cricket with balls

Happy Jesus on a stick day. A day that is all about honouring someone who died so that we can all be perverts and animals, but you can’t eat steak, in case some is made of him.

In honour of Jesus dying I’ve compiled an XI of players who died, and were then reborn, or you know, other Christian type shit. Jesus, as we all know, was a wicket keeper.

S Katich – Found himself in a cricket career cave due to some horrific test form, but then his God, Bob Simpson, helped him, and thankfully we now have Katich shuttling around the crease for days on end.

M Sinclair – Impossible as it is to enjoy the way he plays, Sinclair is the one cricketer most likely to survive Sodom and Gomorrah. When the Kiwis are having a selectorial apocalypse, it is Sinclair they turn to. He will always live with us.

I Bell – If Bell truly was the son of God, Christianity would have died out by now. Instead Bell seems ordained by some higher power, perhaps Murdoch, to play the number 3 position for England. He coveted it while he had to wait out Pestilence (Shah), War (Bopara) and Famine (Trott) but he found his way back to number three.

M Hussey – Has never left heavenly earth, but what exactly was he doing between the age of 12 and 30.

K Pietersen – An outcast with his old religion he became the father, son and holy bail of a new one. It still hasn’t been smooth sailing, but he no longer has to bowl off spin, so that is good.

K Akmal – Crucified on the pitch for one of the most heretical displays of wicket keeping ever written about. But he will be back, you can’t keep a Pakistani cricketer away for too long. Even if he comes back as a kolpak.

A Flintoff – as was written.

N Hauritz – Outbowled by M Clarke and then shunned by his country, his state, and his knew state. One day four wise men decided to pick him up from the gutter he found himself in, and bugger me if he hasn’t stayed around since then.

S Bond – Needed to go on a spiritual adventure to India so that one day he could come back to New Zealand and tell them he was available for white ball games and then continued his spiritual adventure in India.

A Mendis – The man is full of mystery, but once you work it out, it is all kind of simple and you don’t really care anymore.

A Nehra – From a world cup final to the great abyss, but thanks to Lalit K, Nehra has been brought back so that we can all pray at his long limbs and permanent angry face.

J Patel (12th) – Is so good at being 12th man I couldn’t see why he wouldn’t do it for Jesus.

This was originally on cricinfo, but, even without swearing and perversions, I really liked it. for some reason I forgot to put it up before.

If the apocalypse were to come tomorrow, most of us would be dead. But if Hollywood has taught us anything it is that people always survive. While Kallis, Ponting and Dhoni wouldn’t make it, there would be cricketers who would. And it isn’t always the most popular or talented who survive the end times.

Nathan Hauritz cannot be killed by bombs or global pandemics. This is a man who couldn’t get picked for his state side, averaged over 50 with the ball in first-class cricket, and now averages 30 in Test cricket. There are no weapons that can keep him down. After the apocalypse he would just roam the earth with that sweet little boyish face of his.

Ashish Nehra went through a career apocalypse, but he is back. I wouldn’t bet on him struggling to survive a worldwide nuclear war. He’d still have that look on his face too, the one that makes you wonder if he has any joy in his life. He’d be in a group that lives in Euro Disney; his role would be of the angry one who doesn’t trust anyone, but he’d be rubbish at catching food.

Kumar Sangakkara would make it through. Then, after an appropriate period, he would take over the world. Artists would carve images of him, people would refer to him as King Kumar, and he would be a fair and just leader. His leadership does have problems, but his suaveness and massive intellect mean he would run the world for at least six years. Until he wants to relax and travel.

Ian Bell can never be killed. Regardless of an apocalypse he is going to be around forever. Still looking good and not making runs. In a dystopian wasteland he’d still manage to find his way into a well-stocked mansion, with others doing the work to make up for him. Even when the whole group dies of food poisoning, Bell survives. He is like a mythical creature that way.

Brendan Nash would not only survive an apocalypse, he’d prosper. Once the world had settled, Nash would move to a new location and just tell them he was always one of them. There would be hostility towards him at first, and mild curiosity, but eventually in this new and desperate land he would come in handy and people would even start to love having him around.

Paul Harris would survive. He might mutate a bit, but like a cockroach or a tax officer he cannot be eradicated. Harris will quickly improvise and become an expert scavenger and sell his goods at a reasonable price, considering the location he lives in.

The New Zealand cricket team would remain okay. They would be watching Eagle v Shark in Chris Martin’s basement when the flesh-eating disease spreads rapidly across the planet, killing everyone. Upon exiting the basement they would have some good times and some bad times, but basically they’d just survive. Even though 90% of the world’s population is dead, their crowd numbers in Test matches stay the same.

Rahul Dravid would never even notice the apocalypse. When the aliens came to kill everyone on the planet with their sonic weapons, he was batting. As we know, when Rahul is batting, nothing can stir him. Even two years after the apocalypse he is still out there, marking his guard, trying to get the sight screen to be moved and planning for what field the captain will set for the next ball.

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“Oh, he is so cute and loveable; I just wanna take him home to my mum so we can double team him”.

I know that is what you think about little Nathan Hauritz.  But behind that puppy dog exterior is a cold-hearted assassin.  One who will kill anyone to get where he wants.  An aspirational career driven sociopath.

Not only has he led many a batsman to their untimely and embarrassing end, he is also taking out Australian spinners one at a time.

First was beautiful Beau Casson, who was too young to die, but Hauritz took him out during a shield game, but made it look like suicide.  He placed sweets down on a trail that led Beau got to the edge of a cliff and Nathan ran up behind him in a Mr Squiggle mask and said boo.

Then Bryce McGain was taken out when Hauritz bribed Kallis with 7 pigs he killed with his owns hands.  When that wasn’t enough Hauritz showed Kallis and Prince this website, but most importantly the parts about Prince, Kallis and Bryce, to prove that I don’t exist and Bryce writes this site.

And now, Jason Krejza is gone.

It was probably the most horrendous of all Nathan’s crimes, as he did it with help of a whole team of suicidal Pakistani batsmen, and the Tasmanian brain’s trust.

It was disgusting, and when Nathan was finished all that was left was a puddle of blood, excrement and organs, with a newspaper clipping that was mostly unreadable except for the number 12.

Sorry to burst your bubble, people, but little Nathan is an angel of death.

One by one he is taking these spinners out.  Right under our noses.  Yet no one is doing anything about it.

Someone must stop him, otherwise Steven Smith will take a bite of some weird tasting vegemite sandwiches any day now.

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Australia is showing again what a surprisingly good one-day outfit they are.

Ryan Harris has barged his way into world cricket, but to be fair, he looks like he would barge his way into a swimming pool. Clint McKay either gets wickets or goes for no runs, not the worst habit to get into. Cam White is obviously pretending he is captaining the side. And Nathan Hauritz is giving up bowling for batting.

The series was dead at game two, and today’s game meant nothing at all. Pakistan played like it.

Their collapse was not unique and not unexpected.

Lose early wickets, pseudo consolidate for a while and then collapse for good.

It was not interesting or fun.

Then Shahid came in.

His first two balls brought about two wild slogs. Nothing pretty, but both went for four through fortune.

Then he tried to end Little Nathan’s gene pool.

After that was an attack on Clint McKay that eventually had him caught wildly slogging across the line.

He only lasted 10 balls, he scored 29 runs.

It wasn’t a great innings; it wasn’t even a good innings.

It was an innings that could only be compared to a black man taking LSD, pouring bourbon on his head, singing fuck the police and running naked through a Klu Klux Klan meeting that was mid way through lynching a bunch of his friends.

It was, for all 3 overs of it, something to grab your attention in a very dull game.

Like I have said before, Afridi either gives his fans a lift or his haters something to bag him about.

Today he did both.

I love him, I really do. I never had a truly mental relative, and Shahid is the crazy uncle I always wanted.

Imagine him in the corner at a family party, setting alight the napkins while denouncing his brother, the local butcher, as a CIA operative.

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Ceci, of Mel & Ceci, made me this present for my birthday.

It is very wrong.

Especially it looks so right…