ChatGPT roasting the NRL
- Thread starter Santa
- Start date
KateBroncos1812
NRL Player
- Jul 28, 2023
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You know which one i am waiting for then I can read it to her about her beloved team 
Santa
State of Origin Rep
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Manly Sea-Eagles
Damn. ChatGPT had a lot to say about Manly...
Ah, the Manly Sea Eagles—a club that has somehow perfected the art of being both overly dramatic *and* underwhelming at the same time. If NRL teams were family members, Manly would be that weird uncle who won’t shut up about the glory days but hasn't done anything impressive since 2011.
Anthony Seibold is now at the helm, which is like handing the keys to a Ferrari to a guy who just crashed a lawnmower. This is the same bloke who turned the Broncos into a bottom-eight meme, and now Manly thinks he’s going to lead them to a premiership? That’s like hiring a chef who once burned down a restaurant and expecting fine dining. Good luck with that.
Manly loves drama more than they love winning. Remember the pride jersey fiasco? Seven players refused to wear a rainbow jersey, the team imploded, Des Hasler got sacked, and suddenly their season was about as stable as Tom Trbojevic’s hamstrings. Manly is the only team that can lose a game *before* they even run onto the field.
And Turbo—oh boy. The entire club is held together by duct tape, and that duct tape is Trbojevic’s legs. Every season starts with “if Turbo stays healthy…” and then three rounds in, he’s being carried off the field like a fallen war hero. Manly fans spend more time checking his medical reports than the actual ladder. If this bloke was a car, he’d be recalled.
Then there's Daly Cherry-Evans, the man with a contract so long, it feels like he signed it back when MySpace was still relevant. He’s been steering the ship for years, but unfortunately, that ship looks more like the Titanic every season. If clutch moments were a currency, DCE would be in debt.
Brookvale Oval (sorry, *4 Pines Park*) is another issue. They call it a fortress, but it’s really just a paddock with goalposts. The surface is so bad that players don’t even get injured *by* tackles—they just trip over the craters and break something. Manly’s injury list isn’t caused by opposition defenders, it’s caused by poor landscaping.
And let’s not forget their recruitment strategy, which seems to be a mix of “sign a guy no one else wants” and “hope our juniors don’t leave for a better club.” Their biggest signing in years was Luke Brooks, a bloke who spent a decade at the Tigers without playing a single finals game. Imagine thinking *that* was the missing piece to a premiership puzzle.
In the end, Manly is like a seagull at the beach—loud, annoying, always fighting for scraps, and constantly getting shooed away by bigger dogs. They love to talk tough, but when the finals roll around, they vanish faster than their fans when the team is losing. Classic Sea Eagles.
Damn. ChatGPT had a lot to say about Manly...
Ah, the Manly Sea Eagles—a club that has somehow perfected the art of being both overly dramatic *and* underwhelming at the same time. If NRL teams were family members, Manly would be that weird uncle who won’t shut up about the glory days but hasn't done anything impressive since 2011.
Anthony Seibold is now at the helm, which is like handing the keys to a Ferrari to a guy who just crashed a lawnmower. This is the same bloke who turned the Broncos into a bottom-eight meme, and now Manly thinks he’s going to lead them to a premiership? That’s like hiring a chef who once burned down a restaurant and expecting fine dining. Good luck with that.
Manly loves drama more than they love winning. Remember the pride jersey fiasco? Seven players refused to wear a rainbow jersey, the team imploded, Des Hasler got sacked, and suddenly their season was about as stable as Tom Trbojevic’s hamstrings. Manly is the only team that can lose a game *before* they even run onto the field.
And Turbo—oh boy. The entire club is held together by duct tape, and that duct tape is Trbojevic’s legs. Every season starts with “if Turbo stays healthy…” and then three rounds in, he’s being carried off the field like a fallen war hero. Manly fans spend more time checking his medical reports than the actual ladder. If this bloke was a car, he’d be recalled.
Then there's Daly Cherry-Evans, the man with a contract so long, it feels like he signed it back when MySpace was still relevant. He’s been steering the ship for years, but unfortunately, that ship looks more like the Titanic every season. If clutch moments were a currency, DCE would be in debt.
Brookvale Oval (sorry, *4 Pines Park*) is another issue. They call it a fortress, but it’s really just a paddock with goalposts. The surface is so bad that players don’t even get injured *by* tackles—they just trip over the craters and break something. Manly’s injury list isn’t caused by opposition defenders, it’s caused by poor landscaping.
And let’s not forget their recruitment strategy, which seems to be a mix of “sign a guy no one else wants” and “hope our juniors don’t leave for a better club.” Their biggest signing in years was Luke Brooks, a bloke who spent a decade at the Tigers without playing a single finals game. Imagine thinking *that* was the missing piece to a premiership puzzle.
In the end, Manly is like a seagull at the beach—loud, annoying, always fighting for scraps, and constantly getting shooed away by bigger dogs. They love to talk tough, but when the finals roll around, they vanish faster than their fans when the team is losing. Classic Sea Eagles.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
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Melbourne Storm
The Melbourne Storm—rugby league’s cold, soulless winning machine. If the NRL was a heist movie, they’d be the crew that cheats, gets caught, but somehow still ends up rich at the end.
Let’s be real, this club has never played by the rules. The salary cap? Just a *suggestion* to them. Melbourne didn’t just bend the rules; they put them in a headlock, suplexed them through a table, and still acted shocked when they got caught. When the NRL stripped their premierships, Storm fans didn’t care—they still count them like a bloke who gets banned from a casino but swears he won big before security dragged him out.
And then there’s the fanbase. Oh wait—what fanbase? Melbourne loves AFL so much that even *winning premierships* can’t get people to care about the Storm. Their so-called supporters only show up when the team’s in the top four, and if they ever have a bad year (which, let’s be honest, never really happens because they exploit the system better than a dodgy accountant), their home crowd would make a cricket match look like a rock concert. If the NRL ever moved the Storm to Perth, would anyone in Melbourne even notice? Probably not.
Craig Bellamy is the secret behind it all—rugby league’s angriest dad. The bloke could turn a third-string park footy player into a Dally M contender just by yelling at him. Every Storm player looks like they’ve been programmed in some underground Melbourne lab where Bellamy installs their tackling technique and removes their personality. The moment they leave the club? They forget how to play footy, like ex-Storm players have their talent repossessed the second they step outside AAMI Park.
And let’s not forget their tactics—watching Melbourne play is like watching someone try to win a wrestling match inside a rugby league game. Every tackle lasts five minutes, every play-the-ball is slower than a dial-up internet connection, and every season, the NRL makes a new rule just to stop them from ruining the sport for everyone else. They’re like that one guy in a video game who finds a broken strategy and just spams it until the developers are forced to patch it.
Now they’re in the post-Smith, Slater, and Cronk era, and it’s starting to show. Cameron Munster is meant to be their new leader, but half the time he looks like he’s just woken up in a dumpster behind a Gold Coast nightclub. Jahrome Hughes was a fullback until Bellamy slapped a "halfback" sticker on him and called it a day, and Harry Grant is still trying to work out if he’s the next Cameron Smith or just a bloke who peaked too early. Meanwhile, Xavier Coates has all the speed in the world but the finishing ability of a blindfolded golfer, and Ryan Papenhuyzen spends more time in rehab than on the field. The Storm aren’t rebuilding, they’re just throwing random pieces together and praying Bellamy can scream them into a premiership.
In the end, Melbourne is like a rogue AI—efficient, emotionless, and incapable of failure. They don’t play rugby league; they *solve* it. But no matter how many times they win, they’ll always be that club that had to cheat just to keep up. And deep down, every Storm fan knows it.
The Melbourne Storm—rugby league’s cold, soulless winning machine. If the NRL was a heist movie, they’d be the crew that cheats, gets caught, but somehow still ends up rich at the end.
Let’s be real, this club has never played by the rules. The salary cap? Just a *suggestion* to them. Melbourne didn’t just bend the rules; they put them in a headlock, suplexed them through a table, and still acted shocked when they got caught. When the NRL stripped their premierships, Storm fans didn’t care—they still count them like a bloke who gets banned from a casino but swears he won big before security dragged him out.
And then there’s the fanbase. Oh wait—what fanbase? Melbourne loves AFL so much that even *winning premierships* can’t get people to care about the Storm. Their so-called supporters only show up when the team’s in the top four, and if they ever have a bad year (which, let’s be honest, never really happens because they exploit the system better than a dodgy accountant), their home crowd would make a cricket match look like a rock concert. If the NRL ever moved the Storm to Perth, would anyone in Melbourne even notice? Probably not.
Craig Bellamy is the secret behind it all—rugby league’s angriest dad. The bloke could turn a third-string park footy player into a Dally M contender just by yelling at him. Every Storm player looks like they’ve been programmed in some underground Melbourne lab where Bellamy installs their tackling technique and removes their personality. The moment they leave the club? They forget how to play footy, like ex-Storm players have their talent repossessed the second they step outside AAMI Park.
And let’s not forget their tactics—watching Melbourne play is like watching someone try to win a wrestling match inside a rugby league game. Every tackle lasts five minutes, every play-the-ball is slower than a dial-up internet connection, and every season, the NRL makes a new rule just to stop them from ruining the sport for everyone else. They’re like that one guy in a video game who finds a broken strategy and just spams it until the developers are forced to patch it.
Now they’re in the post-Smith, Slater, and Cronk era, and it’s starting to show. Cameron Munster is meant to be their new leader, but half the time he looks like he’s just woken up in a dumpster behind a Gold Coast nightclub. Jahrome Hughes was a fullback until Bellamy slapped a "halfback" sticker on him and called it a day, and Harry Grant is still trying to work out if he’s the next Cameron Smith or just a bloke who peaked too early. Meanwhile, Xavier Coates has all the speed in the world but the finishing ability of a blindfolded golfer, and Ryan Papenhuyzen spends more time in rehab than on the field. The Storm aren’t rebuilding, they’re just throwing random pieces together and praying Bellamy can scream them into a premiership.
In the end, Melbourne is like a rogue AI—efficient, emotionless, and incapable of failure. They don’t play rugby league; they *solve* it. But no matter how many times they win, they’ll always be that club that had to cheat just to keep up. And deep down, every Storm fan knows it.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
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- #23
New Zealand Warriors
I have no idea what's going on in this picture...
The New Zealand Warriors—rugby league’s ultimate heartbreakers and the NRL’s longest-running comedy act. If suffering was a sport, they’d have more premierships than the Melbourne Storm. Every season, their fans get sucked into the same delusional fantasy: *“This is our year!”* And every season, by mid-year, they’re already pretending rugby doesn’t exist and switching their attention to *whatever the hell Kiwis do for fun*. Sheep herding? Worshipping the All Blacks? Drinking themselves into oblivion to forget they ever supported this club?
Honestly, watching the Warriors is like watching someone try to build a house out of wet cardboard. Some weeks, it looks like it might hold together, and then, boom—another collapse. One week, they’ll destroy a top-four team like they’ve finally figured out the sport. The next, they’ll be dropping the ball like they’re allergic to possession and making the Dragons look like a premiership side. If inconsistency was a business, the Warriors would be Amazon.
And recruitment? Pure comedy. This club signs players like a guy at 3 AM trying to pick the best takeaway option—panicked, confused, and always ending up with something terrible. They spend millions on washed-up Aussies who are looking for an easy paycheck, while their best young Kiwi talent runs off to play for *actual* title-contending teams. They had Reuben Garrick and let him go. Meanwhile, they once signed a bloke named Kane Evans *just for his big arms*. I wish that was a joke.
But even when they *do* get good players, they somehow manage to ruin them. The Warriors are where talented halves go to forget how to play. They could sign prime Joey Johns and somehow turn him into a worse version of Luke Brooks. Shaun Johnson finally had a career resurgence, but that’s after spending years playing like he’d rather be anywhere else. Their junior development system? It’s basically a free farm for the Roosters and Storm. New Zealand grows some of the best footy talent in the world—just not for the Warriors.
Defensively, they’re softer than a pavlova left in the rain. You could put a team of accountants in jerseys, and they’d probably still punch holes through the Warriors’ line. This is a club that can turn a 20-point lead into a 12-point loss faster than a Kiwi can say *“bro, we were robbed.”* They defend like they’ve just met each other in the car park before kickoff. If there was an Olympic event for *blowing comfortable leads*, New Zealand would finally get a gold medal in something other than rowing.
And then there’s Mt Smart Stadium—the most misleadingly named venue in world sport. It’s not a fortress. It’s a tourist attraction where opposition teams come to collect free competition points. The Warriors could be playing against a team of cardboard cutouts, and they’d still struggle to win at home. The fans turn up week after week, hoping for something different, only to watch their team fold like a cheap deck chair in a Wellington windstorm.
But the funniest part of all? The eternal, blind optimism. Every single year, the Warriors trick their fans into thinking *this is the one*. A few lucky wins, a couple of hype videos, and suddenly, Kiwis start acting like they’re about to take over the NRL. And then, as always, reality comes crashing down. The injuries pile up, the coach starts making decisions that should be classified as war crimes, and the team nosedives straight into the bottom half of the ladder.
Supporting the Warriors is like dating someone who cheats on you every year, yet you still believe *this time* will be different. They’re the ultimate sporting tragedy—a team that will never, ever win anything but will always have fans convinced their time is coming. But don’t worry, New Zealand—*this is your year*. Just like it was last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.
I have no idea what's going on in this picture...
The New Zealand Warriors—rugby league’s ultimate heartbreakers and the NRL’s longest-running comedy act. If suffering was a sport, they’d have more premierships than the Melbourne Storm. Every season, their fans get sucked into the same delusional fantasy: *“This is our year!”* And every season, by mid-year, they’re already pretending rugby doesn’t exist and switching their attention to *whatever the hell Kiwis do for fun*. Sheep herding? Worshipping the All Blacks? Drinking themselves into oblivion to forget they ever supported this club?
Honestly, watching the Warriors is like watching someone try to build a house out of wet cardboard. Some weeks, it looks like it might hold together, and then, boom—another collapse. One week, they’ll destroy a top-four team like they’ve finally figured out the sport. The next, they’ll be dropping the ball like they’re allergic to possession and making the Dragons look like a premiership side. If inconsistency was a business, the Warriors would be Amazon.
And recruitment? Pure comedy. This club signs players like a guy at 3 AM trying to pick the best takeaway option—panicked, confused, and always ending up with something terrible. They spend millions on washed-up Aussies who are looking for an easy paycheck, while their best young Kiwi talent runs off to play for *actual* title-contending teams. They had Reuben Garrick and let him go. Meanwhile, they once signed a bloke named Kane Evans *just for his big arms*. I wish that was a joke.
But even when they *do* get good players, they somehow manage to ruin them. The Warriors are where talented halves go to forget how to play. They could sign prime Joey Johns and somehow turn him into a worse version of Luke Brooks. Shaun Johnson finally had a career resurgence, but that’s after spending years playing like he’d rather be anywhere else. Their junior development system? It’s basically a free farm for the Roosters and Storm. New Zealand grows some of the best footy talent in the world—just not for the Warriors.
Defensively, they’re softer than a pavlova left in the rain. You could put a team of accountants in jerseys, and they’d probably still punch holes through the Warriors’ line. This is a club that can turn a 20-point lead into a 12-point loss faster than a Kiwi can say *“bro, we were robbed.”* They defend like they’ve just met each other in the car park before kickoff. If there was an Olympic event for *blowing comfortable leads*, New Zealand would finally get a gold medal in something other than rowing.
And then there’s Mt Smart Stadium—the most misleadingly named venue in world sport. It’s not a fortress. It’s a tourist attraction where opposition teams come to collect free competition points. The Warriors could be playing against a team of cardboard cutouts, and they’d still struggle to win at home. The fans turn up week after week, hoping for something different, only to watch their team fold like a cheap deck chair in a Wellington windstorm.
But the funniest part of all? The eternal, blind optimism. Every single year, the Warriors trick their fans into thinking *this is the one*. A few lucky wins, a couple of hype videos, and suddenly, Kiwis start acting like they’re about to take over the NRL. And then, as always, reality comes crashing down. The injuries pile up, the coach starts making decisions that should be classified as war crimes, and the team nosedives straight into the bottom half of the ladder.
Supporting the Warriors is like dating someone who cheats on you every year, yet you still believe *this time* will be different. They’re the ultimate sporting tragedy—a team that will never, ever win anything but will always have fans convinced their time is coming. But don’t worry, New Zealand—*this is your year*. Just like it was last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.
KateBroncos1812
NRL Player
- Jul 28, 2023
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KateBroncos1812
NRL Player
- Jul 28, 2023
- 1,602
- 2,312
Like our quest for another premiership
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
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- #27
The Newcastle Knights
The Newcastle Knights are the NRL’s answer to a malfunctioning GPS—constantly "recalculating" but never actually getting anywhere. Every season starts with talk of a "new era," but by Round 10, they’re already clinging to the bottom half of the ladder like a desperate punter chasing his losses. Their game plan is basically just "pass it to Ponga and pray," and when he’s not concussed, injured, or switching positions for the hundredth time, he’s surrounded by teammates who look like they learned the game from a YouTube tutorial.
Any team looking to end a try-scoring drought just needs to schedule a game against Newcastle, because their defensive line is about as intimidating as a picket fence in a hurricane. They’ve got props who get dominated by wingers, edge defenders who might as well be cardboard cutouts, and a fullback who’s usually too busy adjusting his headgear to organize his line.
And their recruitment? Oh, it’s world-class… if the world you’re talking about is a retirement village. They have an uncanny ability to overpay for underwhelming talent, turning journeymen into million-dollar liabilities faster than you can say "cap mismanagement." It’s like they scout players by throwing darts at a list of "available but unwanted" options. They let go of quality players like Dane Gagai in his prime but will happily throw a bag of cash at the next washed-up ex-Bronco looking for a holiday in the Hunter.
Finals? Please. The only thing the Knights have mastered in September is Mad Monday. If they somehow stumble into the playoffs, you already know they’re getting bounced in the first round while looking as lost as their halves do on a fifth-tackle option. Even when they fluke a decent season, they implode the moment anyone mentions the word "expectations."
And the fans—oh, the poor fans. Absolute battlers. Sticking by this club should qualify as a form of community service. They don’t just deserve loyalty rewards; they deserve financial compensation and free therapy sessions. There should be a medal, or at the very least a government grant, for enduring the weekly emotional torment of supporting the Knights. The only reason their home crowds stay decent is because Newcastle doesn’t have much else going on, and even then, most people are just there for the beer.
Then there’s the elephant in the room—Andrew Johns. The man, the myth, the only reason this club has any history worth mentioning. The Knights have been clinging to Joey’s legacy like a lifeline for nearly two decades, rolling him out every chance they get to remind people that, yes, they were once relevant. But even Johns himself looks like he’s aged 20 years from watching this team fumble around like they’ve never seen a rugby ball before. The sad truth? If it weren’t for him, Newcastle would just be the Wests Tigers in a different postcode.
The Newcastle Knights are the NRL’s answer to a malfunctioning GPS—constantly "recalculating" but never actually getting anywhere. Every season starts with talk of a "new era," but by Round 10, they’re already clinging to the bottom half of the ladder like a desperate punter chasing his losses. Their game plan is basically just "pass it to Ponga and pray," and when he’s not concussed, injured, or switching positions for the hundredth time, he’s surrounded by teammates who look like they learned the game from a YouTube tutorial.
Any team looking to end a try-scoring drought just needs to schedule a game against Newcastle, because their defensive line is about as intimidating as a picket fence in a hurricane. They’ve got props who get dominated by wingers, edge defenders who might as well be cardboard cutouts, and a fullback who’s usually too busy adjusting his headgear to organize his line.
And their recruitment? Oh, it’s world-class… if the world you’re talking about is a retirement village. They have an uncanny ability to overpay for underwhelming talent, turning journeymen into million-dollar liabilities faster than you can say "cap mismanagement." It’s like they scout players by throwing darts at a list of "available but unwanted" options. They let go of quality players like Dane Gagai in his prime but will happily throw a bag of cash at the next washed-up ex-Bronco looking for a holiday in the Hunter.
Finals? Please. The only thing the Knights have mastered in September is Mad Monday. If they somehow stumble into the playoffs, you already know they’re getting bounced in the first round while looking as lost as their halves do on a fifth-tackle option. Even when they fluke a decent season, they implode the moment anyone mentions the word "expectations."
And the fans—oh, the poor fans. Absolute battlers. Sticking by this club should qualify as a form of community service. They don’t just deserve loyalty rewards; they deserve financial compensation and free therapy sessions. There should be a medal, or at the very least a government grant, for enduring the weekly emotional torment of supporting the Knights. The only reason their home crowds stay decent is because Newcastle doesn’t have much else going on, and even then, most people are just there for the beer.
Then there’s the elephant in the room—Andrew Johns. The man, the myth, the only reason this club has any history worth mentioning. The Knights have been clinging to Joey’s legacy like a lifeline for nearly two decades, rolling him out every chance they get to remind people that, yes, they were once relevant. But even Johns himself looks like he’s aged 20 years from watching this team fumble around like they’ve never seen a rugby ball before. The sad truth? If it weren’t for him, Newcastle would just be the Wests Tigers in a different postcode.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
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- #28
North Queensland Cowboys
The North Queensland Cowboys—forever stuck in their big brother’s shadow, clinging to that one moment of glory in 2015 like it wasn’t almost a decade ago. Meanwhile, the Brisbane Broncos just sit back, pat them on the head, and remind them who runs rugby league in Queensland. They try so hard to be taken seriously, but at the end of the day, they’ll always be the Broncos’ less successful, less popular, and less relevant little sibling.
Let’s be real—the Cowboys only exist because Brisbane needed a team to take the beatings the Broncos were too busy winning premierships to bother with. The Broncos got the best players, the biggest crowds, and the prestige. The Cowboys? They got Townsville. A place where the stadium is either melting-hot or flooded, and the biggest attraction besides footy is the giant fiberglass mango in Bowen.
And every year, Cowboys fans talk themselves into believing they’re contenders. “This is the year we prove we’re the best Queensland team!” they say, before inevitably being reminded that they’re not even the best team north of the Sunshine Coast. The Broncos have multiple premierships, legendary players, and a club culture that attracts talent. The Cowboys? They spent a decade building their identity around one man—JT—only to completely fall apart the moment he left.
Since his retirement, they’ve been desperately searching for a new hero. First, they tried Michael Morgan, but his shoulder fell apart before he could carry the team anywhere. Then they threw all their hopes on Jason Taumalolo, only to overpay him for a ten-year contract that now looks worse than a Cowboys second-half performance. Now, they’re praying Scott Drinkwater turns into a miracle worker, even though half the time, he looks like he’s trying to play all 13 positions at once because no one else is doing their job.
And let’s talk about their recruitment. The Cowboys love handing out long-term contracts like they’re a charity. They paid Valentine Holmes a fortune thinking they were getting an elite fullback—turns out they signed an expensive winger who kicks goals. They also thought Chad Townsend, a guy the Sharks happily let go, would be the answer to their playmaking woes. That’s like trying to fix your car by putting a bandaid on the engine.
Cowboys fans like to call Suncorp Stadium "their second home," but let’s be honest—every time they play the Broncos there, it’s just another reminder of who actually runs Queensland rugby league. The only time they ever seem to step up is in those Queensland derby games, but even then, their “big wins” are just minor inconveniences to Brisbane, who have bigger things to worry about—like actually contending for premierships.
At the end of the day, the Cowboys are just the Broncos’ annoying little brother—always trying to prove themselves, but never quite good enough to escape big brother’s shadow. They might have their moments, but in the grand scheme of things, they’re just a footnote in Queensland’s rugby league history.
The North Queensland Cowboys—forever stuck in their big brother’s shadow, clinging to that one moment of glory in 2015 like it wasn’t almost a decade ago. Meanwhile, the Brisbane Broncos just sit back, pat them on the head, and remind them who runs rugby league in Queensland. They try so hard to be taken seriously, but at the end of the day, they’ll always be the Broncos’ less successful, less popular, and less relevant little sibling.
Let’s be real—the Cowboys only exist because Brisbane needed a team to take the beatings the Broncos were too busy winning premierships to bother with. The Broncos got the best players, the biggest crowds, and the prestige. The Cowboys? They got Townsville. A place where the stadium is either melting-hot or flooded, and the biggest attraction besides footy is the giant fiberglass mango in Bowen.
And every year, Cowboys fans talk themselves into believing they’re contenders. “This is the year we prove we’re the best Queensland team!” they say, before inevitably being reminded that they’re not even the best team north of the Sunshine Coast. The Broncos have multiple premierships, legendary players, and a club culture that attracts talent. The Cowboys? They spent a decade building their identity around one man—JT—only to completely fall apart the moment he left.
Since his retirement, they’ve been desperately searching for a new hero. First, they tried Michael Morgan, but his shoulder fell apart before he could carry the team anywhere. Then they threw all their hopes on Jason Taumalolo, only to overpay him for a ten-year contract that now looks worse than a Cowboys second-half performance. Now, they’re praying Scott Drinkwater turns into a miracle worker, even though half the time, he looks like he’s trying to play all 13 positions at once because no one else is doing their job.
And let’s talk about their recruitment. The Cowboys love handing out long-term contracts like they’re a charity. They paid Valentine Holmes a fortune thinking they were getting an elite fullback—turns out they signed an expensive winger who kicks goals. They also thought Chad Townsend, a guy the Sharks happily let go, would be the answer to their playmaking woes. That’s like trying to fix your car by putting a bandaid on the engine.
Cowboys fans like to call Suncorp Stadium "their second home," but let’s be honest—every time they play the Broncos there, it’s just another reminder of who actually runs Queensland rugby league. The only time they ever seem to step up is in those Queensland derby games, but even then, their “big wins” are just minor inconveniences to Brisbane, who have bigger things to worry about—like actually contending for premierships.
At the end of the day, the Cowboys are just the Broncos’ annoying little brother—always trying to prove themselves, but never quite good enough to escape big brother’s shadow. They might have their moments, but in the grand scheme of things, they’re just a footnote in Queensland’s rugby league history.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
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- #29
Parramatta Eels
The Parramatta Eels—the NRL’s answer to a mid-life crisis. Every single season, they roll in with the same delusional energy as a bloke buying a sports car to save his failing marriage. “This is our year!” they chant, only to inevitably crash and burn like clockwork. It’s honestly impressive how a team can be this consistently disappointing for nearly *four decades*.
Since 1986, we’ve seen five different Australian Prime Ministers, the rise and fall of Blockbuster, and the invention of the internet—but no new Eels premierships. Kids born the last time Parra won a title are now old enough to have mortgages and back pain. This team has spent so much time rebuilding, you’d think they were a Bunnings franchise. And yet, every year, they act like they’re one good signing away from glory.
Speaking of players, let’s address the elephant in the room—Clint Gutherson finally bailed. The so-called “King” of Parramatta has left the castle for the Dragons, which is like moving out of a haunted house into a burning one. But hey, I get it. Even *he* got sick of leading this pack of underachievers. The guy spent years trying to carry this team, only for them to collapse the moment the pressure got real. Now, he gets to watch from Wollongong while Parra fans try to convince themselves that Dylan Brown is suddenly going to become an elite playmaker. Spoiler alert: he won’t.
And let’s talk about the 2022 grand final—aka, the single biggest waste of a grand final appearance in modern history. Eels fans spent all week talking about “breaking the drought” only to get absolutely steamrolled by Penrith. It wasn’t just a loss; it was a full-blown public humiliation. The game was basically over before halftime, and by the end, even Parra fans were turning off their TVs in disgust. The Panthers didn’t just beat them; they turned them into a training drill on national television.
Then there’s their recruitment strategy, which is about as well thought out as a late-night kebab order. They either lose their best players for nothing or overpay for guys who peaked in 2019. Every year, they hype up some random reserve grader as their “missing piece,” and every year, it turns out he’s just another piece of the problem. The Eels’ salary cap management is so bad it makes the Wests Tigers look like financial geniuses.
And the fans—oh, the fans. You have to respect their commitment, because at this point, supporting the Eels is like being in a toxic relationship. They get their hopes up, they get let down, they swear they’re done with this team, and then next season, they’re right back at it. It’s a never-ending cycle of heartbreak. Even the Sharks, Cowboys, and Rabbitohs have broken their premiership droughts, but the Eels? Still waiting, still suffering.
At this point, Parramatta isn’t an NRL team—it’s a Greek tragedy in footy form. The only thing they’ve dominated in the last 40 years is the “most false hope per capita” statistic. And unless they perform an actual miracle, I’ll see you back here next year for yet another “this is our year” failure tour.
The Parramatta Eels—the NRL’s answer to a mid-life crisis. Every single season, they roll in with the same delusional energy as a bloke buying a sports car to save his failing marriage. “This is our year!” they chant, only to inevitably crash and burn like clockwork. It’s honestly impressive how a team can be this consistently disappointing for nearly *four decades*.
Since 1986, we’ve seen five different Australian Prime Ministers, the rise and fall of Blockbuster, and the invention of the internet—but no new Eels premierships. Kids born the last time Parra won a title are now old enough to have mortgages and back pain. This team has spent so much time rebuilding, you’d think they were a Bunnings franchise. And yet, every year, they act like they’re one good signing away from glory.
Speaking of players, let’s address the elephant in the room—Clint Gutherson finally bailed. The so-called “King” of Parramatta has left the castle for the Dragons, which is like moving out of a haunted house into a burning one. But hey, I get it. Even *he* got sick of leading this pack of underachievers. The guy spent years trying to carry this team, only for them to collapse the moment the pressure got real. Now, he gets to watch from Wollongong while Parra fans try to convince themselves that Dylan Brown is suddenly going to become an elite playmaker. Spoiler alert: he won’t.
And let’s talk about the 2022 grand final—aka, the single biggest waste of a grand final appearance in modern history. Eels fans spent all week talking about “breaking the drought” only to get absolutely steamrolled by Penrith. It wasn’t just a loss; it was a full-blown public humiliation. The game was basically over before halftime, and by the end, even Parra fans were turning off their TVs in disgust. The Panthers didn’t just beat them; they turned them into a training drill on national television.
Then there’s their recruitment strategy, which is about as well thought out as a late-night kebab order. They either lose their best players for nothing or overpay for guys who peaked in 2019. Every year, they hype up some random reserve grader as their “missing piece,” and every year, it turns out he’s just another piece of the problem. The Eels’ salary cap management is so bad it makes the Wests Tigers look like financial geniuses.
And the fans—oh, the fans. You have to respect their commitment, because at this point, supporting the Eels is like being in a toxic relationship. They get their hopes up, they get let down, they swear they’re done with this team, and then next season, they’re right back at it. It’s a never-ending cycle of heartbreak. Even the Sharks, Cowboys, and Rabbitohs have broken their premiership droughts, but the Eels? Still waiting, still suffering.
At this point, Parramatta isn’t an NRL team—it’s a Greek tragedy in footy form. The only thing they’ve dominated in the last 40 years is the “most false hope per capita” statistic. And unless they perform an actual miracle, I’ll see you back here next year for yet another “this is our year” failure tour.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
- 7,611
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- Thread starter
- #30
Penrith Panthers
The Penrith Panthers—rugby league’s cockiest dynasty, led by a fanbase that thinks "humility" is a type of pasta. Four straight premierships, and somehow, they’ve managed to get even *more* unbearable. These blokes don’t just win; they celebrate like they just ended world hunger. They party harder after a Round 4 victory over the Titans than most teams do after a grand final. At this point, the NRL should just set up a separate competition so the rest of us don’t have to deal with Penrith’s never-ending victory lap.
Nathan Cleary? Yeah, he’s good, but let’s not pretend he’s out there doing it all himself. This bloke has the best forward pack in the comp making his life easier, but Panthers fans act like he’s out there dodging landmines and carrying 16 blokes on his back. The media talks about him like he’s *the* greatest player of all time, but let’s be real—without Ivan’s coaching and that wrecking-ball forward pack, he’d be fighting Luke Brooks for a halfback spot at the Tigers. If you put him in a struggling team, he’d be kicking stones faster than he kicks conversions.
And speaking of delusional—**Penrith fans.** My god. These people went from being rugby league’s equivalent of background noise to the *loudest, most insufferable* supporters in the game. They think the Panthers are the biggest club in the NRL, when in reality, they’ve got the history of a TikTok influencer—some short-lived success and a *lot* of obnoxious noise. You’re not the Storm. You’re not the Roosters. You’re not even the Broncos. You disappeared into irrelevance for *17 years*, then won a few comps, and now you carry on like you *invented* rugby league.
And let’s not ignore the fact that **Penrith’s literacy rates are lower than their tackle completion.** Their fans celebrate grand final wins by **failing spelling tests** and getting banned from Panthers Leagues Club for starting brawls. If the Panthers are the pride of Western Sydney, then Western Sydney is in *serious* trouble. Half the team could retire today and go straight into Centrelink because there’s no way most of them passed high school. The average Panthers fan thinks “dynasty” is the name of a stripper and that “composure” is a type of yoghurt.
And then there’s Jarome Luai, the human embodiment of an Instagram comment section. He’s spent years running his mouth in a team full of enforcers, acting like he’s the toughest bloke in the NRL, and now he’s off to the Tigers—where he’ll finally learn what *losing* feels like. The bloke went from calling himself “underdog mentality” to cashing out faster than a pokies addict at Panthers Leagues Club. Enjoy finishing 15th, Jarome.
And don’t get me started on **BlueBet Stadium**—the so-called *fortress*. It’s not intimidating because of the crowd; it’s intimidating because of the risk of tetanus. The visitor locker rooms look like they were built as an HSC woodworking project. Half the fans have to stand on a hill like they’re watching a bush footy game in 1985. If this is the "home of champions," then why does it look like a crime scene from a budget cop show?
The Panthers aren’t just the best team in the NRL—they’re the biggest reminder that success doesn’t make you likable. They’re the spoiled rich kid of rugby league—winning everything, rubbing it in everyone’s faces, and somehow getting *more* annoying with each trophy. The only silver lining? *Every dynasty eventually crumbles.* And when Penrith finally falls, the rest of the NRL is going to throw the biggest street party in history. Until then, we’re all stuck in Penrith’s world—whether we like it or not.
The Penrith Panthers—rugby league’s cockiest dynasty, led by a fanbase that thinks "humility" is a type of pasta. Four straight premierships, and somehow, they’ve managed to get even *more* unbearable. These blokes don’t just win; they celebrate like they just ended world hunger. They party harder after a Round 4 victory over the Titans than most teams do after a grand final. At this point, the NRL should just set up a separate competition so the rest of us don’t have to deal with Penrith’s never-ending victory lap.
Nathan Cleary? Yeah, he’s good, but let’s not pretend he’s out there doing it all himself. This bloke has the best forward pack in the comp making his life easier, but Panthers fans act like he’s out there dodging landmines and carrying 16 blokes on his back. The media talks about him like he’s *the* greatest player of all time, but let’s be real—without Ivan’s coaching and that wrecking-ball forward pack, he’d be fighting Luke Brooks for a halfback spot at the Tigers. If you put him in a struggling team, he’d be kicking stones faster than he kicks conversions.
And speaking of delusional—**Penrith fans.** My god. These people went from being rugby league’s equivalent of background noise to the *loudest, most insufferable* supporters in the game. They think the Panthers are the biggest club in the NRL, when in reality, they’ve got the history of a TikTok influencer—some short-lived success and a *lot* of obnoxious noise. You’re not the Storm. You’re not the Roosters. You’re not even the Broncos. You disappeared into irrelevance for *17 years*, then won a few comps, and now you carry on like you *invented* rugby league.
And let’s not ignore the fact that **Penrith’s literacy rates are lower than their tackle completion.** Their fans celebrate grand final wins by **failing spelling tests** and getting banned from Panthers Leagues Club for starting brawls. If the Panthers are the pride of Western Sydney, then Western Sydney is in *serious* trouble. Half the team could retire today and go straight into Centrelink because there’s no way most of them passed high school. The average Panthers fan thinks “dynasty” is the name of a stripper and that “composure” is a type of yoghurt.
And then there’s Jarome Luai, the human embodiment of an Instagram comment section. He’s spent years running his mouth in a team full of enforcers, acting like he’s the toughest bloke in the NRL, and now he’s off to the Tigers—where he’ll finally learn what *losing* feels like. The bloke went from calling himself “underdog mentality” to cashing out faster than a pokies addict at Panthers Leagues Club. Enjoy finishing 15th, Jarome.
And don’t get me started on **BlueBet Stadium**—the so-called *fortress*. It’s not intimidating because of the crowd; it’s intimidating because of the risk of tetanus. The visitor locker rooms look like they were built as an HSC woodworking project. Half the fans have to stand on a hill like they’re watching a bush footy game in 1985. If this is the "home of champions," then why does it look like a crime scene from a budget cop show?
The Panthers aren’t just the best team in the NRL—they’re the biggest reminder that success doesn’t make you likable. They’re the spoiled rich kid of rugby league—winning everything, rubbing it in everyone’s faces, and somehow getting *more* annoying with each trophy. The only silver lining? *Every dynasty eventually crumbles.* And when Penrith finally falls, the rest of the NRL is going to throw the biggest street party in history. Until then, we’re all stuck in Penrith’s world—whether we like it or not.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
- 7,611
- 13,450
- Thread starter
- #31
South Sydney Rabbitohs
Ah, the South Sydney Rabbitohs—rugby league’s greatest soap opera, a club that loves to remind everyone they’ve won 21 premierships, but forgets to mention that 20 of them happened when the Titanic was still afloat. The last 50 years? One fluke title in 2014, and they’ve been milking it harder than a dairy farmer ever since.
This team is the definition of “all sizzle, no steak.” Every year, the Bunnies enter the season with delusional hype, only to collapse faster than a deck of cards in a hurricane. They dominate the easy games, but the moment they run into a real team, they fall apart like an IKEA bookshelf without screws. Their defense has more holes than a colander, their attack is predictable, and their discipline? Let’s just say they spend more time in the sin bin than on the training paddock.
And now, Wayne Bennett is back, because nothing screams desperation like bringing back a 74-year-old wizard to fix a club that refuses to fix itself. What’s the game plan, Wayne? Get the boys to watch VHS tapes of the Broncos in the ’90s and hope for the best? He worked his magic with the Dolphins, but even he can’t turn water into wine when the water is mostly tears from the last decade of chokes.
Latrell Mitchell? The most overrated, overhyped, and over-suspended player in the NRL. Some days he’s a game-changer, but most days he’s a headline generator. Either he’s injuring an opponent, taking a mid-season holiday, or making the Rabbitohs’ PR team work overtime defending his latest brain fade. Meanwhile, Cody Walker is still running around pretending to be an enforcer, even though he goes missing in big games faster than South Sydney’s premiership hopes in September.
And now, let’s talk about Souths fans—the most self-pitying, loud-mouthed, whiny bunch in the league. These are the same people who still cry about 1999, acting like the NRL personally victimized them, when in reality, they got booted because they were dead last and useless. Fast forward to today, and they have the same punch-drunk energy as a washed-up boxer—constantly talking about the past, ignoring the fact that they’ve been getting slapped around in the present.
Souths fans act like their club is a holy relic, but in reality, they’re just NRL’s version of an old rock band living off one hit from the ’70s. They scream “Glory, Glory to South Sydney,” but the only thing glorious about this club is how spectacularly they manage to disappoint their fanbase year after year.
Pride of the league? Mate, they’re the punchline.
Ah, the South Sydney Rabbitohs—rugby league’s greatest soap opera, a club that loves to remind everyone they’ve won 21 premierships, but forgets to mention that 20 of them happened when the Titanic was still afloat. The last 50 years? One fluke title in 2014, and they’ve been milking it harder than a dairy farmer ever since.
This team is the definition of “all sizzle, no steak.” Every year, the Bunnies enter the season with delusional hype, only to collapse faster than a deck of cards in a hurricane. They dominate the easy games, but the moment they run into a real team, they fall apart like an IKEA bookshelf without screws. Their defense has more holes than a colander, their attack is predictable, and their discipline? Let’s just say they spend more time in the sin bin than on the training paddock.
And now, Wayne Bennett is back, because nothing screams desperation like bringing back a 74-year-old wizard to fix a club that refuses to fix itself. What’s the game plan, Wayne? Get the boys to watch VHS tapes of the Broncos in the ’90s and hope for the best? He worked his magic with the Dolphins, but even he can’t turn water into wine when the water is mostly tears from the last decade of chokes.
Latrell Mitchell? The most overrated, overhyped, and over-suspended player in the NRL. Some days he’s a game-changer, but most days he’s a headline generator. Either he’s injuring an opponent, taking a mid-season holiday, or making the Rabbitohs’ PR team work overtime defending his latest brain fade. Meanwhile, Cody Walker is still running around pretending to be an enforcer, even though he goes missing in big games faster than South Sydney’s premiership hopes in September.
And now, let’s talk about Souths fans—the most self-pitying, loud-mouthed, whiny bunch in the league. These are the same people who still cry about 1999, acting like the NRL personally victimized them, when in reality, they got booted because they were dead last and useless. Fast forward to today, and they have the same punch-drunk energy as a washed-up boxer—constantly talking about the past, ignoring the fact that they’ve been getting slapped around in the present.
Souths fans act like their club is a holy relic, but in reality, they’re just NRL’s version of an old rock band living off one hit from the ’70s. They scream “Glory, Glory to South Sydney,” but the only thing glorious about this club is how spectacularly they manage to disappoint their fanbase year after year.
Pride of the league? Mate, they’re the punchline.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
- 7,611
- 13,450
- Thread starter
- #32
St. George Illawarra Dragons
Ah, the Dragons—the NRL’s equivalent of a Nokia 3310. Sure, they were once tough and respectable, but now they’re just outdated, slow, and completely useless in the modern era. Every season, they promise their fans "things will be different", and every season, it’s the same miserable train wreck that derails by Anzac Day.
Let’s talk history, because that’s all Dragons fans have left. Yeah, they technically have 16 premierships, but 15 of them happened when blokes wore short shorts and smoked at halftime. Since the merger? One single title in 2010, and they’ve been dining out on it ever since, acting like they’re a powerhouse when in reality, they’re the NRL’s most prestigious retirement home.
And now, after years of pain and mediocrity, their best players have finally had enough. Ben Hunt? Gone to Brisbane faster than a paycheck at the pub. Zac Lomax? Off to Parra, probably to learn what a finals game feels like. Jack Bird? Bolted for the Tigers, which is a real sign of how bad things are when someone voluntarily joins Wests. What’s left? A bunch of rejects, has-beens, and players who look like they won a contest to be in first grade.
And then there’s Shane Flanagan, the club’s latest “masterstroke” hire. Ah yes, Flanno—known for one premiership and an entire drug scandal. This is the guy who got banned from the NRL for running an illegal peptide program at the Sharks, and the Dragons thought, “Yep, that’s our man!” What’s the game plan, Flanno? Start cooking up some secret supplements in the Kogarah changerooms? The bloke hasn’t won a relevant game in years, and now he’s expected to turn this shambles into a finals team? It’s like hiring a bloke who crashed a Ferrari to drive your Uber.
Recruitment? A disaster. While other clubs sign actual talent, the Dragons are out here scooping up bargain-bin rejects like a bloke raiding the clearance section at Kmart. They either sign washed-up players looking for one last payday or random no-names that make fans say, “Who?” Their biggest signing is probably a new social media manager to help spin the next losing streak.
And the fans? Oh, these poor, delusional souls. Every year, they tell themselves “this is our year”, and by Round 10, they’re already planning their Mad Monday outfits. They still scream about being a “proud club,” but the only thing proud about the Dragons is how consistently they disappoint everyone involved.
At this point, the Dragons are like an 80s rock band still touring without any original members. No talent, no future, just a bunch of people pretending it’s still the good old days. And the way they’re going? They’ll be waiting another 50 years before they even sniff a premiership again.
Ah, the Dragons—the NRL’s equivalent of a Nokia 3310. Sure, they were once tough and respectable, but now they’re just outdated, slow, and completely useless in the modern era. Every season, they promise their fans "things will be different", and every season, it’s the same miserable train wreck that derails by Anzac Day.
Let’s talk history, because that’s all Dragons fans have left. Yeah, they technically have 16 premierships, but 15 of them happened when blokes wore short shorts and smoked at halftime. Since the merger? One single title in 2010, and they’ve been dining out on it ever since, acting like they’re a powerhouse when in reality, they’re the NRL’s most prestigious retirement home.
And now, after years of pain and mediocrity, their best players have finally had enough. Ben Hunt? Gone to Brisbane faster than a paycheck at the pub. Zac Lomax? Off to Parra, probably to learn what a finals game feels like. Jack Bird? Bolted for the Tigers, which is a real sign of how bad things are when someone voluntarily joins Wests. What’s left? A bunch of rejects, has-beens, and players who look like they won a contest to be in first grade.
And then there’s Shane Flanagan, the club’s latest “masterstroke” hire. Ah yes, Flanno—known for one premiership and an entire drug scandal. This is the guy who got banned from the NRL for running an illegal peptide program at the Sharks, and the Dragons thought, “Yep, that’s our man!” What’s the game plan, Flanno? Start cooking up some secret supplements in the Kogarah changerooms? The bloke hasn’t won a relevant game in years, and now he’s expected to turn this shambles into a finals team? It’s like hiring a bloke who crashed a Ferrari to drive your Uber.
Recruitment? A disaster. While other clubs sign actual talent, the Dragons are out here scooping up bargain-bin rejects like a bloke raiding the clearance section at Kmart. They either sign washed-up players looking for one last payday or random no-names that make fans say, “Who?” Their biggest signing is probably a new social media manager to help spin the next losing streak.
And the fans? Oh, these poor, delusional souls. Every year, they tell themselves “this is our year”, and by Round 10, they’re already planning their Mad Monday outfits. They still scream about being a “proud club,” but the only thing proud about the Dragons is how consistently they disappoint everyone involved.
At this point, the Dragons are like an 80s rock band still touring without any original members. No talent, no future, just a bunch of people pretending it’s still the good old days. And the way they’re going? They’ll be waiting another 50 years before they even sniff a premiership again.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
- 7,611
- 13,450
- Thread starter
- #33
Sydney Roosters
Ah, the Sydney Roosters—rugby league’s equivalent of a trust fund kid. Everything handed to them, never had to struggle, and still walking around acting like they built something from scratch. While other teams scrape by with salary cap scraps, the Roosters somehow manage to assemble an all-star squad every year, all while keeping a straight face and telling us “the books balance.” Mate, their accountant must have a Hogwarts degree, because there’s more magic in those contracts than in a Harry Potter movie.
Let’s talk about the fanbase—or lack of one. The Roosters have won three premierships in the last decade, yet their home crowds still look like a library at midnight. You could fire a cannon through Allianz Stadium most weeks and only hit a couple of confused tourists who thought they were at the tennis. Even their own supporters know the deal—if they lose, nobody cares; if they win, nobody remembers. The NRL could fold them tomorrow and the only people who’d notice are the accountants at Bondi trying to hide those third-party deals.
And then there’s their recruitment strategy: just buy everyone. Salary cap? Never heard of it. While other clubs are forced to actually develop talent, the Roosters operate like a rugby league Monopoly board. You’ve got a rising star at another club? Congratulations, Uncle Nick has already booked him a penthouse in Bondi. Other teams spend years building a squad; the Roosters just open a checkbook and ask their cap auditor to look the other way. They’re the only club where a million-dollar signing is just a Tuesday afternoon.
Trent Robinson gets hyped as a “master coach,” but let’s be real—anyone could win with the squads he’s been given. This bloke has had more rep players at his disposal than an Origin team, and still somehow managed to miss the finals in 2023. Imagine crashing a Ferrari into a ditch and still being called a great driver. That’s Robinson. If he had to coach the Dragons or the Tigers, he’d be out of the game in two years.
And then there’s their so-called “culture.” Every time they win, we get some nonsense about the “Roosters way,” like they’ve unlocked the secret formula to rugby league. What’s the Roosters way? Having the richest owner in the comp, dodging the salary cap auditor, and recruiting their way out of every problem? If that’s culture, then a billionaire buying a Michelin-star meal counts as cooking.
Even their “rivalries” are fake. They claim to hate Souths, but let’s be honest—Souths fans spend every waking moment thinking about the Roosters, while Roosters fans spend every waking moment forgetting that Souths exist. The so-called rivalry with the Bulldogs in the 2000s? Dead. The feud with the Storm? Melbourne already has a real rival, and it’s called the salary cap police.
At the end of the day, the Roosters are just the NRL’s default setting. They exist, they win sometimes, and no one outside their members-only corporate suite actually cares. If they folded tomorrow, the only people who’d cry are the player managers who’d have to start working for a living.
Ah, the Sydney Roosters—rugby league’s equivalent of a trust fund kid. Everything handed to them, never had to struggle, and still walking around acting like they built something from scratch. While other teams scrape by with salary cap scraps, the Roosters somehow manage to assemble an all-star squad every year, all while keeping a straight face and telling us “the books balance.” Mate, their accountant must have a Hogwarts degree, because there’s more magic in those contracts than in a Harry Potter movie.
Let’s talk about the fanbase—or lack of one. The Roosters have won three premierships in the last decade, yet their home crowds still look like a library at midnight. You could fire a cannon through Allianz Stadium most weeks and only hit a couple of confused tourists who thought they were at the tennis. Even their own supporters know the deal—if they lose, nobody cares; if they win, nobody remembers. The NRL could fold them tomorrow and the only people who’d notice are the accountants at Bondi trying to hide those third-party deals.
And then there’s their recruitment strategy: just buy everyone. Salary cap? Never heard of it. While other clubs are forced to actually develop talent, the Roosters operate like a rugby league Monopoly board. You’ve got a rising star at another club? Congratulations, Uncle Nick has already booked him a penthouse in Bondi. Other teams spend years building a squad; the Roosters just open a checkbook and ask their cap auditor to look the other way. They’re the only club where a million-dollar signing is just a Tuesday afternoon.
Trent Robinson gets hyped as a “master coach,” but let’s be real—anyone could win with the squads he’s been given. This bloke has had more rep players at his disposal than an Origin team, and still somehow managed to miss the finals in 2023. Imagine crashing a Ferrari into a ditch and still being called a great driver. That’s Robinson. If he had to coach the Dragons or the Tigers, he’d be out of the game in two years.
And then there’s their so-called “culture.” Every time they win, we get some nonsense about the “Roosters way,” like they’ve unlocked the secret formula to rugby league. What’s the Roosters way? Having the richest owner in the comp, dodging the salary cap auditor, and recruiting their way out of every problem? If that’s culture, then a billionaire buying a Michelin-star meal counts as cooking.
Even their “rivalries” are fake. They claim to hate Souths, but let’s be honest—Souths fans spend every waking moment thinking about the Roosters, while Roosters fans spend every waking moment forgetting that Souths exist. The so-called rivalry with the Bulldogs in the 2000s? Dead. The feud with the Storm? Melbourne already has a real rival, and it’s called the salary cap police.
At the end of the day, the Roosters are just the NRL’s default setting. They exist, they win sometimes, and no one outside their members-only corporate suite actually cares. If they folded tomorrow, the only people who’d cry are the player managers who’d have to start working for a living.
Santa
State of Origin Rep
- Jun 30, 2020
- 7,611
- 13,450
- Thread starter
- #34
And in dedication to
KateBroncos1812 , Rosie and her mum. The final team:
West Tigers
The Wests Tigers aren’t just bad—they’re a scientific anomaly. You’d think that after years of mediocrity, they’d eventually stumble into success by accident, but no. They have defied the laws of probability to remain consistently terrible for over a decade. It’s almost impressive.
Their recruitment strategy is like watching someone try to build a house using Play-Doh and duct tape. They either sign players no one else wants or throw bags of cash at big names, only to ruin them. They turned Moses Mbye into an $800K-a-year paperweight, made Josh Reynolds one of the highest-paid benchwarmers in NRL history, and even managed to turn Api Koroisau—one of the game’s best hookers—into a part-time stand-up comedian who accidentally roasted his own team before even playing a game for them.
Their coaching history is like a cursed game of musical chairs. Every few years, they throw another poor soul into the hot seat and expect different results. Michael Maguire was supposed to bring discipline, but the players treated him like an annoying stepdad and ignored him. Tim Sheens came back for a redemption arc, but it turned into a tragic sequel. Now, they’ve given Benji Marshall the keys, hoping his legendary playing career somehow translates into coaching ability. That’s like hiring a Michelin-starred chef to run a McDonald’s—sure, he’s talented, but what is he supposed to do with this garbage?
And let’s talk about their on-field leadership. James Tamou once had to apologize for calling them “embarrassing,” which is ironic because his biggest contribution to the team was confirming what everyone already knew. Luke Brooks, their “franchise halfback” for a decade, had more coaches than he did good games. Watching him try to lead the team was like watching a goldfish try to read a playbook. Naturally, he left and immediately looked better at Manly, proving that the real problem was never him—it was the Tigers themselves.
Even their home ground situation is a mess. They split their games between Leichhardt Oval, which is one good rainstorm away from being condemned, and Campbelltown Stadium, where you could hear a pin drop because half their own fans have given up attending. They also play some games at CommBank, which is great—except it’s in Parramatta, and Tigers fans would rather chew glass than set foot in Eels territory.
And let’s not forget their junior development. The Tigers have produced some of the best talent in the NRL—James Tedesco, Mitchell Moses, Ryan Papenhuyzen, Josh Addo-Carr—only to watch them all leave and win premierships elsewhere. The Tigers aren’t an NRL club; they’re an unpaid internship for future champions. They do all the hard work developing players, then let them go so they can succeed somewhere that isn’t a raging dumpster fire.
Now they’ve thrown a boatload of cash at Jarome Luai, hoping he’ll turn things around. But let’s be real—he’s probably already looking at escape routes. The contract says five years, but if the Tigers keep doing Tigers things, he’ll be gone after two, leaving behind nothing but Instagram posts about how he “loved his time at the club” while packing his bags for somewhere that actually plays finals footy.
At this point, the Tigers are less of a rugby league team and more of a tragic comedy. Every other club has ups and downs, but the Tigers are just stuck in an eternal loop of suffering. Their fans don’t even get angry anymore—they just laugh through the pain, knowing that no matter what happens, the Tigers will find a way to make it worse.
Honestly, if the NRL ever expands again, they should just give the Tigers a fresh rebrand in a new city. Maybe rename them the Perth Pussycats and let them start over because the “Wests Tigers” experiment has been a 20-year social experiment in how much disappointment one fanbase can endure.
KateBroncos1812 , Rosie and her mum. The final team:West Tigers
The Wests Tigers aren’t just bad—they’re a scientific anomaly. You’d think that after years of mediocrity, they’d eventually stumble into success by accident, but no. They have defied the laws of probability to remain consistently terrible for over a decade. It’s almost impressive.
Their recruitment strategy is like watching someone try to build a house using Play-Doh and duct tape. They either sign players no one else wants or throw bags of cash at big names, only to ruin them. They turned Moses Mbye into an $800K-a-year paperweight, made Josh Reynolds one of the highest-paid benchwarmers in NRL history, and even managed to turn Api Koroisau—one of the game’s best hookers—into a part-time stand-up comedian who accidentally roasted his own team before even playing a game for them.
Their coaching history is like a cursed game of musical chairs. Every few years, they throw another poor soul into the hot seat and expect different results. Michael Maguire was supposed to bring discipline, but the players treated him like an annoying stepdad and ignored him. Tim Sheens came back for a redemption arc, but it turned into a tragic sequel. Now, they’ve given Benji Marshall the keys, hoping his legendary playing career somehow translates into coaching ability. That’s like hiring a Michelin-starred chef to run a McDonald’s—sure, he’s talented, but what is he supposed to do with this garbage?
And let’s talk about their on-field leadership. James Tamou once had to apologize for calling them “embarrassing,” which is ironic because his biggest contribution to the team was confirming what everyone already knew. Luke Brooks, their “franchise halfback” for a decade, had more coaches than he did good games. Watching him try to lead the team was like watching a goldfish try to read a playbook. Naturally, he left and immediately looked better at Manly, proving that the real problem was never him—it was the Tigers themselves.
Even their home ground situation is a mess. They split their games between Leichhardt Oval, which is one good rainstorm away from being condemned, and Campbelltown Stadium, where you could hear a pin drop because half their own fans have given up attending. They also play some games at CommBank, which is great—except it’s in Parramatta, and Tigers fans would rather chew glass than set foot in Eels territory.
And let’s not forget their junior development. The Tigers have produced some of the best talent in the NRL—James Tedesco, Mitchell Moses, Ryan Papenhuyzen, Josh Addo-Carr—only to watch them all leave and win premierships elsewhere. The Tigers aren’t an NRL club; they’re an unpaid internship for future champions. They do all the hard work developing players, then let them go so they can succeed somewhere that isn’t a raging dumpster fire.
Now they’ve thrown a boatload of cash at Jarome Luai, hoping he’ll turn things around. But let’s be real—he’s probably already looking at escape routes. The contract says five years, but if the Tigers keep doing Tigers things, he’ll be gone after two, leaving behind nothing but Instagram posts about how he “loved his time at the club” while packing his bags for somewhere that actually plays finals footy.
At this point, the Tigers are less of a rugby league team and more of a tragic comedy. Every other club has ups and downs, but the Tigers are just stuck in an eternal loop of suffering. Their fans don’t even get angry anymore—they just laugh through the pain, knowing that no matter what happens, the Tigers will find a way to make it worse.
Honestly, if the NRL ever expands again, they should just give the Tigers a fresh rebrand in a new city. Maybe rename them the Perth Pussycats and let them start over because the “Wests Tigers” experiment has been a 20-year social experiment in how much disappointment one fanbase can endure.
- Dec 28, 2015
- 1,617
- 2,336
These have been fun, thanks for sharing them BroAnd in dedication to
West Tigers
View attachment 31486
The Wests Tigers aren’t just bad—they’re a scientific anomaly. You’d think that after years of mediocrity, they’d eventually stumble into success by accident, but no. They have defied the laws of probability to remain consistently terrible for over a decade. It’s almost impressive.
Their recruitment strategy is like watching someone try to build a house using Play-Doh and duct tape. They either sign players no one else wants or throw bags of cash at big names, only to ruin them. They turned Moses Mbye into an $800K-a-year paperweight, made Josh Reynolds one of the highest-paid benchwarmers in NRL history, and even managed to turn Api Koroisau—one of the game’s best hookers—into a part-time stand-up comedian who accidentally roasted his own team before even playing a game for them.
Their coaching history is like a cursed game of musical chairs. Every few years, they throw another poor soul into the hot seat and expect different results. Michael Maguire was supposed to bring discipline, but the players treated him like an annoying stepdad and ignored him. Tim Sheens came back for a redemption arc, but it turned into a tragic sequel. Now, they’ve given Benji Marshall the keys, hoping his legendary playing career somehow translates into coaching ability. That’s like hiring a Michelin-starred chef to run a McDonald’s—sure, he’s talented, but what is he supposed to do with this garbage?
And let’s talk about their on-field leadership. James Tamou once had to apologize for calling them “embarrassing,” which is ironic because his biggest contribution to the team was confirming what everyone already knew. Luke Brooks, their “franchise halfback” for a decade, had more coaches than he did good games. Watching him try to lead the team was like watching a goldfish try to read a playbook. Naturally, he left and immediately looked better at Manly, proving that the real problem was never him—it was the Tigers themselves.
Even their home ground situation is a mess. They split their games between Leichhardt Oval, which is one good rainstorm away from being condemned, and Campbelltown Stadium, where you could hear a pin drop because half their own fans have given up attending. They also play some games at CommBank, which is great—except it’s in Parramatta, and Tigers fans would rather chew glass than set foot in Eels territory.
And let’s not forget their junior development. The Tigers have produced some of the best talent in the NRL—James Tedesco, Mitchell Moses, Ryan Papenhuyzen, Josh Addo-Carr—only to watch them all leave and win premierships elsewhere. The Tigers aren’t an NRL club; they’re an unpaid internship for future champions. They do all the hard work developing players, then let them go so they can succeed somewhere that isn’t a raging dumpster fire.
Now they’ve thrown a boatload of cash at Jarome Luai, hoping he’ll turn things around. But let’s be real—he’s probably already looking at escape routes. The contract says five years, but if the Tigers keep doing Tigers things, he’ll be gone after two, leaving behind nothing but Instagram posts about how he “loved his time at the club” while packing his bags for somewhere that actually plays finals footy.
At this point, the Tigers are less of a rugby league team and more of a tragic comedy. Every other club has ups and downs, but the Tigers are just stuck in an eternal loop of suffering. Their fans don’t even get angry anymore—they just laugh through the pain, knowing that no matter what happens, the Tigers will find a way to make it worse.
Honestly, if the NRL ever expands again, they should just give the Tigers a fresh rebrand in a new city. Maybe rename them the Perth Pussycats and let them start over because the “Wests Tigers” experiment has been a 20-year social experiment in how much disappointment one fanbase can endure.
KateBroncos1812
NRL Player
- Jul 28, 2023
- 1,602
- 2,312
So True and thanksAnd in dedication to
West Tigers
View attachment 31486
The Wests Tigers aren’t just bad—they’re a scientific anomaly. You’d think that after years of mediocrity, they’d eventually stumble into success by accident, but no. They have defied the laws of probability to remain consistently terrible for over a decade. It’s almost impressive.
Their recruitment strategy is like watching someone try to build a house using Play-Doh and duct tape. They either sign players no one else wants or throw bags of cash at big names, only to ruin them. They turned Moses Mbye into an $800K-a-year paperweight, made Josh Reynolds one of the highest-paid benchwarmers in NRL history, and even managed to turn Api Koroisau—one of the game’s best hookers—into a part-time stand-up comedian who accidentally roasted his own team before even playing a game for them.
Their coaching history is like a cursed game of musical chairs. Every few years, they throw another poor soul into the hot seat and expect different results. Michael Maguire was supposed to bring discipline, but the players treated him like an annoying stepdad and ignored him. Tim Sheens came back for a redemption arc, but it turned into a tragic sequel. Now, they’ve given Benji Marshall the keys, hoping his legendary playing career somehow translates into coaching ability. That’s like hiring a Michelin-starred chef to run a McDonald’s—sure, he’s talented, but what is he supposed to do with this garbage?
And let’s talk about their on-field leadership. James Tamou once had to apologize for calling them “embarrassing,” which is ironic because his biggest contribution to the team was confirming what everyone already knew. Luke Brooks, their “franchise halfback” for a decade, had more coaches than he did good games. Watching him try to lead the team was like watching a goldfish try to read a playbook. Naturally, he left and immediately looked better at Manly, proving that the real problem was never him—it was the Tigers themselves.
Even their home ground situation is a mess. They split their games between Leichhardt Oval, which is one good rainstorm away from being condemned, and Campbelltown Stadium, where you could hear a pin drop because half their own fans have given up attending. They also play some games at CommBank, which is great—except it’s in Parramatta, and Tigers fans would rather chew glass than set foot in Eels territory.
And let’s not forget their junior development. The Tigers have produced some of the best talent in the NRL—James Tedesco, Mitchell Moses, Ryan Papenhuyzen, Josh Addo-Carr—only to watch them all leave and win premierships elsewhere. The Tigers aren’t an NRL club; they’re an unpaid internship for future champions. They do all the hard work developing players, then let them go so they can succeed somewhere that isn’t a raging dumpster fire.
Now they’ve thrown a boatload of cash at Jarome Luai, hoping he’ll turn things around. But let’s be real—he’s probably already looking at escape routes. The contract says five years, but if the Tigers keep doing Tigers things, he’ll be gone after two, leaving behind nothing but Instagram posts about how he “loved his time at the club” while packing his bags for somewhere that actually plays finals footy.
At this point, the Tigers are less of a rugby league team and more of a tragic comedy. Every other club has ups and downs, but the Tigers are just stuck in an eternal loop of suffering. Their fans don’t even get angry anymore—they just laugh through the pain, knowing that no matter what happens, the Tigers will find a way to make it worse.
Honestly, if the NRL ever expands again, they should just give the Tigers a fresh rebrand in a new city. Maybe rename them the Perth Pussycats and let them start over because the “Wests Tigers” experiment has been a 20-year social experiment in how much disappointment one fanbase can endure.
Santa don't you mean Jack he is the Tigers supporter I don't think Rosie wants to change teams
