THE MIGHTY PIES . . .

. . . are fixin' to ARRIVE!



SEASON OPENER
March 29 v Western Bulldogs at Etihad Stadium.



LOOK OUT.



.

V-22 OSPREY FLYOVER

. . . at yesterdays Army-Navy game:




This one didn't make it over in the original mix, didn't make the earlier posting. -S.L.

..

AMERICA's GAME . . .

. . . US PATRIOT's GAME









by The Deacon of Doom

December 12, 2009, marked the 110th anniversary of the Army-Navy football game. It was a crisp sunny day, with light winds and not a cloud in the sky.



Army takes to the field.




Navy pre-game.


Baseball may be America’s favorite pastime, but football is America’s game and no other football game is steeped so deeply in tradition as the Army-Navy football rivalry.



Navy bagpipes.



Opening kickoff.


Beginning in 1890, this is the Deacon’s favorite of all football games played. Why? What makes this particular game so special?


The rivalry between the Army and Navy teams is underscored by demonstrations of good sportsmanship and mutual observation of military customs and courtesies:


Army cadets observe the Navy Song.




The Navy midshipmen observe the Army Song.



It is more than a game; it is a gathering of those who will soon be at the vanguard of our freedoms, they are honor-bound by their committed duty. At the annual Army-Navy game, the patriot's love of country is literally demonstrated on the field and in the stands.






Guided by its timeless motto Duty, Honor, Country West Point prepares cadets to serve as future leaders of America.




Ex Scientia Tridens is Latin for "from knowledge, seapower"

The United States Naval Academy at Annapolis challenges young men and women from all 50 states and beyond to emerge as future leaders of the Navy, Marine Corps and the country.



Football is symbolic combat:


The Game honors those engaged on faraway battlefields, so they may look to the ramparts and see those who support and champion their actions.





Final score.



Personal Friend and Life-Long Mentor of StormBringer, the Deacon of Doom was present at yesterday's Army-Navy Game.


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BATTLE ROYAL

This is it . . .





To Hell with politics - let's talk about something MUCH MORE important - The Main Event of 2009 is here: Brett Favre returns to Green Bay, in a Viking uniform.











"TONIGHT WE DINE IN HELL ! ! !


. . . Tomorrow - I'm thinking Arby's . . ."














Here is Brett in an earlier incarnation . . . his Glory Days . . .



For our International readership, those of you perhaps not familiar with the idiosyncacies of NFL football, THESE are CheeseHeads:



They are a native lifeform of Wisconsin.


The Green Bay Packers are unique in that they are the only non-profit, community-owned major league professional sports team in the United States. The Packers are the last vestige of "small town teams" that were once common in the NFL during the 1920s and 1930s.

Just so you can IMAGINE the kind of fanaticism the Green Bay fans display - I've been to Wisconsin in September and thought I was going to freeze to death; that woman is dressed like that in Green Bay in NOVEMBER.




Lambeau Field is located in a freakish IceBelt Climactic Zone, a remnant of the last Ice Age . . .

. . . Global Warming? Yeah RIGHT














The Cheeseheads literally WORSHIPPED Brett Favre . . .











. . . and like many of the Viking Sagas, the Favre Saga is replete with Angst and Irony . . . Brett Favre betrayed the Cheeseheads, and now it will be a bloody battle . . .



FOR THE RECORD: I like BOTH teams, they rank very high in the STORMBRINGER Pantheon of Gods & Heroes. Naturally, with a callsign like STORMBRINGER, I am practically OBLIGED to back the Vikings . . . and so today I will raise my drinking horn to the Minnesota Purple People Eaters as they pursue the Little Leather Spheroid across the Lambeau Battlefield.



. . . THESE are the people he will have to go up against . . .






"Hoo Boy! - we got something for YOU ! ! !"












Don't ask me where I got this photo . . . ever since they took me down to Washington, showed me the secret handshake, gave me my De-Coder Ring and lasercut my eyes, I've been able to look into the future . . .






It will be . . . a BATTLE ROYAL ! ! !






NOTE: The game starts at 1500 hrs "Quebec" (that's 3:00 pm Central Standard Time for you civilians) and so the results may be out by the time many of you are reading this post . . . STORMBRINGER SENDS

THE ORIGINS OF STORMBRINGER

This Victorian rowhouse "Beaconsfield" is my parent's address on my birth certificate. It's my first home:

The Beaconsfield

This is Victoria Avenue, in the suburb of Albert Park, in Melbourne Australia. My Dad says he purchased/sold Beaconsfield for around the $14,000 mark in the 50's. Current value in the order of $1,500,000 plus. Those overhead electric wires are for the tram.

Melbourne tram.


I am a Victorian. My grandfather was a TRUE Victorian - he was born in 1899, during the reign of Queen Victoria. I guess that makes me a double whammy Victorian.

There are two pubs on Victoria Ave - the Victoria, across the street from my old place, and the Bleakhouse, down by Beaconsfield Parade which runs parallel to the beach. Bleakhouse is a novel by Charles Dickens; an apt name for a windswept piece of sand on Port Phillip Bay. I once stood on that beach and saw a flock of penguins swimming by, I shit you not.


Port Phillip Bay, Victoria, Australia

This is the house I used to live in before I shot over to the States in '81. It's on the same street; Victoria Avenue, about two blocks up from the Beaconsfield.

The Arcadia

Unfortunately it is no longer in the same happy state it was thirty years ago when I lived there, now in very neglected run down state: veranda disintegrating, garden overgrown, woodwork unpainted and weathered, glass around front door broken. This is unusual for this area which is nowadays infested with yuppies paying high prices for rundown inner city homes which they then extensively renovate and extend.





This was before I became a soldier in the best damn Army ever to march across a battlefield, of course.






I actually went back once, had a beer in the old pub, and made the mistake of actually telling some drongo at the bar who I was and what I'd been up to.

Drongo: "You're not Australian."

Me: "Yes I am, actually."

Drongo: "Where are you from, then?"

Me: "Here, this place. I was born at St. Vincent's hospital, my parents lived up the street."

Drongo: "Bullshit."

Me: "I shit you not. I'm from Melbourne and I barrack for Collingwood. Mighty 'Pies."



Drongo: "Well if you're from Melbourne, then who's Chloe?"

Me: "Chloe's the naked lady by the door at the Young & Jackson Hotel, across from Flinders Street Station. Everybody knows that."

Drongo: "I'll be buggered, you ARE Australian!"











Chloe












Of course I am, everybody knows that. I am what I am. I am Victorian.


And now I'm an American, of course.



- S.L.