Good(es) Sportsmanship, and Irony

I don't follow AFL.  If I was going to follow a football code it would BE AFL because the blokes have nice bodies.  That is immensely shallow of me, I know, but for eye-candy, and because I'm a biceps girl, I like the look of AFL players.  Should there be booing at the AFL?  I don't know if I'm really qualified to say because as mentioned, I don't follow the game.  I've always believed it a sign of bad sportsmanship  and mad manners, both traits that offend me.  But dyed-in-the-wool fans say it's part of the atmosphere.  Okay, I'll accept that.  All I seem to hear about is Adam Goodes complaining that he's being booed, and saying it is an symptom of racism.  It would appear there are many indigenous players who DON'T get booed, so is racism a problem in the sport?  If people are booing, is it because he's indigenous, or because people just downright don't bloody like him?  All the comments I'm reading say he's being booed because he's acting like a flog.  Of course we have a ratbag element in Australia, but I believe the majority of us aren't really racists at all.  If people don't like me, it's not because I'm a woman.  It's because I'm an obnoxious smart-arse.  My gender has nothing to do with it.

Today on the radio I heard 'Ironic' by Alanis Morrisset.  The lyrics say something about it being a traffic jam, when you're already late.  Being stuck in a traffic jam when you're already late is not ironic.  It is aggravating.  It is stressful.  It is off-pissing.  But ironic, no.  Woman, get a dictionary.

Eleven years ago today a midwife handed me a slippery little scrap, and his father cried out in delight, 'Another little mate!'  Over the past eleven years he has brought us amusement with his antics, and fear when he started to suffer the seizures that were a manifestation of the epilepsy with which he was diagnosed a few years ago.  I recall being in that delivery room, being buttoned into a gown, and a midwife saying, 'Darling, I'm going to get your  lovely hair caught in these buttons!'  'That's the least of my problems,' I groaned in response, my body in the thrall of third-stage contractions.  The other attending midwife asked, 'What is your body saying, Simone?'  My response was, 'Get this fucking thing out of me!'  I do not apologise for any delivery-room profanity; labour hurts and it is pretty much impossible to shock a midwife.  But this labour was relatively quick and easy, and I soon found myself cradling a slippery, warm, 8lb babe in my arms.  I looked at him in silence, and he just looked around with a laid-back expression on his face.  He's grown up into a very theatrical sort, who loves music, can draw, and sometimes writes stories.  He's my kid.  Happy birthday.