The Spew Round 21 - Night of the Doppelgangers and a Technicolor Yawn

Previously:
Round 20
Round 19

When the Dogs and Pies clash at Etihad on Friday evening the competition is willing from the get go. White in a marking attempt gives away a free to Hamling who—with his Edward Beale hair and 80s beard—is undoubtedly the progeny of Kenny Loggins. This is going to be the night of the doppelgangers, I feel it.

Loggins: the spirit animal of champions

Where White failed, Moore soon suceeds—marking the ball between his wrists like they were pincers and he was a gigantic lobster. He dispatches the ball for 6 points. Suddenly I spot more twins—young Dog defender Roberts and Collingwood's Oxley. They're Dead Ringers, although I couldn't account for their gynecological skills.

Jake Stringer—sporting a Dustin Martin-Mad Max-Desert Apocalypse-Schmohawk cut—puts the Dogs second goal on the board after Phillips passes the ball into Suckling's tumtum at the other end.

The Dogs fans are excited but there's a menacing spectre, an aggressive dogman strong arming the Bulldog cheersquad. It's like a scene from North Korea; you don't want to be the first one to stop clapping. Cordy goals near the siren with a kick so low in its trajectory it's almost subterranean.

Quarter two starts with Webb looking for a target from the centre after getting a free. He does what appears to be the wee wee dance, so you know is game is intense. Will needs an injection of soft power into his game as he roosts the ball and sends bullet handpasses. In the commentary box Ling is like a Wayne Carey echo chamber, agreeing in fulsome scale with every observation.

Moore slides his face into the furniture of Etihad, an L.E.D. advert, in what advertising executives are mooting as the future of branding. The Doggies are comfortably on top after a Cordy goal but 3 quick Pie goals and the half ends on level pegging.

Quarter three appears to be Pie time and at one point they lead 66:48 but Bontempelli provides a 10 minute patch of Mr Sheen level smoothness and they claw back and the quarter ends 73:72 to the Dogs favour.

In the final quarter Schmohawk binds Varcoe up like a chrysalis and the Doggies pile on some quick goals—pew, pew! But they can't tear away. Greenwood goals then Oxley delivers the shortest ever goal in history, earning him the moniker of one inch man.

Now it's a frenzied goal fest. Moore, who with bandaged head and darting eyes looks like a Ren & Stimpy character, goals, then Nathan 'The Rat' Hrovat gets the cheese, now Maynard the berserker. Goldsack is playing the role of kickboxing bag, Grundy delivers a fist of God that clears the inner rim of the universe where Dogs abound and in the last 30 seconds as the Pies trail by 3 Sidebottom gets some octopus treatment but no clemency from the umpire. The Doggies by 3.

Moving to the MCG on Saturday for North versus Hawthorn and we're expecting a medley of violence if the promo is any indication. And fair enough, just look at the rap sheets of the coaches. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Within a nanosecond of the game beginning Ziebell gets a clarifying clothesline across his chops. For all the build-up, the first 10 minutes of the game is a snooze fest. So much so Gerard forgets he's commentating and starts cluck-clucking and calling out frees. Then suddenly the game becomes a brutal spectacle of what man can do to man. That only man is vile and kills for pleasure.

There is a procession of goals without end—a transformation of bum-paddling from a kinky passtime into a scientific system. North look like 'activated' mannequins, or like those Dr Who statues that get closer every time you blink, except every time you blink North gets further away.

If North survive the kill floor, you wonder who'll survive Brad Scott's quarter time purgation as it ends at a demoralising 52:6.

When quarter two starts it's evident Goldstein has no poker face—it's a map of horror. You know the crowd is stunned when you can clearly hear every irate crazy and their life manifesto blow across the ground. But the Hawks have stunned themselves with their own performance and the only bit of life and colour are the multi-coloured boots which look like they've been thrown up by Cronus in a technical yawn.

Tarrant is like a wall and although he is a wall with feet, he's only so wide and can only do so much. Still, North claw back well with some Petrie, Gibson and Nahas goals, while Hawthorn tread water and the half ends at 61:38.

When play resumes, Brad Johnson outlines his illuminating Three Aimless Monkeys theorem, complete with identifying circles for extra shame.

There are small pockets of interest still to the observer; a Hodge/Firrito head-butting competition, Hansen awkwardly attempting to tackle Puopolo like he was tackling his first bra and a Harvey hanging off Mitchell's neck like a novelty charm.

It's the final quarter and despite North being badly beaten up, Daw has used his raw power and taken some great marks. North have got back into a competitive position but have chewed up their energy reserves in the process. Swallow is the second best Christian captain in the competition but when Puopolo and Rioli goal with 8 minutes left, his holy spirit is all but evaporated.

There'll be no cavalry for North, just a Sisyphean boulder for them to keep pushing pointlessly up a hill. In the dying minutes there looks to be some Jesus poster light filling the ground but it turns out to be the torch of Satan, shining a light on some of his handy work. Hawthorn win easily 96:57.

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