Footy is here.

With it comes TV ad blitzes, membership drives, footy player PAs at kids hospitals and a major upturn in the fortunes of Melbourne brothels and Perth crack houses.

Footy today is a professional, polished sport behind the scenes and on the field. The marketing and PR departments are much more advanced and promotional events are more sophisticated than the traditional free club flag with every pig’s trotter sold from the pie van.

It wasn’t always this way. In times long past footy club marketing exercises were often ill-considered and sometimes life-threatening. Ejacunation takes you back in time to relive some of footy’s greatest marketing and PR disasters.

The Cats are On Fire

One of the earliest marketing exercises involved the Geelong FC. The tagline “The Cats are On Fire” was floated for the 1978 season. Innocent and blandly exciting enough to have the club president pause snorting lines of battery acid off the buttocks of Chango, his Philipino lady-boy, and nod his agreement the campaign was approved.

Unfortunately the pitch left out one of the major planks in the strategy: the launching into the crowd, by trebuchet, of dozens of cats on the opening siren of the season’s first home game. All of which were first doused in kerosene and set alight.

To the delight of the newly appointed Manager of Brand Communications, within seconds the crowd were screaming “The Cats are On Fire”. Then “the stand is on fire”, “my child is on fire” followed by the arrest of the marketing department.

The only Bombers I want to see are from Essendon!

Riding the coat-tails of Australia’s love affair with cashed-up Japanese tourists the Essendon Football Club decided on a novelty, vox pop ad with staged interviews on the streets of Nagasaki featuring the tag line “The only Bombers I want to see are from Essendon!” Objections were howled down as political correctness gone mad.

Hilarious when we look back at it now, but at the time the the repercussions were far-reaching, including a Japanese ban on export to Australia of anime tapes and used schoolgirl panties. The ban is technically still in place. Kevin Sheedy was given a pay increase.

You Love the Tigers, the Tigers Love You

Raffling off the stripper at a bucks night was common enough in the 70s, but the Richmond Football Club took this one step further in their attempt to place the fan back at the centre of their promotions and raise the profile of selected players.

Back strain and venereal disease eventually put a halt to the weekly raffling of invitations to days-long clubhouse orgies featuring a different player at each event. This forced fans back to pubs and nightclubs for a shot at a getting into a player’s dacks.

Sydney or Bust

With the simple brief that the Swans wanted to “hit town with a bang”, the Sydney Swans marketing department planted explosives on the Harbour Bridge, Sydney Tower and the opera house.

The slaughter of 8,000 people in a new team’s home town is a PR disaster on a scale second only to the unveiling of Port Adelaide’s mascot Tommy ‘Thunda’ Power, The Super Charged Super Tradesman.

Derryn Hinch and Melbourne FC

In answer to Collingwood’s Pink Pies initiative which embraces the club’s gay, lesbian and transgender followers, each year Derryn Hinch is given a free Melbourne FC membership and free beer at all games. While at games he usually spends the time contemplating the blackness of his soul.

Beauty Over Substance

It wasn’t all disaster for footy marketing’s early years. Oh no.

Many years ago the marketing whizzes at Whitten Oval brainstormed several new slogans.

A collective sigh of relief greeted the news that the slogan “Glory is fleeting, Passion is forever” beat out the synonymous but less poetic “We’re going to be crap this year, but you should be used to it by now”.

If you are visiting this website, chances are you did so looking for that picture of the hot girl from Mythbusters with her massive knockers hanging out. We’ve done studies. You pervert.

Nevertheless, I am probably as big a fan of pr0n as you. For people like us, the internet provides a veritable smorgasbord of naughtiness, debauchery so filthy and rancid even we would be far too embarrassed to ask for it over the counter of our local Club X. Why, take this evening, for instance. More out of habit than anything, I found myself logged on to bikinibikini.com, typing ‘Bukkake’ into their search engine. Not content with the usual Asian hardcore scene, I decided to spice things up with a bit of amateur UK action. The results were as you would expect: Two women who you might describe as mildly attractive, but probably wouldn’t, about a dozen fat men, most of whom had small penises, fat guts and grey hair, a fair bit of semen, awkward glances and facial expressions from the amatuer girls, and botched lines that probably ought to have been edited out. It was rubbish, and I felt a bit silly rubbing one out to it.

On my hard drive there is gigabytes of this filth. All shapes, forms fashions and kinds of pornography. Most of it is disgusting by anyone’s standards. The more you watch, the more you are desensitised. Where once a scene showing penetration was enough to keep me happy for months on end, it’s now barely enough to raise a meh. My penis shrugs his shoulders and goes through the motions. Sometimes, I find myself thinking of a simpler time.

I’m thinking the summer holidays in high school, before people had the internet in their homes. I’m thinking late nights because there was no reason to get up early. And I’m definitely thinking SBS.

Good old SBS. I’ve got it on in the background even as I type. SBS introduced me to the key influences in my life: Ninjas, anime and boobs. Glorious breasts, petite and voluptuous and everything in between, from every nation on the planet. It was like a mate to me back then, no, it was my late night booty call.

Days would be spent cruising chicks on my 20 inch BMX, kicking it with my homies and playing backyard cricket. Actually fuck that, my days were spent indoors playing Secret of Mana while Dad tried to get me to mow the lawn. Regardless, when the sun went down and dinner was consumed, it was time to retire to my room with a novel and a couple of nerd magazines, with my pissant 34 inch telly on inconspicuously in the background.

Ejacunations Top Five SBS Sex Related Films, As Voted by YOU!*

Five/ Nude for Satan.

This 70’s Italian horror flick does little to disguise its true intentions: To show us the boobs and nipple of twenty year old women, all of whom are rediculously hot in spite of their funny haircuts. In the opening minutes of the film, the heroine gets her dress cut so her brests are showing. For the rest of the film, her tits hang out from that rip. Everyone has sex with everyone, even when it makes not sense to what shred of a plot was dreamed up. This is as good a starting point to sexy SBS films as any.

Four/ Yvonne’s Perfume

To be honest this film is only included to bring some semblance of culture to the list. It is not a Horror with Tits, nor is it a Comedy with Tits, or indeed a Horror/Comedy with Tits. This is a drama, a story of love lost and… look I can’t remember what it’s about. Something sticks in my mind about a count selling his butterfly collection, but mostly I remember the handful of hot sex scenes with the main actress who was stupidly, stupidly attractive.

Three/ Weatherwoman

Look. This film begins with a shot of a girl masturbating in the ladies room before she begins work for the day. Apart from that, the best thing about this one is it has somehow been classified as ‘kooky’, ‘guilty pleasure’ and ‘disarmingly exhuberant’. So you can watch the lesbian bath sex scene without fear of being uncultured.

Two/ Vampiros Lesbos

LESBIAN VAMPIRES GET IT ON. GET IT ON. Er. It’s another 70’s italian horror film with naked women and shit. Use your imagination. Also, like Weatherwoman, it’s become a cult classic, mostly thanks to creepy nerds like us justifying our shortfalls as human beings. Giddy up.

One/ Erotic Ghost Story

Two years ago SBS showed a rerun of this classic on a Saturday night. I hadn’t seen it in years, and I was not going to miss out. Only problem: A friend of mine from the Army was on holidays and on THAT VERY NIGHT he had organised a drinks evening out on the town. I know it was going down, so even though I had barely seen this mate in a year or so, I avoided him like the plague.

I made it all the way to Saturday without seeing him. I knew he was going to come around to my place. Luckily, I was home alone. So I kept the house locked up, shut the windows despite the heat and bunkered down in my brother’s room, where I did not make a noise. Around lunchtime, my friend came over, knocking on the door. He was very persistant. It was a solid few minutes of knocking. Eventually he left. From there on in, for the rest of the day, I received a phone call every hour, on the hour. My friend, whom I had not seen in twelve months, was trying his damndest to get in contact with me, and I blew him off for Erotic Ghost Story, ninety minutes of wank fodder. I swear every word in this paragraph is true.

If you have not seen this film, it’s probably best for your social life that it stays that way.

* Me

Working for a company that does premium SMS products I’m basically inundated with calls from happy, satisfied customers. Here are two. One more to come when I edit out the kid’s number.

I hope you’re black?

Rangers Forever

Someone isn’t proof reading properly:

At a family friends house when i was about 12, me and my brother were playing hide and seek with the kids from this house.

Anyway, I was seeking, and I found one of the girls in her parents room. She was hiding behind their bedside table, and upon being found she produced an item she’d found back there. Keep in mind I’m only 12 at this point, and this girl is about 7.

It resided in a long, grey, sock, and phallic shaped. She removed said sock and said “hey what’s this?” and proceeded to click a button the side, causing this item to shake wildly in her 7 year old hands.

Now I wasn’t the most streetwise kid at 12, but I had a fair idea what this item was for and was doing my best not to burst out in laughter. Mainly due to the fact that there were about 10 adults in the dining room enjoying their dinner which meant us kids had the run of the rest of the house as long as we didn’t do anything too loud. This would give me the opportunity to do such things as chase their cat, steal money from people’s wallets and purses and most importantly, hurt my little brother without fear of retribution in front of my parents friends.

But this oppurtunity was too good to let go. I almost felt guilty as I looked at this young girl, holding a vibrator in her bare hands that had definitely been up her mum, and possibly up her dad.

The guilt soon passed and I finally replied to her “I don’t know what that is, Chloe, go ask your dad it could be important”.

As she left the room I ran to the lounge room, hid behind a couch, peering through the sliding door into the dining room.

Little Chloe walked in, clutching the still moving vibrator like the olympic torch of filth, and her mother’s response went from “Chloe go play with the other kids” to “Oh my god Chloe” in the space of one nanosecond. It was far, far, too late.

Of course this was way too much for me to simply hold in, I almost vomited I was laughing so hard, I noticed my dad was doing the same through my little spy slot. My younger brother, 10 at the time had dislodged himself from his hiding space by this time and come to find me - he didn’t understand what was so funny and I didn’t have the heart to explain it all (because that would incriminate me way too much when he invariably dobbed on me later after I gave him a chinese burn or belting).

Little Chloe was disciplined and sent to her room. By disciplined I of course mean copped an almighty belting from her parents in plain view of everyone else at the dinner and sent to her room.

Sucked in, bitch.

In a disgusting effort to scam hits from people searching for Kari Byron in various states of dress and undress, here’s a link to the YouTube video of Kari Byron’s arse scan.

Kari Byron’s Butt Scan.

It’s really funny when you watch this and play the soundtrack of her farting in the “Which foods make you fart?” segment.

When I say “really funny” I mean “not funny at all and just a way to add a couple of extra sentences to this post to make it look like I am earning my money”.

One of the many chain letters that does the rounds every other month is the “remember when” email, where people add things they remember fondly from childhood. We here at Ejacunation have collected our own and humbly present them here in the hope you’ll nod and smile at the shared experience.

This email is for anyone who yearns for a simpler time.

A time of innocence and laughter.

A time when…

* there were no ethnic divisions. Everyone agreed you could wrap a dirty wog in an Australian flag and douse him in acid and he should be arrested for causing a public nuisance.

* you could bash and stab black hobos and street urchins to death and the bobbies would have a quiet word with your parents and all would be sorted out by tea time.

* sixpence could buy you a fuck from a half decent whore from a presentable brothel and you’d still have tuppence left over for a sack of mixed lollies for the walk home.

* women like Missy Higgins and Mary J Blige were where they ought to be today: Lying on the kitchen floor, holding back the tears trying to flow through their black eyes.

* we didn’t need a TV to keep us entertained. We’d all sit around the fireplace while Granny read to us. Mein Kampf always went down a treat.

* parents let their kids sort out their differences between themselves, and turned a blind eye when you beat up that whiney oik of a child who told tales about the priest touching him in the vestry.

* you learned about sex the sensible way: from your uncle in the back seat of his Kingswood, and you’d get a shiny penny if you made the extra noises he liked.

* you could kill all the ugly women in your village by telling the inquisitor that they were witches.

* army surplus explosives were wrapped in coloured paper and sold as fireworks at ninepence a crate, making it cheap and easy to become an enforcer for the unions.

* we used to play Atari because Nintendo is a Japanese corporation and we fought those filthy bastards in the war. And beat them.

* workplace initiation pranks didn’t result in a counselling session or a court appearance. Setting a new apprentice’s hair on fire and feeding his hand into the meat grinder while four men held him down was sensibly laughed off by all parties over six or seven pints of scotch before driving home where your wife would be given a love tap if she gave you any cheek about being late home, drunk and covered in blood.

* a “love tap” was legally defined as anything up to and including knocking your wife unconscious, as long as she was revived in time to make the dinner and have intercourse afterwards.

* you never laid a hand on your girlfriend for fear of her father. That was his right until you did the decent thing and married her.

* ladies respected their bodies. Any woman who had anal intercourse was a dirty, filthy slut and would be beaten and thoroughly raped by the village policemen to teach her a jolly good lesson.

* you could buy a bottle of Passion Pop for $1.50, which you could then give to a schoolgirl in exchange for a handjob behind the penny arcade.

* we had the common sense not to give good alcohol to a stranger who would never share it with us, so the schoolgirl was your sister or cousin.

* a perverted old man had the common decency to knock you unconscious before dragging your prone body into his Ford Transit and raping you silly. None of this disgusting ’squeal like a pig’ nonsense.

* there was no public transport but you could have the street midget cart you around in a rickshaw. Much more fun than a bus and it was a treat if your Dad let you whip the midget when he moved too slow.

* homosexuals, draft-dodgers and communists were easy to track because they were all in the one place: University.

* kids could look forward to the excitement of attending their first race day, when all of the mentally disabled people from surrounding towns were brought to the track, fed vodka and saddled up for an afternoon of family fun and gambling. A much better way to spend time than playing video games or getting a high school education.

* beating Asians and Tasmanians was a national duty, not a crime.

* they played REAL music on the wireless, none of this so-called R’n'B or hip hop. Mostly because if a black man spoke in public Hank Williams would rip out his throat with his bare hands.

* people knew the value of money and didn’t waste it on expensive toys and gadgets. We didn’t spend good money on a wheelchair when Aunt Ida was perfectly happy with her lot as a foot stool, draught excluder and novelty sex toy for the neighbourhood men who paid a pound of apples a go.

* we never had much money, but we didn’t need it because we had the most important thing a youngster could ever need or want: FAMILY. Except for my red haired sister, who we ate in the Winter of ‘18.

Now pass this on to all of your friends to share the memories or 100,000 Albanian children will die of cancer.

I was a tennis fan. I loved the game. I loved the atmosphere of centre court.

Most of all I loved Lleyton Hewitt. He embodied everything that was good about Australia, from his love of footy to his karaoke Khe Sanh.

Recently, that changed. It started at the Australian Open when I had the honour and privilege of finally meeting Lleyton in person. He wasn’t what I expected.

He seemed arrogant and stand-offish. I asked for an autograph and he threw up his hands and backed away from me shouting for security. I grabbed my bolt cutters and jumped back out the change room window.

I thought, perhaps he was ill? I had noticed a couple of empty bottles of Mylanta in his rubbish bins the week before. An ulcer can really take it out of you. But that couldn’t be it could it? Could anything that serious develop in the short time since I found his medical records lying around in a locked cabinet in his doctor’s office? His tennis playing and on-court manner seemed as polished as ever.

The Mylanta was probably for Bec. She had looked a bit stressed the last time I followed her into the women’s toilets at Westfield.

On the drive home from Melbourne Park it struck me he might not be “our Lleyton” anymore. I slowly drove up and down his street for three or four hours, mulling it over in my mind and playing “Wind Beneath My Wings” on the stereo at full volume with all the car windows open.

I parked in front of Lleyton’s house and wept a little, fondling the Adelaide Crows jersey I had found in his car last year. I recalled how I had seen Bec and the baby while I checked the car’s glove box. I waved but Bec mustn’t have seen me and went back into her house. I went up to the house and banged on the window but she just lay huddled on the floor, crying and dialling someone on the phone. A bit rude but I didn’t make an issue of it. I knew that women got a bit vague and emotional for the first year or so after giving birth.

Police sirens wailed and I abandoned my car. It was hard to run in Bec’s high heels so I swapped to the ugg boots I had found on their back doorstep. They still carried Lleyton’s unique musk.

Sitting in the storm drain as the police dogs closed in, I had an epiphany. I realised that I’ll never understand fame, not really. I knew that fans would always be a world apart from their idols. I knew that people are not perfect and would always change in small ways when celebrity was thrust upon them.

Most of all I knew for certain that Lleyton Hewitt was a bogan wanker and Bec Cartwright was a stuck-up bitch.

So you think you’ve got it bad.

Maybe you are black in a white society, or perhaps, heaven forbid, you have suffered from sexual discrimination. You think you have suffered oppression? Fuck off, you wouldn’t have a clue. I’ve lived a much harder life than you could ever know, and you could not possibly understand so don’t bother to try. Life is not easy, not when you are addicted to gaming.

Proper gaming, you understand. None of this leasureboy bullshit that I am so often forced to endure: pool, poker, darts – darts! – and their ilk. These are not real games. They require next to no skill to be competent, there’s no tangible reward for completing a game and no one can agree on the rules. A waste of time when you could be playing something like Street Fighter II Turbo, which is a far tighter and more challenging experience.

Yet it is for this very reason games are held in such poor esteem, and I am forced to conceal my obsession. People do not want to be challenged. Ben Stiller said so after the credits of his hit film Dodgeball, apologetically explaining why the last 15 minutes of that film sucked ass. And Ben Stiller knows more than you or I. Have you seen his wife? She is hot and relatively famous and you would consider amputating your foreskin with a butter knife if it meant you could sleep with her for one night. Ben Stiller gets with her every day, and probably even has a few good looking women going on the side. It would be wise to heed his words. But I digress.

Last year I splashed out on a kick ass 42 inch plasma hi def screen. It rules. Games like Dragon Quest VIII, Resident Evil 4 and Shadow of the Colossus take on a whole new life when viewed on a half decent set up. It’s damn close to a sexual experience. Unfortunately all too often my game time is cut into by the bane of my existence: Sports events. Don’t get me wrong. I like footy and cricket. My problem is, all too often there will be a shit match on telly, someone else will be in the house keen to watch, and it will cut a good chunk out of my game time.

Take last Sunday for instance. I was planning on having a nice quiet day to myself. My roommate was off to watch the cricket live. Great, I thought. I can have a decent session on Tony Hawk’s without interruption. Everyone wins.

Except, no. The night before, some mates stayed over after a big night out. They had tickets to the cricket, but were too ‘hungover’ (read: weak) to leave and chose to watch the match on TV. So they stayed and watched the match in full, and didn’t leave til 5.00pm. Good fucking God. Especially in the last innings where absolutely nothing of note happened. It was the most boring three hours of my life, just sitting there, watching New Zealand chip the ball around, not really making a dent. And the worst part. I can’t just tell them that they can stay if they like, but I will be playing Tony Hawk’s. It doesn’t work like that. I had to pretend to be interested in this hunk of shit, forgone conclusion match, when I knew I could have been doing something that was actually interesting, something I had planned to do in the first place. My friends would never see the logic, blinded by their love for non interactive entertainment.

One of said friends even understands the appeal, yet forces himself into a life of gaming celibacy. Upon seeing my brand new Gameboy SP a few years back, he flicked it on and was having fun with Astro Boy: Omega Factor. And rightly so, it’s a great game. Halfway through the first level, though, he came to his senses and says, loudly and dismissively, what am I doing playing this? And quickly switches it off. Heaven forbid someone catch him enjoying a product specifically designed for fun.

My roommate’s girlfriend finds it amusing that I am a gamer. She laughed at me the other day, when she walked in and I was kicking ass at Marvel Vs Capcom 2. Laughed, even though I whipped through arcade mode without a single KO against my name. I clocked that bastard like a little bitch, and what does this woman have to say? ‘Catfish, what is it with you and games?’

I said, I’ve literally played a game in your presence on two occasions in my life. And it was true. My roommate only moved in a couple of months ago and I’ve slowly weaned him on the fact that I am a gamer. It’s getting to the point now where it is understood what I do, yet it is never brought up when we speak. We both know where we stand. He’s a bit like, ‘I am not a racist, BUT…’ except he is like that for games. And you know what? I don’t mind so much. But his girl, she does not understand. If I was a black man she would be burning crosses in my front yard. Silly woman, walking past the screen, giggling, ‘Oh, I hope I didn’t make you lose any lives’ in that condescending tone. No I didn’t lose any fucking lives you peasant, I am playing Marvel Vs Capcom 2 and in case you didn’t notice, you lose health rather than lives. Enough of your stereotyping, thanks muchly.

It’s partially the fault of mainstream media. How many films have you seen that don’t treat games as a joke? Only two spring to mind: Shaun of the Dead (Simon Pegg is a massive geek and a sexual god, I expect) and The 40 Year Old Virgin. Other than that, you would be hard pressed. Seeing a film released in 2006, and having two kids with a pair of massive joysticks accompanied by the bleeps and crap chip music of the Commodore 64 is the equivalent of The Token Black Guy, jive talking and cracking wise. That lovable rogue with a massive penis who busts rhymes in his low rider. This is no excuse for a person of average intelligence to discount gaming in general, of course, but if saves the plebs from thinking too deeply about something they are too simple minded to comprehend.

If only we could live in a perfect world, where men weren’t afraid to admit they’d rather be killing skyscraper sized monsters in Shadow of the Colossus than watching a shit game of footy between Hawthorn and Carleton, and women weren’t so derogatory and flippant in disregarding gaming in general. Perhaps then I could get a root.

As a founder of a large forum site and admin for what seems like 100 years but is really only about 6, I have come across many different kinds of people. All of them idiots.

To amuse myself, I classify and label them thus:

Split Personality: Will get kicked and then spend the rest of his life simultaneously trying to re-register while doing everything in his power to “bring the site down” by bad-mouthing it on other forums. Has 39 aliases, 39 of which have been found and kicked because he uses his name in every Hotmail address he registers with. No idea why but he is always from Adelaide.

All your user are belong to us: Posts for a while until he realises that he could be a King amongst men instead of a lowly pleb. Starts his own site, spams the boards then wonders why anyone would dare kick him, an Admin Of A Forum! Has 39 acolytes willing to sacrifice their accounts in a Spamageddon. Tries to return to the site after 2 months. Bizarrely, will sometimes offer to “team up” with the owner of the site he spammed.

Stalk-u-nator: Invents feuds with other users then follows them from thread to thread with cutting comments like “yeah but ur a fukkin fahget LOL”. Just wants to be loved.

Cute Girl: Has a “nice personality”. Flirts with a small group of 39 males who act as online bodyguards and confidants in the hope of meeting her and slipping her some cock. Is actually a four-foot tall, 100kg redhead with a club foot and chronic halitosis.

Mr Freedom of Speech: Won’t shut the fuck up about getting his account canned by The Man just because he accused other users of being grave-robbing Nazi pedophiles. Has 39 aliases to back up his wild rumours and accusations.

Comrade Wanker: Thinks everything should be free and resents the site owner wanting to pay his web host let alone make some money from his toil. Thinks banner advertising is rape. Has 39 aliases to get back at the site owners by “filling up their database and costing the bastards money”.

1337 Haxxer: If any server issues arise, will wait 39 millionths of a second before denouncing the sites technical support as complete amateurs and giving his own unrequested and impractical advice. Usually a high school virgin. If this is you: stop doing this annoying shit or I will go into your WoW server and stomp your puny level 20 Gnome into the dirt with my level 40 Orc. You fucking nerd.

Presto Chango: Posts mindless and petty comments. When this pointed out by 39 other posters quickly changes tack and says he was fishing all along and hasn’t he done well sucking everybody in? Aunty Ethyl’s favourite nephew.

39 Year Old Virgin: Scores an infraction then reports any and all posts which bear the slightest resemblance to the post he was hit for. Goes over the site rules with a fine-tooth comb and insists you interpret them the way he does. If you don’t he gets sand in his vagina big-time and ‘quits’ the site. Returns a week later. Thinks everyone agrees with him (”everyone” being the people he hears with his eyes closed while lying in a sensory deprivation tank). Quite probably autistic, and not in the good way where he can help you win at blackjack.

Groupie: Emails, PMs and even SMSs anyone involved in running the site. Leaps to the defence of the site if a negative word is uttered. Will never be a mod because he is too creepy. Has made 39,000 suggestions on how to improve the site, mostly involving him being made a moderator.

Phunny Boy: Is 15 and madly spams every thread with “funny” comments. Has 39 gimmick aliases, none of them funny.

Know-it-all Dumbass: Will stake a claim as the planet\’s most knowledgeable person on any topic you care to name on the basis that his intellect is uncluttered by “education”. Claims gravity does not exist and that he invented squirrels. Has 39 brain cells. Full stop. Sometimes crosses paths with 1337 Haxxer with hi-larious results.

Raving Psycho: Is never wrong. Starts 39 new web sites based entirely on hatred of people who have done him wrong or refused to back him up in a thread.

Bastard Admin: Kicks any user who gets the better of him in an argument. Thinks he has a cutting, ironic wit. Claims to own the internet rights to all of his users and nukes competing sites by running to their web-hosts or geek mates who know a thing or two about DDOS attacks. Stays up until all hours drinking Irish whiskey and handing out infractions. Hates everyone.