Pump the brakes on the Mitchell Pearce fury

  

Looks like Mitch Pearce had a big one Tuesday, and managed to fold versions of The Todd Carney, The Joel Monaghan and The Mitchell Pearce into one big night out.

Now he’s been laid into by everyone from Animal Rights campaigners, to feminists, to the incontinent, general social media whiners, and of course, the hypocrites.

The people calling for his career to be over are out of their minds.  

Unless you’ve been on an adult football code team, you really can’t say you’ve experienced this.  Girls, this isn’t like where you’ve got a group of six of you pissed on a hen’s night, and a couple get all slutty and there’s always that one girl that’s first to vomit. It’s not like that time you had some weed in Amsterdam and stared at the wall and ate chips.  It isn’t even like that time you tried some coke after the office Christmas party and tried to lift a stripper onto your own face.  This is next level shit.

The level of testosterone being added to alcohol, sugar, Stillnox and sure, probably Colombian Marching Powder, removes all filters and blockages, and creates absolute weapons-grade lunacy.  And forget “having a few quiet ones”.  We’re talking the genuine chance of physical harm if you don’t have a religious excuse for not drinking yourself into a shopping trolley.  

As everyone who has ever been on an adult football code team can attest, this was THE lamest piece of behaviour in the annals of team pissups. I mean, this wouldn’t make it into the top 10 billions acts of drunken footy team behaviour.  I’m not trying to suggest he’s not a boob (we knew this already), but this was about a 0.5 on the scale.  

Let’s recap.  He pissed his own pants a little bit.  We don’t know from the footage if he pulled up too quick at the trough, his brain forgot to tell him to piss, or he just relaxed a bit too much, but we’ve all done it.  He asked a girl for a bit of a kiss – again, more in the boob category than sex pest.  Once rejected (and I’ll admit, this was the bit that stunned me), he backed off.  I mean, on the scale of drunken rugby league propositions, that one is almost pure gentlemanly.  And then he tried to get a bit funny with the pooch.  He didn’t actually perform any of what we now seem to be calling “sex acts” on the poodle.  Now, it was about as funny as a heart attack, but poor Muffins was more chance of getting inadvertently stomped on by those 8 gorillas thundering around your flat than of Mitch hurting her.  And everyone knows – you lock small dogs and cats away at party time.  I mean, that’s a rule.  And goldfish – some asshole always tries to eat them.

Im telling you, you open the door to six drunken rugby players who have been on it all day, you’ll consider the above a grease down and shiatsu compared to the normal result.

Now aside of the relatively harmless rampant boobery, the key mistake here is not demanding all phones go into the valuables bag on arrival anywhere where there are strangers* (*if you’re Todd Carney, this includes your actual “mates”). That’s the takeaway for NRL players.  Todd Greenberg will make you go on some six month alcohol and boobery course, but guys: no phone, no drama.  

Calling for this bloke to lose his livelihood over THAT is bananas.  Lose sponsorships?  Unlucky, but sure – you can’t have evidence of drunken boobery aligned with your mission statement.  No captaincy?  Well, I’m unclear how we didn’t know this before.  But de-registered?  You’re out of your mind.
P.S.  You had to like the girl at the end there PLEADING that the one guy could stay, and desperately trying to force her phone number on him.  Sweetie, he’ll have forgotten you forever by the time he hits the elevator.

*******

Author: Max Smith

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