Wombats Draw With Fuckwits

Game Date: 19/09/2002

Well, it was a night of unparalleled fuckwittery tonight. The opposition were the Fuckwits, the umpire was Dirty Sanchez, and the mood was one of rank displeasure.

It all stated predictable enough with Damo spinning up "work" on the excuse-o-meter, leaving the hardy band of veterans to slug it out. This band comprised Bayls, PJ, Kel, Craigie, Ric and Totti, hardened volleyballing warriors, and veterans of such long and bitter campaigns as Winter 2002, and the halcyon days of Spring 2000. The pre-game warmup was the epitome of professionalism, with Dirty Sanchez joining in for some hard hitting action. Pot shot were then taken at a Poweraid bottle sitting in the corner, and a few lazy shot at the hoop were all that was needed to complete the vigorous and well rounded Wombats training session. Then Sanchez, tiring of the festivities, fellated his little plastic whistle, and blew the game into action.

With Damo out of the side, the Wombats were looking for something special. Something inspirational that would lift the spirits of their captain, whose latest emails have been nothing more than sheer textual drudgery. A crushing win would strike a well needed blow to the Fuckwits team, and also hammer home another rung in the ladder towards volleyball superstardom for the Wombats. Without the requisite scorer, it was always going to be tough starting each game minus 3 points, but the Wombats steeled themselves with battle hardened resolve, and knuckled down to the job at hand.

So, with Sanchez deepthroating his tweetler, Bayls' mighty fist sent his 6265742nd consecutive flawlessly supersonic serve into action. This set the tempo for the remainder of the first game. The Wombats were simply inspirational, and the Fuckwits were simply abysmal. For each soaring PJ spike, there was a bursting Fuckwits sphincter, for each magnificently executed Totti set, there was an unintentional header by the Fuckwits. For each enthusiastic limp-wristed Fuckwits spike, there was a pair of angry blocking fists attached to Kel's bulky arms. Ric, master tactician called the shots with measured precision, while on the opposite side of the net, incompetence and confusion held sway over the nanocerbaic Fuckwits. Craigie darted around the court like a man possessed, while the Fuckwits stood immobile, seemingly oblivious to the balls thundering into the court around them, gazing glassy eyed off into the distance while idly scratching their scrotums. The first game was a decisive victory for the Wombats.

The change of ends saw the Wombats eager to continue their domination, but they were forced to wait while the Fuckwits completed their dreary and pointless team huddle. This seemed to consist mainly of forming a tight circle as each player pressed his genitals into the man opposite him while discussing how best to whinge about the next game. Patience is a virtue, and the Bats were virtuous indeed as the witnessed this tawdry spectacle time and time again. The discussions evidently paid off for the Fuckwits, as they then embarked on a campaign of whinging and cheating that has never be equaled in the history of volleyball. Sticking to the team plan, one rotund little Fuckwits champion slapped a ball straight into the pole on the edge of the net, scarcely 30cm from the eagle eye of Dirty Sanchez, who duly honked his whistle to signify a Wombats point. Before the note had even begin to echo around the hallowed halls of Blackwood, it was drowned out by a chorus of angry Fuckwit voices, buzzing and wailing with childlike misery, claiming in whinneying nasal tones that the ball had never canonned into the pole, and the fact that it was now wildly vibrating and shaking like a petrol powered dildo, was merely some strange and weird coincidence.

It was now up to Sanchez, who is undoubtedly no stranger to having his calls questioned, to make the call. The Wombats looked on with disgust as first confusion, then fear, and then resignation swept the little man's face, and with quivering arms he gave the double Fonzie. As the rest of his Wombats teammates struggled to come to terms with this cowardly umpiring reversal, Bayls politely pointed out that the ball had in fact clearly smacked into the barber pole, and to suggest otherwise obviously required the relocation of your eyes somewhere deep within your own arse. This was unarguably sound logic, but Sanchez was unmoved and with the offending Fuckwit stammering incoherently about "just wanting fairness", the game resumed. The Wombats were clearly fired up by this exhibition of idiocy and pounded the cowering Fuckwits into flaccid submission by taking the second set in a nailbiter.

Sanchez called it like he saw it

Again, the following game was unduly delayed by the Fuckwits chattering and groping in their huddle like the chorus line of a gay musical. Finally though, pants were zipped up, mouths were wiped, and the game was ready to recommence. Again, this game was no stranger to action as a ball dribbled onto the A-grade arena from the adjacent C-grade pit. This in itself is nothing special and yet on this occasion, it sent one of the Fuckwits players into a thrashing, violent frenzy. In a shower of spittle, he rained a deluge of contempt on the hapless C-grader, tentatively sneaking onto the court to retrieve the ball, in what was all in all a tasteless display of petulance. Sanchez defused the situation, robotically issuing the double Fonzie to restart the point, and the Fuckwits were happy for now. The Wombats meanwhile were disgusted, and with bile welling in their collective throats, they capitulated to the Fuckwits.

By the time the handjob huddle had dispersed for game 4, the mood was tense. The Wombats were fired up, in particular Craigie and the usually reserved Bayls, who were now taking the trashtalking game up to the Fuckwits. PJ was also clearly annoyed, and yet chose to make his point in a non-verbal fashion by merely unloading his plasma cannon of a fist on the hapless opposition. Scarcely a few points into the game, the gathering spectators witnessed yet another infantile dummyspit by the Fuckwits. Clearly hitting the ball 5 times before it passed over the net, the Fuckwits exploded in a furious display of complaint following the sombre tootling of Sanchez's whistle. Yet again the Dirty little umpire would be forced to make a decision - did he really see the ball hit 5 times, or was it really just a very special, magical illusion brought about my too much peyote and Tequila at the pre-game umpires' lube-up? Again, the Wombats looked on with baited breath, and were incredulous as like a spineless salamander, Dirty Sanchez's nonexistent resolve was crushed under the weight of Fuckwit protestation. With a wry South American grimace, this little package of umpiring ineptitude completed the triple-double-Fonzie, decreeing that yet another hard earned Wombats point was to be discarded on the smoldering pyre of umpiring turpitude.

The Wombats were clearly rattled. It was no secret that Sanchez was a useless umpire, but before this match it had been hard to imagine to what depths his refereeing inutility extended. And now that the meaty curtains of deception had been peeled back and the true essence of rank incompetence had been revealed, it was a blow to the Wombats' system. Compounding this was the fact that the opposition were without doubt the biggest, lamest, saddest and most annoyingly galling bunch of hysterically whinging he-bitch banshee-harridans ever assembled, endlessly lamenting their perceived divine right to every unquestioned point, and screeching like an acid-scalded baby every time a call went against them, until it was reversed; Dirty Sanchez the supporting actor in each sordid achievement, a prize crowned by tragedy, as the integrity and sanctity of the noble game of volleyball sank further into the mire of depraved corruption, hissing and fizzing as the layers of propriety slowly melt into an acrid puddle of pungent improbity. Unsurprising then, that the last set was awarded to the Fuckwits. Unsurprising and yet fortuitous, as the ramifications of these bukkake-bandits actually losing the match are perhaps better left unimagined.

It was victory to the whingers

So, at the end of the night, it was a draw to the Wombats. A fact not lost on Damo, who had this to say at the post match press conference:

"Yeah, nah, we know we're a bit out of form at the moment, but we'll come back. We've had a tough draw so far, and it's a credit to the boys that we've played as hard as we have. We'll take a lot away from tonight, and rebuild for next week. We're just taking it one game at a time. We're happy to get the one point. It's a team building experience. It's just a credit to the boys that we done so well."

And so, the Wombats march inexorably toward their next exciting encounter.