Russell Crowe, cheerleaders, rugby league and radioactive bunnies

(Above: cheerleaders. Guess which ones are American).

Men, you're going to have to get a good firm grip on this penis thing, or it's going to get out of hand.

First we had Miranda the Devine telling us that the ideal role model for a budding relationship was Twilight, a movie about a vampire abstaining from blood sucking in the interests of a platonic relationship with a sweet young thing. When really if you want to fuck up a relationship before it starts, surely the best emo goth model remains Wuthering Heights (and it's better written).

Before that, the Pope and his colonial clones were yammering on about condoms being bad. The best sex being no sex at all.

And now post the Matthew Johns affair they're talking about getting rid of cheerleaders from rugby league. (Calls for cheerleaders to be banned from league).

And it's the feminists who are fighting back,  who are saying it's okay for cheerleaders to cheer. It's okay for bimbos to be bimbos, blondes to be blondes, men to be men, and girlies to prance about half naked for the delectation of men - provided you don't get some kind of weird hormonal rush and think the dancing is an invitation to some kind of sexual congress.

Even fierce WEL feminist Eva Cox has let out a kind of half strangled cheer for the dancers, adopting a kind of Voltairean line that she'll defend to the death the right of women to dance in public.

As you'd expect, it's those sanctimonious righteous prats at South Sydney, a club owned by the feuding prats Peter Holmes a Court and Russell Crowe, that have carried  on about how nice they were to replace cheerleaders with drummers.

Lordy, and we all know that a film set is just dripping with the constant exchange of precious bodily fluids. Everyone's on heat, especially the cast, frocks and the art department, and half the films are about some kind of sordid, perverse, kinky sex, with their credibility judged on the level and style of tit exposure. Fact is, if Rusty had a masterpiece like Paul Verhoven's epic and meaningful tribute to Las Vegas (the sumptuous Showgirls) in his CV, instead of acting like a prick to Jocelyn Moorhouse over Eucalyptus, the world would be a better place.

Even worse, he's married a girl of fine Tamworth stock, from the noble Spencer clan.

It makes you weep, it does. Listen to what Crowe had to say when he got rid of the cheerleaders:

Our focus is to re-establish rugby league and women. The focus on game day should be a positive experience for the crowd. We feel the [cheerleaders] made a lot of people uncomfortable … We felt we didn't need cheerleaders and would like them replaced by a group of drummers, male and female.

Souths CEO Shane Richardson said cheerleaders were axed because "it wasn't the way we wanted women to be viewed. We just didn't think it was in the best interests of the way we wanted the game portrayed.

What, rugby league's like some kind of Thomas McCarthy sincere indie pic about the joys of taking up drumming late in life (well okay The Visitor is worth a look for Richard Jenkins and the other cast doing a great job, and The Station Agent is charming too, but you catch my drift. We're talking boofheads at war on a football field here, not some kind of soul hugging neo Mormon family day out for emo goths).

Well there's another great reason to hate the South Sydney Leagues club. As Sideshow Bob would say, "the bunnies, the".

To help with the fight back, and in a feminist way, I've attached a couple of work safe shots of cheerleaders, ordinary, honest, decent girls, plying their cheerleading craft (or is it an art or a trade?) Hopefully they're work safe because I notice that most of the hits on this site come when people are at work, feverishly working off their arses to save Australia from bankruptcy.

Even that pious loon David Gallop, NRL chief executive, didn't have the gall to attack cheerleaders - why it'd be like abusing Carrie Prejean just because she took off some of her clothes in a casual moment - though now it seems the sweet young thing has made co-director of the Miss California pageant Shanna Moakler resign, because she says of Carrie lying, and pointing fingers and blaming everybody but herself, and whining and failing to carry out contractual obligations.

But enough of Carrie and her booby headed boob job. What about all those poor cheerleaders under attack from do gooders, pious Christians and Russell Crowe. Even that staunch feminist Catharine Lumby is right on side:

I take a strong view that how women are dressed has nothing to do with it. I refuse to condemn women for cheerleading or for dancing as ballerinas in skimpy tutus for that matter.

Strange, when I go to the ballet, it's the men in their codpieces I find distracting, but there you go. No doubt about it, it's a strange world (just how many socks did Rudolph Nureyev stuff down his trunks? Sadly I'll never know - well I not in the flesh anyway, but you can get an idea if you  Google Nureyev and Richard Avedon, if you're interested, with the safe filter off). 

The last time I wrote about the Bunnies I included a creatively commonsed snap of a drunk bunny, and it still keeps generating more hits than anything else on this site.  I don't expect the same from a radioactive bunny, but it's how I feel when I hear the pure as driven snow, righteous rhetoric from South Sydney, and their co-owner, and how they're engaging with women.

Boofheads.

(Below: Rudolph Nureyev in a work safe moment for cheerleaders wanting to study his moves).