a tidbit or two to chuckle over. I am annoyed with the nicknames he gives players though - they're too - ummm - KOSHER! My list of alternative nicknames for IPL personalities:
John Buchanan (Bhooka Naan): Duke Canon would've been my name - coz he's a gun coach. And the world can kiss my chaddhis for all I care - Buck is God.
Saurav Ganguly (Lord Almighty): WTF? What kinda insult is Lord Almighty meant to be? Huh? I reckon Soreass ManBully is more vicious, AND also that the ass-raiding crybaby is this Fake IPL Player himself.
Kevin Pietersen (Peter Ka Beta): BORING!!!! Cave-In (under pressure) Cheaterson.
Shane Warne (Sheikh of Tweak): Is this a take on Sultan of Swing? YAWN! Mane Yawn. Coz he's all about his fake hair, and he puts me to sleep with his wannabe bad-boy antics, only to end up at the Allan Border medal with his sweet daughter.
Shantakumar Sreesanth (Appam Chutiya): Okay, in true populist style, you coin a nickname with a swear word, and India's low IQed population goes, "brilliant, why didn't I think of that?". Being an Indian cow, but with a trace of Jersey blood in me, I'd go with FreeCanth (rhyming with CUNT). On second thoughts, Appam Chutiya sounds better.
Mandira Bedi (Sandy Something Babe): Sandy? Who wants a SANDY babe? I say, Randy-RRRR Bebi
Well, that's about all my bovine brain can handle at this stage. I leave you with Crybaby Breakdancer, Freecunt and Sho Ape Fuckthar, comparing notes on penis size, and how to create illusions of crotchly grandeur by means of wearing your sister's skin-tight jeans.
I understand how assorted currymunchers feel about Sachin Tendulkar, especially sexually, but this guy takes it to a new level altogether - Praveen SR is his name, and I guess he caught me on a bad hair day.
Please note that as of April 9th, Praveen won't be cumming in front of a computer. I can only assume he's opted for the backdoor option.
Laddies and Gentlewanks, It has been nearly two years since I posted on this blog. When Bob Woolmer died in mysterious circumstances in the West Indies during the ICC World Cup of 2007, I lost all interest in cricket, and my appetite for cricketing satire.
Since then, world cricket has evolved greatly, even as my favourite team, Australia, are in a rebuilding phase and haven't had the success of the past. Woolmer's death was written off as natural, even though I firmly believe he was murdered - but that's beyond the scope of this blog.
Back to our regular transmission, since the self-imposed exile/sabattical - I present to you, Bollywood belly dancer, Harbhadance Singh...
From his belly size, it is evident that Harbhajan has been digging into plenty of tandoori chickens and ghee-laced naans, in anticipation of the tough Kiwi conditions. Daniel Vettori beware!
Disclaimer: This is a pubic service massage. Here is Kevin. Kevin Pietersen. He is a rare cocksucker cockatoo from remote South Africa who was brought over to England because of his uncanny ability as a battyboybatsman. A birdie batsman, you might ask? Yes, as long as you're not a duck, you're in luck.
Watch cricket. Save endangered species like Kevin, the cocksucker "Cockatoo" Pietersen.
The batsman formerly known as Yousuf Youhana might not realize it, but converting to Islam and walking around looking like an Osama Bin Laden clone isn't the key to his recent batting success. No sir, no bowler's intimidated by your Osama look, bar the Aussie pace quartet, who, in recent times, find even #10 dummies a handful to contend with.
Anyway, if you look carefully at this picture, you will see that Mohammed Yousuf might have given the Christianity the boot, but Jebus Christ always watches over him. I think Jebus might have an obsessive personality. Like me. Now, I'm off to chart a strategy on how I'm going to convert Jebus into a cow-worshipping Hinjew.
Pictured above are Anil Kumble, who works really hard on his bowling, and his hence a consistent performer, and Sachin Tendulkar, who's too busy doing other stuff, and hence only manages a decent performance every 10 matches or thereabouts. Seen here is Tendulkar consulting a crystal ball to gauge his chances at the 2007 Cricket World Cup in the West Indies. Before you pass judgment on him, remember - Tendulkar wasn't very well educated, since he was too busy scoring ducks in international cricket. Scoring ducks, you heard me right. Some like the sheep (Fleming, Oram?), but some just love the ducks. Peking duck, Peeping Tom....ah, brings back some old memories.
But yeah, as I was braying, this guy's so dumb that he still can't tell "the" golden goose from a not-so-golden duck.
As you can tell, Cow Tse Tung isn't the happiest chappy around, after Australia's dismal losses to the Pommies and the Kiwi. No more Pom jokes. I'll even spare the sheepfuckers. And definitely no Aussie players on this blog for a while. Yes. Aussie cricket boycott.
Right, first, we see the supposedly athletically challenged Monty Panesar, on cloud nine. Paul Nixon tries to emulate the new Flying Sikh (with all due respect to the real Flying Sikh, Milkha Singh) but fails miserably. 'White men can't jump', they say. Also, this might be because of the "heavy water" within Nixon. As you can see, he is clearly a Chernobyl survivor. His teeth say it all in the above picture. He's like a beacon behind the stumps, guiding the bowlers using his neon glow.
But this guy Nixon, he might be a shit batsman and a radioactive freak, yet is a great motivator. He's utilizing the Indian connection to the maximum, as next on, another player of Indian origin, Ravi Bopara is caught defying gravity, and Nixon seems to be the driving force behind him. The roles have reversed. The Indians are seeking spiritual guidance from the West, and gurus like Nixon are helping us curries levitate. ARGH. I don't find any humor in cricket since Australia lost. Sobs. Goodbye pretty world.
Pictured above is British cricket star, and spinner par excellence, Monty Panesar, dropping a 100 at the orders of his coach after his umpteenth misfield to background music by The Midfield General, after which a decision was taken by the CTT Bored of Directors to rename him as "The Misfield General". Very apt.
Hey kids, turn off your toons.Hey adults, turn off your sitcoms, skits, and whathaveyous. Cricket is 360 degree entertainment now.
On Thursday, Missus Cow Tse Tung, who's not really a cow, but can be one when she's in a not-so-good mood took me to Youtube and showed me the real reason (and it definitely was bronchitis) why Brett Lee missed the first ODI game of the Commonwealth Bank (DIE CBA DIE) series against that pitiful excuse for a cricket team, England. Yessir, the bitter truth was exposed to me, right before our season-opening one-dayer. Twat Lee was away, in quest of Liz Kemp, Mark Deux, in tandem with matchmaker, and screechy BollyWoof bitch, Ass-uh Boo-Sleigh (post-Christmas carol time). It was possibly the worst romantic number I have ever heard in my life, and I think even Medusa would turn down Adonis were he to serenade her with a song like this.
Yo Brett, if you sing shitty songs like this, I'm not too shocked you end up with bronchitis. Even pests and bacteria and bugs find tracks like that highly annoying. First, you have INXS, who come up with a classy Indo-Aussie vid...and then Twat Lee And Asha Bhosle wreck it all.
Then, on Friday, I came back from work, hoping to see England put up a decent fight against the Aussies, but what do I get to see? Reports of Mcgrath breaking Pietersen's ribs. The stupid fuck was giving McGrath the charge AGAIN, and this time, he got what he's deserved for over a month now. If you thought that was enough, no sir. You had to watch England's innings. Flintoff, first over, gives wides I can't even keep a count of. The keeper, Paul Nixon - no relation to my idol and fellow slimeball, Richard Nixon - freaking dives AFTER the ball has passed him. No worries matey. You can still redeem yourself yet.
What do I see next? A magic fumble. The keeper is looking at say 5 ft height, when the ball strikes him a bit above his pads. Ouch.
OKAY! Still no worries...what could go worse?
Next on, as I await that great redemption, what does Nixon go and do? He dives in front of first slip, trying to take the ball, but instead ensures Australia get a 4 off yet another Flintoff wide.
Seems like Panesar didn't want to be left out of the fun. He's my favorite cricketer these days, and that's mainly coz he's such a simpleton. I love his no-frills, no ego, competitive attitude. What I can't get is his fielding. First up, he nearly trips Sajid Mahmood as they head back to their positions after saving a boundary, and then, instead of going for a catch, like a true Indian, he waits for the ball to bounce, lest he injure his dainty hands. You're an international cricketer - try and convert those half-chances. Catching the ball won't hurt that much. ARGH! I take back my ARGH, actually - it reminded me of people I played cricket with as a kid, and how me, being Jonty Rhodes incarnate, or thereabouts, going, "the ball's not gonna eat ya, pussy. Get your paws to EAT ze BALL". No double entendre, please.
Nuff' said. I turned the TV off after a hearty, healthy laugh, and went back to listen to my favorite new song...Asha Bhosle featuring Brett Lee in "You Are The One For Me". Disgusting.
I dare you to watch it right here, right now, and disagree with my assessment...and don't stone me for putting this up - curries are actually buying enough copies of the single to make it a chartbuster back in my former motherland.
Man, I truly thought Steve Harmison had more to him than he's shown us on this tour. I mean, I've been his fitness trainer for months now. We've been lifting candy floss and flossing our teeth non-stop to prepare for this very Ashes series. And now, our collective dream is in shambles. Damn those Aussies. Let me show you a picture of my beloved Harmy diligently undergoing my acclaimed fitness program for cricketers...
He's NOT busting a cheerleader move. For God's sake, you ignoramuses and hippopotamuses. A song comes to mind..."Candy Perfume Girl" by the evergreen crackhoe, Madonna.
So, on the day that we hear of Shane Warne's definite and Glenn McGrath's tentative retirement plans, what does Steve Harmibum go and do? He announces he's "retiring" from ODIs. Correct me if I'm mistaken, but he's just 28, right? All my years of hard work and toil have gone down the drain. I was hoping Harmy would show some grit and determination, and master the art of ODI bowling. But well...
England, like India is a team that rewards mediocrity, because excellence is unknown, or requires way too much movement away from one's comfort zones. Look at Pakistan. Afridi "retires" from Tests, and he gets dropped from the ODI squad. Gotta earn your stripes son, gotta earn your stripes.
I'll answer that one, THANK YOU! 'Coz you bat like Danny Morrison with a wrist injury.
Initially, Cow Tse Tung Sexurity CystStems (not related to Cow Tse Tung Sound System) was hired to handcuff and drag the terribly out of form Suckshit Tenderrer (no relation to cricket-lovin' Roger Federer) back to the dark alleys of Mumbai, where BDSM, sodomy and gilli-danda(1) rate amongst people's favorite and favored pastimes. But the Bored of Crickets (and other pesky pests) Control of India aka BCCI forewarned us of the political fallout (think SoreAss Googly), and the potential quagmire that would've/could've followed, and our preemptive, forward-thinking move saved many a city in India from imminent riots. So we just had to settle for the Muslim kid, Irfan PotPan being sent back home to clean the pots and the pans. We should be looking into opening tailender, VrrrrrEnder Sehwag's case once we clear our backlog, fear not. His lack of form has been very annoying. Axe the fatass already.
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I am VERY angry at the stupid pansy faggot poof homo gay battyboy who was searching for "Andrew Symonds+GAY" and arrived at my wonderful blog, courtesy of Gaygle, the gay Google. Look, you sneaky little turd, Symonds might've fucked England in the rear, but he ain't gay. But you can wank to his pictures. He gives you his express permission through his Agent La Sexual Affaires` , i.e. myself. Which reminds me, Symonds scored his first Test century today. 154 n.o. at close of play. I'm SO proud of him. His average now stands at 26+, courtesy of the undefeated knock. You deserved it matey. Cool runnings.
Footnotes: (1) Gilli Danda could also mean Adam Gilchrist's Prostitution Business. Gilly, or Gilli= Adam Gilchrist, superman wicketkeeper in Australian slang. Dhanda=Business (usually of the dodgy variety) in Hindi.
Man, after the 2005 Ashes, everybody would go on and on about human beer-cask, Man-brew Glintoff's cricketing genius, and coach Dunkin' Donuts Stretcher's coaching wizardry. I was getting sick of it, until this Ashes series, when the glint off Glintoff's supposed cricketing brilliance wore off. And what made me even happier was Coach Dunkin's team requiring stretchers, after their comprehensive defeats. Very satisfying. Revenge, sweet, revenge.
Anyway, so there have been recent news reports about Coach Dunkin' Donuts and Captain Glint-off not seeing eye to eye on matters as diverse as selection...and ummm...selection. Cases in example are wicketkeeper, Chris Steed, Monty Dancer (not stripper), and whoever else they brought over from England (and they did bring a fair number of players over). This picture clearly proves that the Coach and the Captain have the same thing on their minds - so why all this crap about not thinking alike etc.?
I've been really busy playing massive DJ mixes to myself and my goldfish. In the time I've been away, I find that other cricket blogs are now using the same image distortion techniques as myself to try and match my notoriety. Look mates, cricket blogs are meant to be dignified, with this one being the sole exception to the case. Cow Tse Tung very angry. But that's another story for another day.
Today, we see England's extraordinarily ordinary wicket-keeper, Grunt Moans, in his new role as beer-keeper for the Barmy Army. His luck has finally run out on him, as has Coach Dunkin' Stretcher. So, as he watches the English squad prepare for the 4th Ashes Test, Geraint, bitter in Victoria, holds a Victoria Bitter (possibly the worst tasting beer on Earth, excuse my patriotism). I'd distort and twist and make even more fun of Geraint Jones' name, but I don't really know how to pronounce it. Ignorance is bliss and a whole let less work w.r.t. compiling posts like this.
Mate, as me, and Elton John (and you'll see in a moment why Elton is so critical to this post) always say, back when we were young warthogs, did Imran Khan have the time of his life or what! Not only did he ummm, screw the Jew (Jewmima Goldsmith, distant relative of Shylock the money-lender), but he also managed to play good, hard cricket under the influence. We can't go into any details of what this "influence" refers to, but hey, you're as smart as I am, so go figure.
Then there was Wasim FuckRum. The man with the shortest run-up for a pace bowler. I always thought he had a lovely wife, and a great marriage, until I heard this on the radio a few weeks back, on the Hamish and Andy show (92.9 FM in Perth, or podcast-able online):
Hamish and Andy: So what celebrity have you pashed AFTER they were famous?Random female caller: I pashed Wasim Akram, the Porkistani cricketer, about 2 years back.
And take my word for it, Wasim's wifey don't have no Aussie accent, mate.
Anyway, so after all these sex scandals involving Pakistani cricketers, I wasn't very surprised when I saw this picture on Cricinfo.com:
Yes, that's the disgraced drug-implicated Porkistani fast bowler, Shoaib Chuck-thar, with physio, Darryn Lifson, in what they're saying is a physiotherapy session. NO, they're not trying to pump out drugs from Shoaib. And they are definitely not indulging in sodomy. That kinda shit is looked down upon in Porkistan, despite the million and one cases of gay rape that occur there. No sir, we do not condone such behaviour. Which is why we had to "ban" Shoaib from cricket for 2 years. The problem wasn't drug related - the problem was that he was becoming too addicted to carnal indulgences with Caucasian men. Just like Imran, except for his sexuality. I mean, at least Imran picked feminine White men like that transvestite, Jemima Goldsmith.
What I'm kinda disappointed about is that Shoaib isn't the manly, controling stud I thought he was - instead, as we can see from his facial expressions, he quite enjoys being the bitch. Damn bottom.
So, on a recent astral projection trip to India, the Australian cricket Grape Chappal, big fan of wine, and also currant Indian cricket coach was telling me about how much Sachin's role in the Indian cricket team has changed.
While the media and myself comfortably assumed this he was talking about Sachin's "role" in the team, little did we realize that he meant Sachin's been making rolls for the team. Since the guy doesn't score runs, and refuses to bowl, they figured they'd still retain him in the team as their official hot dog vendor [the guy owns a restaurant in Mumbai, yo], which in turn means that their Pepsi sponsorship wasn't lost because of non-performance on the field. Masters of marketing, I tell ya. The BCCI should be a management consultancy, specializing in turnarounds.
I've been too busy watching Australia fucking whip England, so, apologies for this delayed Ashes coverage...
As if this whole Shane Warne moob incident wasn't scandalous enough, we then captured Steve Harmison trying that whole Ball Tamponing business by using his lactating breasts to squirt some of his erm, FLUIDS on to the cricket ball. This game is no longer a gentleman's game...all these boobs and lactation. I feel lactose intolerant. Darn that. Never thought I'd say this - go away Pamela Anderson wannabes. :-(
Man, what a disgrace of a cricket match. England rendered Shane in the ass Warne ineffective, or so they'd like to believe, and their teddy-bear of a bowler, Matthew Hughard is the most successful of the bowlers.
But here, at Cow Tse Tung Centre for Sports Anal-i-Cys(t), we have found out the real reason as to why Shane couldn't perform to his optimum. The team had a blanket ban on sex, and Warne, as we very well know, can't function without, erm, functioning. His ball release depends on his erm, release. Damn this chick...behind every failing man is a, erm, WENCH (for want of a politer word). Damn Warney, stop playing with ze moobs.
