Another open letter to the Richmond Football Club

To whom it may concern,

I submitted an application recently to you recently for the full-time coaching position starting in 2010. I have not heard back from you, and am becoming irksome and anxious about my prospects.

So I am writing today to suggest an alternative. Perhaps instead of Senior Coach, I could be the next best thing: waterboy. I'd be awesome at it, I mean, look at all this stuff I know about water:

- Its uses include: drinking, swimming in, pouring onto stuff, housing our sea creatures, freezing and throwing at the homeless, and, uuum, adding Berocca to.
- It is composed of atoms or molecules or whatever,
- It's wet.
- Sometimes when you're drinking it, it can go down the wrong pipe, y'know, the one to your lungs, and you cough.
- One litre of water equals exactly one litre of any other liquid.
- If you drink a glass of water and no one hears you, are you any more hydrated? Hint: yes.
- A common misconception is that water is blue. Not many people realise it is in fact clear.

I am aware of the high standards your club has on and off the field (no, seriously), and so you probably want me to prove my worth in word form somehow. I shall do that in the following way:

If water could talk, and it were talking to Danny DeVito then the conversation would go something like this:

Danny DeVito: Hey water, what's happening?
Water: Yeah, just, like, covering 70% of the Earth's surface n' shit.
Danny DeVito: Oh cool, how's that working out?
Water: It's not bad, except this shark that was swimming around my groinal area accidentally bit me the other day.
Danny DeVito: Can that even happen? And if it can happen, wouldn't it happen millions of times every day?
Water: What is this 'day' you speak of? I'm just water, I don't really know this stuff.
Danny DeVito: A day is the period of time it takes for the Earth to rotate once on its axis.
Water: I don't like your tone DeVito, don't make me drown you.
Danny DeVito: I'll drink you if you don't show a little respect.
Water: Ok, let's not say anything here we can't take back. Anyway, to answer your question, no, it doesn't happen often, just the other day.
Danny DeVito: And where is your groin?
Water: Near Iceland. In my Pacific Ocean.
Danny DeVito: Iceland is in the Atlantic.
Water: Shut the f*ck up you know it all c*nt faced know-nothing f*ckwit. DeVito, more like DeShito.
Danny DeVito: That's a bit harsh.
Water: I apologise. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that.
Danny DeVito: That's okay, I would be angry too if a shark bit my crotch.
Water: What are you talking about? I don't have a crotch, I'm water. d*ckface.
Danny DeVito: If you represent all of water, then you must be all segmented, most in the ocean, but some in lakes, rivers, taps, even in people and plants and in clouds. I mean, this doesn't make any sense.
Water: Well this is just a fictitious conversation.
Danny DeVito: Touche, shall we delete the last few lines as to not bring the integrity of this letter into question?
Water: Yeah probably, but I'm not writing it. Rob is.
Danny DeVito: Oh yeah. Anyway, can I ask you some more questions?
Water: Ok make it quick, because I've gotta rain on Rob's washing in a sec.
Danny DeVito: Rob didn't hang out his washing today.
Water: This is getting very trivial. Rob seems to be using this as a vehicle to vent his frustration on me for wetting his washing. Anyway, to answer your question, a barnacle is a type of arthropod belonging to infraclass Cirripedia in the subphylum Crustacea, and is hence related to crabs and lobsters.
Danny DeVito: Wait, I haven't asked the question yet.
Water: Ok shoot.
Danny DeVito: What's it like being a cloud?
Water: Yeah it's pretty sweet, I get to float around and watch girls sunbake topless in their back gardens.
Danny DeVito: How are they sunbaking if it's cloudy?
Water: Shutup you f*ck-knob.
Danny DeVito: I didn't realise water had such a temper.
Water: Hey sorry, I've actually gotta run...

*silence*

Water: Get it? Running water?!
Danny DeVito: That is so stupid. You're not funny. Don't quit your day job.
Water: Ahh you suck. You're not funny either and you can't act. At least I sustain all of life on Earth.
Danny DeVito: Ok that's all we've got time for.
Water: Wait, are you a "small-person" or just really short?
Danny DeVito: Sorry, interview over.

Water exeunt stage left. Danny DeVito ad-libs interpretive water-dance.

Danny DeVito drunk on water. Wait a second, that's champagne! I can't quite read it, but please don't tell me it's "Danny DeVito" brand.

So as you can see, I'm intimate with my knowledge of water. Infact, my body is composed of 60% water. I bet your current coach isn't composed of 60% coach... and your trainers aren't composed of 60% train (although it would be amazingly cool if they were).

So if you aren't convinced by now, I've attached a picture of the kind of water I WON'T be distributing to our players.

Water Buffalo. Appropriately in water. Probably why they're called WATER Buffalo...

I will be distributing neither the dirty water nor the buffalo to the players. The buffalo would probably make a good stir fry or something. High in protein. I'd wash him first, though.

Anyway, please inform me of your decision a.s.a.p. because if I can get this job, I'll be able to quit my current job drilling the holes in swiss cheese. I hate the Swiss and their cheese.

Faithfully, lovingly and devotedly,

Rob Barone-Nugent

p.s. I am not a fruitcake.

An open letter to the Economy

Dear the Global Economy,

I'm not sure if you remember me, but we met a few years ago when I exchanged A$100 for Italian Lira. Upon arriving in Italy, I was promptly informed that the Lira had been obsolete since 1999. That probably explained why the girl at the exchange was pointing and laughing at me.

The meltdown of the economy is scary. Probably as scary as an, uum, a shark attacking you when you leave your house in the morning.

But to be honest, all I really know about the economy is from year 9 economics with Mr. Perry. Before that, I thought the economy was a dragon from a Paul Jennings story. But as far as I can ascertain from Mr. Perry, teachers are poor, but in high demand. So if more people buy teachers, their price will go up. Ok, perhaps teachers aren't the best example. Let's consider hotdogs. Yoshimi owns a hotdog stand and sells them for $2 each. But on Saturday nights, after about 9pm, most of Yoshimi's patrons are highly inebriated, so Yoshimi charges $47.50 for a hotdog and an extra $10 for sauce. No one realizes because cashed up from the outer suburbs aren't aware of the real price of a hotdog, only the price of a designer flanny. Anyway, as far as I can tell Price is a function of supply, demand, and how many Vodka Cruisers have been consumed. Mr. Perry was a great teacher.

Anyway, I'm writing with chagrin, but also sympathy. I hear you're unwell. I'm assuming that a 'crisis' for an abstract entity translates to 'Bovine flu' for a human. So i've come up with a few ideas to cure you. I have tabled them below:

- Talk to some mathematics dudes, and get them to agree to make 1 = 100. That way everyone would be way more richer and stuff, and you'd be one hundred times better.
- Round all the poor people up and put them in a huge cage in some shit country, like Iceland. Then everyone would be rich, and whenever a rich guy became poor (I'm looking in your direction, James Packer) we could get a big fucking Pterodactyl or something to fly them to Iceland.
- Print more money. It worked for Mugabe.

But perhaps the best thing would be to get you a wife. If Happy Days has taught me anything, it's that when Tom Bosley was under some sort of pressure at the hardware store, Marion Ross would have some sage advice and a big bowl of strawberry ice-cream to make him feel better, and then Richie and the Fonz could get back to Arnold's to do whatever cliched things it is that '50s kids do (listen to Fats Domino probably). Anyway, the point is, I can find you a wife, and we'll call her the Economistress, so when you sick, overweight, lazy, or have a bout of gonorrhea she can whip you into shape. This is what I imagine she'll look like:

Four arms = twice the lovin'

The four arms means that she can distribute $900 stimuli to the proletariat of Australia, beat up both of the Lehman brothers and rub Obama's head all at the same time. This brings me to my next point, which is a side note,

Wouldn't it be sweet if all women had four arms?! Hint: not really. See below for answer.

Moving on, I've heard the term 'Global Financial Crisis' way to many time in the past year, especially on morning television and The View. These shows should be reserved purely for abdominal health infomercials and that hot Republican chick (respectively). Even more disturbing is that fact that this has been abbreviated to GFC. I met some girls from the LaTrobe valley once, and they used the acronym GFC, but they meant something entirely different. Trust me, these were not the kind of people to be discussing global trade or the stock market. Let's just say the G stood for 'get', the F for a word rhyming with 'woodchuck', and the C a word rhyming with "can't"... Anyway, they weren't the most sophisticated girls going around; it may have had something to do with the proximity of coal power plants to their lungs.

So I hope you get well soon, and to anyone reading this, please spend some money on shit you don't need. I mean, max out your credit cards, get unsustainable loans to buy a new house, invest other people's money is questionable business dealings. A good rule of thumb to work by is that if the person is called Tony, refers to himself in the third person, wears a ring on his thumb or can't help sniggering whenever you make a new investment with him, then you can't go wrong.

Get well soon,

RBN,

p.s. watch out before you leave your house today, there might be a shark lurking in the bushes.

˙ssoɹƃ ɐpuıʞ puɐ pɹıǝʍ ʎllɐʇoʇ ǝq p,ʇı ˙ʇ,uplnoʍ ʇı `ou ˙⇂

An open letter to the Chaser Team

To the team at the Chaser,

I am writing because I thought of a great sketch for you guys to do. Maybe you could fit it into your next show?

I was thinking that now you've put terminally ill children in their place, that maybe it's time that we taught a lesson to some of the other helpless people/animals who have suffered all their lives. I mean, I was watching a documentary about these kids who were born with Autism on my 42 incher the other day. It was sad at the time, y'know, I mean, imagine not being able to have normal social interactions your WHOLE life! But then Two and a Half Men came on and I was happy again (I love that show. Charlie is so funny). But thinking back on it, those kids just gave me the shits. I mean, get a life, y'know? Yeah you guys know.

I'm sure you've encountered annoying people like this. Maybe when you were at uni, or when working as lawyers, or when you flew around the world to shoot for your successful TV show. I can imagine how these people grind at you. I mean, why not stop being sick and disadvantaged and start being successful and incredibly fortunate like you guys? Those wankers.

So I thought, why limit your groundbreaking comedic genius to just ridiculing sick children? I mean, it is HILARIOUS, but you're segmenting your market. Why not make the entire fucking world think you're not only geniuses, but geniuses who are obviously not in touch with the most basic taboos in society. So, we'll keep the terminally ill children involved somehow. But let's throw in a kitten born with only two legs. Call her Sparkles and just imagine her sliding around the ground, struggling with everything from getting to her water bowl to getting through the cat-door. She obviously can't do what normal cats do - roam the neighbourhood, investigate the tiniest nooks everywhere, play with other cats. I mean, that shit's hilarious. But even more hilarious would be if she was blind as well. I don't care, I'm allergic to cats anyway, and I'm sure you've tortured one or two in your lives. Ok, so we have our terminally ill children and our blind, partially-legged kitty. Let's throw in an invalid for good measure. Brilliant.

Ok, so we have a terminally ill child, Maddy, who really wants to travel to see her invalid father (he's in a wheelchair. Gold) participate in the Special Olympics, but she can't because her family is basically broke because of the hospital bills. Here's the kicker, though, one of you guys (let's say Chaz because he looks like a rodent) comes in, ask her what her wish is, she tells you she wants to go to see the Special Olympics because her dad is participating, and you say "fuck no, bitch", get Sparkles and beat Maddy half to death with Sparkles. Luckily for you guys Sparkles still has two legs, so you have something to hold on to. You dispose of Sparkles, say "Fuck the RSPCA, fuck the Make A Wish Foundation, children and animals are all shit and gay. We are the overlords of the universe, motherfuckers". The sketch closes with vision of the father having to pull out of the Olympics because his daughter was assaulted by a rodent. Then that one of you who thinks he can write music can sing a song about how much he hates homosexuals or something.

Anyway, I think it'd be awesome funny. And I KNOW you guys will love it.

Your comedic protege,

- Someone who wishes they were as witty and in-touch as you.


p.s. There might be some back-lash from pretty much every aspect of the community. It's annoying how people get annoyed by stuff like this. I mean, it's totes hilarz. I saw your most recent apology which read: "The piece was a very black sketch. Obviously too black...It was meant to be so over-the-top that no one would ever take it seriously." If you think that one was black, this one will be like, whatever blacker than black is. Purple or something.

p.p.s. Fuck I hate it when other people don't take responsibility to not show the sketches you write on their network that won't go down well. It's obviously completely their fault for not censoring you guys. This is all their fault (I'm looking at you Amanda Duthie). You are the victims here. I mean, you guys are like Albert Einstein inventing gravity (or whatever he did. I don't believe him anyway), it's not your place to think about anyone other than yourselves. You just pump out the funny.

p.p.s. If you haven't realised by now, I'm taking the piss, and I think you're all un-funny, overrated, repetitive, attention-seeking douchebags.

RE: Selection policy (actually just another personal attack)

To the board of selectors,

Hi! How are you all? I bet you're in some sweet country sipping on an extravagant cocktail, secure in the knowledge that you've served your country to the full extent of your ability. This is all well and good, but there is one problem. I will sum that problem up here:

You are completely bereft of ability in every aspect of life. Your wife agrees.

Okay, maybe that wife comment was a bit harsh. I don't know if you dudes even have wives. Give me a sec, I'll wikipedia it. Okay, sorry to keep you waiting. Apparently Andrew Hilditch (b. May 20, 1956, North Adelaide, South Australia), you are the chairman of selectors. It doesn't mention if you have a wife, so I'll assume you don't. Or that you went to 'select' one, and when faced with a super hot doctor or Shane Watson you chose the latter only to turn up to the chapel and realise he is a man. Now I'm not saying that you're gay or have man-love for Shane Watson. But I'm not ruling it out either. I would hope that the selectors 'bat for both sides' or 'like balls in their hands' or 'like having sex with men' (yes that last euphemism may have been totally uninspired, sorry, hopefully I'll think of another one before I finish this letter and replace it).

So, let's get to the heart of the issue. For some reason, you continue to choose shit-kickers instead of decent players to represent Australia on the cricket field. I'm going to compile a list of basic rules that you should probably try and follow when selecting a squad. I will start here;

Lesson 1: The greater the ability, the greater the player.

At first glance this seems obvious. But you have all continually ignored it. For instance, Shane Watson, David Warner and Nathan Hauritz know how to hold a bat (hold your bat, eh, Andy? Get it?), but I also know how to hold a bat. I gave a bat to this semi-retarded guy in a wheelchair the other day, and he held it (he then proceeded to lick it and insert it in his... well, you don't need to know what happened). And so can you! I have attached a picture of you with a ridiculously oversized bat (either that, or you're ridiculously short... they should put a 20c piece in the picture so we can tell.). It's neither cute nor funny, so I am going to guess it symbolises the size of your ego (and the size of my... actually, I'd prefer you not to know that. I saw how Shane Watson was walking the other day. It did not look comfortable).

Anyway, that brings me to my next lesson:

Lesson 2: Retarded people should not be selected.

I should preface this by saying, I'm no doctorologist, and I've never psychologically profiled any of the players I'm about to mention, but if you have any qualms with the comments, please send said players to my house and I'll give them a check up. Ricky Ponting MUST be at least slightly retarded. I mean, he likes Andrew Symonds for one, and he has unusual jowls. Please get him some plastic surgery, or a more concealing helmet (and make him wear it at press conferences - okay, I haven't thought this through totally, but you're a smart guy, come up with something. It'd be a public service). Do you agree with that, Ricky? How many thumbs up do you give that perspective?

They're not thumbs, dickhead.

Without going into too much detail, I also consider Michael Clarke defective in the brain as well. But let's crack on to my final lesson,

Lesson 3: You're a fuckin' idiot.

Yes, no matter what decision you make, it'll be incorrect. But what happens if I, Rob, agree 100% with your selections? You know, it's like in Terminator II: Judgement Day, when Arnie has to sacrifice himself so his technology can't be harnessed to create Skynet. I'd have to jump into a vat of molten steel. It'd be for the best.

For the record, I know you have a REAL job as a popcorn technician or some shit, so you can't devote much time to selecting. Well FUCK! You get paid to do it, don't you? It's not like your dolling out soup on your own time to homeless, unshaven, smelly, ugly bums who offer you favours for seconds, and you, because you're such a stickler for authority, say no, no seconds for anyone, it's against hostel policy. So if you want to make excuses for picking a fuckshitballs team, then don't accept the bajillions of dollars you get for it. (On this topic, I have a theory that you spend your money on transexual prostitutes, you naughty, naughty boy. Prostitutes with prostates. [Someone smarter than I could do something clever with the similarity between those words]).

So in conclusion, I don't like you and I hope you hurt yourself (nothing bad, just a paper cut or something). I will be tabling a class action against you, so stand by for some sort of paperwork or whatever to get telegrammed to you (or however paperwork is transported these days).

Yours faithfully,

Rob Barone-Nugent

p.s. Good luck to the Australian team in the upcoming Twenty20 finals. Oh wait. You fucking wanker.

An open letter to SEN 1116AM

To the unscrupulous, untalented, self-absorbed, puppy dog killing, satan worshipping, ice-cream melting people at SEN (this means you, Kerry Lambert),

How are you? I hope that in between your ill thought out viewpoints and sensationalist sports coverage which invariably panders to the lowest common denominator, you would remember informing me that you'd use a writing of mine. Perhaps not, I understand that you receive countless bland, recycled jokes via email and text message. (I understand this because you, in your infinite production wisdom think that it's good radio to churn out this verbal diarrhea instead of anything meaningful).

But hey, I agree, it's not like I'm a particularly witty or funny person. But for some reason (one too many Blue Hawaiians I think), I thought it'd be a good idea to get a viewpoint from someone who might appreciate sport-oriented satire. And wow, Kerry Lambert (before I forget or find something better to do than beat my head against a brick wall of gutter journalism, thanks for having a sexually ambiguous name, I don't know what to refer to you as. Don't you hate how most insults are sexually exclusive?), producer of The Good Oil (which, even by SEN's pitiful standards, is mind numbing. I suggested during the 2020 summit that it be used as a more humane form of torture in terrorist prisons. Kevin Rudd didn't agree that it would be more humane. By the way, don't you hate terrorists?) thought it would be cool to slip this writing in a more light hearted segment during the week. Let me point out a few things for you, Kerry:

a) The letter I submitted was not intended as a joke. I find it demeaning that you thought so. You obviously have no idea of how business dealings are done. I bet you got your job because your rich step-dad wanted you out of the house. "Stop watching Judge Judy and eating microwave pizza, you deadbeat, get off the couch and find a job. What kind of step-son are you?" to which your mother would reply "he's actually your step-daughter. But don't worry, I get confused as well. Why'd I give her such a shit name?". "Kerry no want job" you'd say. "Get a freaking job, this room stinks and I think you're getting rickets because you haven't left the house in years." "Kerry no like sunlight".

b) Apparently you, again in your infinite wisdom, thought that better radio would be a 15 minute discussion of the pros and cons of various over-budget, poorly written TV shows (which may or may have not included Friends and Lost. The smokin' hottie I was listening with tells me I went in to a vegetative state about 45 minutes into your show. I consulted a doctor, and she told me it's a common ailment. Apparently the DRI of shit radio is about 6 minutes per day. Any more than this is considered dangerous levels. The ACMA is investigating.) You seem like you have the same brilliant entertainment mind as the writers of Till Death and K-Ville. (For the record, K-Ville is about two fresh, cool, badass cops roam the street of New Orleans. They’re so different, one’s black, one’s white, their cultures collide into one exciting, drama filled stereotyped hour!).

And I know, I know, this has been written in anger, and is clearly not in the same vein as previous correspondence that we have had. But, after all we've been through Kerry, I think that this is also good enough to not make it onto your show. That's 2. File them away. But just because I like ridiculing you so much, I might stretch this out a little further. So I've compiled a list of people named Kerry that I like more than you:

- John Kerry, (he may have looked like a horse and been a politician, but at least he doesn't capture stray cats and electrocute them in some weird sort of sado-masochistic ritual.)
- Kerry O'Keefe,
- Kerry O'Brien,
- Kerri-Anne,
- Kerry Packer (see where I'm going with this?),
- Kerosine,
- Kerry Seinfeld (that was his name, wasn't it?),
- Kerry Airport (yeah I like a fuckin' airport more. Deal with it),
- Kerry Group (Apparently this is some sort of food conglomerate in Ireland. They make bread crumbs. Seriously.)

And so ends my diatribe. I hope you enjoyed it as much as you obviously enjoyed my previous work, feel free to not use it as well

Your friend,

RBN

p.s.: I want my original letter back. You have no right to it. Please return it via email, delete it from your inbox and wash your eyeballs.

p.p.s.: To be honest, I didn't listen to all of your show. So if it turns out that you actually did use it, please replace the words "sexually ambiguous" with "a wonderful name, I once knew a man/woman named Kerry. I loved him/her", and the words "ice-cream melting" with "ice-cream distributing". How much do we love vendors of ice-cream?!

RE: Richmond Coaching Position

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing today to make myself available for the vacant coaching position that has recently become available because Terry Wallace died or whatever.

I believe I am fitted for this role perfectly. But, you may say, you have never played a game of amateur football, let along an AFL game, let alone coached an AFL team, are you crazy?! Well, if you had done any PROPER research you would have found that I stopped playing club football after the Under 12s Fitzroy Magpies 1999 premiership season (green division). And my last game was for the Trinity Grammar 3rd XVIII when they were short one week. We lost. By a lot. I bet you're embarrassed now for asking such a silly question.

But this is not about me. This is about the Richmond Football Club. Now, I don't really follow, or even like football, but I read an article a few weeks back saying that you guys are struggling. You're the laughing stock of the AFL. Teams laugh at you. And you just get angry and flip them the bird. That's not going to win you premierships. Unless the rules change to award points to obscene gestures. And with the way the league is currently going, we'll have to wait until next years preseason for that rule to get trailed.

So what could I offer your club? I'm a cool guy, my friends tell me that all the time. They say "Hey Rob, you're a cool guy, ever thought about coaching?", to which I reply "I'll do it during the ads, remember the rule, no talking during Home and Away.". So to make your job easier, I've compiled a list of why you should hire me:

- I used to play football, so I know how to kick n' stuff.
- I watched a coach smacking his phone on the desk during a game the other day; I did the same thing when the chick from Domino's put me on hold.
- I'd probably get along with most of the players (except Tom Hislop, that guys a douchebag)
- I don't really look like Luke McGuane, but my middle name is Luke.
- I'd convince Jordan McMahon to grow his mustache back. Come on!
- I'd be by far the youngest (and hence, by the current philosophy, the best) coach in the league.
- I used to coach under 13s cricket. So i've, y'know, got, like, coaching experience. We won a Grand Final against Holy Trinity. I mean, look that shit up, it's totally true. I take most of the credit for that. I would tell the kids "bowl faster and aim it at his helmet next time. That'll learn him for hitting you for four".
- I wanna pick up Ben Cousin's run-off. They'd still be smokin'.
- I almost met John Buchanan once, and even though he coached cricket, it's an Australian sport, and he's probably taller than Terry Wallace.
- Football!

I will hire my friend Paul as a manager (he just bought his own apartment, so he could use that as his office), and you can put an offer to him. I'd like at least the $16.64 per hour that I currently earn. PLUS sick leave. And, like, bonuses for kicking goals or whatever it is that coaches do.

Thank you in advance.

Rob Barone-Nugent