Liam felt the will to live draining from his very being as Caro rushed into the newsroom and turned up the office wireless.
"Tttttthhhhhh, tttttthhhhhhhh, everyone thut up. Tham'th about to be on wadio talking about Gategate," she squealed, semi-orgasmic with excitement, her giant K-Mart Buy One Get One Free underpants already wetter than an otter's pocket.
The rest of The Era's footy team obliging turned around, Rohan having to minimise the window where he was buying another North membership.
As the ads hawked their tawdry wares aimed at the gullible types who listen to mid-morning commercial talkback radio - SOLWAY! The Fat Cunt's Store! - Liam skimmed the Gategate piece which Sam had got onto the front page that morning.
Bashed By The Very Devil Himself read the headline.
Confused possibly emo tit-wanting Carlton forward Brendan Fevola is today on the run after beating an entirely innocent and in no way story manipulating Era journalist almost to death with his front gate.
The goal-kicking madman, who The Era believes was Ivan Milat's accomplice during the most horrible of the Backpacker Murders, is now understood to be contemplating a sex change operation.
Such a move, violating the very laws of nature themselves, would be, in this paper's view, further proof that Fevola is a desperately unhinged maniac who should be put down for his own good.
Commenting on the vicious attack that left this reporter bearing a 3cm long scar on her foot that may take up to two days to heal, anti-violence spokesman Mr Ren T'Aquote said:
"Despite not knowing the details of this case and taking a publicity-hungry and duplicitous 'journalist's' word at face value, I feel fully qualified to leap into this bullshit so-called debate and smear the reputation of a man I have never met.
"It is highly probable that the Pol Pot-like Fevola has struck before and will strike again. He is probably responsible for most of Australia's most perplexing unsolved crimes. It is my professional opinion, as a graduate of the Northern Southwestern Eastern Kentucky University School Of TV Friendly Criminology And Centre For The Study Of Bad-Ass Motherfuckers, that if we were to dig up Fevola's backyard, we would almost certainly find the mummified remains of Harold Holt and the Beaumont Children."
Following emergency surgery that involved the use of an experimental new form of Band-Aid that doesn't come off in the shower, this reporter is making a steady recovery from the attempted murder.
It went on and on. Now Sam was on the radio beating the dead horse like it was her own little fun button. Liam had caught her doing that in the toilet just yeterday. She'd met his horrified stare as he opened the unlocked door and instead of pulling her pants up like a normal person, she continued frantically rubbing the hairbrush between her legs and had hissed:
"I'm thinking of you while I do this, Liam."
It couldn't go on. It just couldn't. Liam resolved there and then to contact the blokes down the West Melbourne Wombats and let them know what he'd overhead in the office over the last few weeks. Of the plan between The Era's chief football bullshit artists and the league to stich them up and send to the Hunter Valley. He'd do it. He'd change something.
But he wasn't the only one disgusted by the big manufactured pile of steaming rhinoceros shit that Sam and Caro were attempting to pass off as an actual worthwhile news story.
Celebrity chef Gabriel Gate was in his kitchen plucking the feathers from live lyrebirds - his Lyrebird Surprise was truly a thing of culinary beauty - and listening to the hideous witch deal out her poison to the willing mob of retards that rang up to egg her on.
"Mon Dieu! Zeez Australiens, zay are, 'ow you say, so sexually incompetent! Iz only a man oo wants a set of la boobies to amuse 'imself when 'e is not playing la football magnifique! Ah will call zis statione radiofonique and give zem a piece of mah mind! Zis madness must hend! It worse zan Verdun and a non-fluffy croissant and a bad 'andjob from ze mistress all combined in un experience terrible!" he thought to himself.
Gabriel picked up his gleaming stainless Alessi mobile phone and dialled the station. The producer, coked out of his tits but still aware of the ratings goldmine that was about to happen, gladly put him straight on the air.
And thus, Gategategate was born.
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