With several of the first choice XV unable to tour due to earning shit-loads in Europe commitments, the Samoans fielded a 3rd XV tonight in a thrashing worse than a paralytic arts student taking on Ross Murant.

“To come here and lose by 87 points shows the Samoans are ready.” said NZRFU CEO Steve Tew. “I’d rate it alongside ’07’s 61-10 toweling of France. Maybe even the 55-3 Wales debacle in ‘03. We’ll definitely work with them to schedule more hidings in the future.”

Jubilant Manu Samoa Coach Niko Palamo said “Those boys did themselves proud representing Samoa tonight. Whoever they were.” The loss impressed the English press with The Times’ Stephen Jones purring  about the Samoans’ indomitable spirit and the sheer magnitude of glorious, glorious defeat. He also demanded the Samoan’s immediate inclusion in the Six Nations at the expense of Scotland.

I needed time to think, so I bought a ranch in Arizona. Got me a porch, a sniper rifle and a bluetooth headset. I can sit in the shade, take calls and nail baby Armadillos all day long. I’m a consultant now.

So yesterday I just finished a 25 mile run when the phone rings - it’s New Zealand on the line. No, they don’t wanna fit rocket launchers on NZL92 to make that shit interesting. It’s the Rugby Union. They’ve got a problem with the NPC. Sheesh. You ring the Surechzekenegger and interrupt his warm down with a Rugby problem? The NPC? What is that, the National Pussy Championship? Fuckin’ Rugby.

Anyhoo, it’s their money. They got three problems. Number one: The crowds don’t give a shit about the NPC. Number two: The players don’t give a shit about the NPC, they all want to be in France. Number three: The Rugby Union don’t give a shit about the NPC. Turns out they get more money for showing porn. Whatever. They need a plan to kill this piss-ant competition once and for all.

They came to the right place. The Surechzekinator always has a plan. When Pi Lamda Kappa had a situation, and everyone was screaming ‘I can’t believe a spine can do that!’ and ‘But I’m the Governor’s son!’ it was me who got the paddling pool and the wood chipper. I’ve had more great plans than Paris Hilton’s had freakin’ morons. I needed some time to think. I chugged Power-shakes with Jack chasers. I shot a few Armadillos. I went on a crying jag on the kitchen floor. When I came to I had all the answers.

Turns out it’s real simple. You got a competition you don’t want? No problem, you make it self destruct like a Surechzek Senior parole hearing. The crowds don’t give a shit? Screw ‘em, we’ll have security rough the fans up when they enter, rough ‘em up during the game, and rough ‘em up on the way out. You want a drink? Drink goat piss. You want food? Eat shit on rye. $25 bucks each. Oh, and we’ll be playing ‘Barbie Girl’ all day long, as loud as it goes. You gotta be careful what you wish for, right?

Players wanna go to France? Whatever, there’s more Rugby players in New Zealand than crabs on my ex-wife. Actually, fuck those guys, we’ll force some midweek lady golfers to play for freakin’ Tarankai. How you like them apples? Three or four weeks of humanity-sapping action like that will bury the NPC once and for all. It’ll be like an Armadillo in the Surechezk cross-hairs. People will vomit when they just see the LOGO. The NZRFU can concentrate on makin’ money in the Super 36. Yeah, I’m consulting on that one, too.

So, the Surechzeker has solved all New Zealand’s problems and I’d only been consulting a week. Only thing to do, friends, is load the rifle, pour a Martini, and start thinking about breakfast. Catch you on the flip side, Amigos.

“Zombies cannot run - so if you see a person running at you, it’s not a zombie. DON’T shoot him. Give him a high-five.” “You’re blocking one of your own guys out there!” “He doesn’t matter, my safety is more important than his.” This is all invaluable zombie-infestation survival advice, team.

Here’s how to make a single speed hipster bike.

Do I not like that - insane, foul mouthed England football coach doco.

More Dingo

Zinc Oxide is everywhere - be careful out there, team

Michael Phelps Returns To His Tank At Sea World

With computer games, I tend to go for Zombies and shotguns and any combination thereof. But if I played World Of Warcraft, I’d probably be this guy.

Here’s my entry in the Dropkicks’ Olympic drinking game contest.

Equipment:
- Piss
- Vessel
- Couch
- TV
- A whole lot of sick days

One consume:
A crazy slo-mo camera angle has you wondering where the camera is

Two consumes:
A crazy slo-mo camera angle makes you suspect LSD flashback

Three consumes:
You have to Wikipedia the rules

Four consumes:
You wind up getting sucked into Wikipedia’s Family Ties, Shoelace Tying and Who Shot First pages and totally miss the race / match

Five consumes:
You retrieve your running shoes from behind the fridge after watching lithe bodies running / cycling / etc and giving your own telly belly a forlorn poke

Six Consumes:
You STILL don’t make it off the couch for the entire two weeks and / or winter

Seven Consumes:
It slowly dawns on you the wall to wall handball / beach volleyball coverage between 8PM and 10PM is about boosting ratings and leveraging gratuitous T ‘n’ A into primetime, not *actual sport*

Eight consumes:
You don’t really care

Twenty four consumes:
Yet another vacuous comment from the TVNZ gang make you absent-mindedly miss Tony Veitch

The random, the foolhardy, the damning exposes, the quite stupid, my favorite, or the first one ever - they’re all there, plus heaps more, in the archive.

Go nuts.

Download away. It’s the 17th of August show, I come on at 7′55″.

*this bit’s not actually true.