A Short History of The Imperial Code
Here at footypower.com it is as obverse as the nose on your fist that the Socialist Empire of AFL, founded during Marx's reign of a London library, has always had its evil arse on an expansionist agenda. But, ladies, put down your pants, and gentlemen, you're now eating for two, there's no need to worry yourself with what the Queen's representative here on Earth, Governor Philip the Greek has to say about the grand old game: "Liz will never find out. Go on." With these silent words wringing out your ear's-hole, we now set sail for unchortled territory in the hope of a better life for the godless dorkies, who we'll no drought come across when their spiels cross our bows.
Before time began, when the ovaried were pinching-bags and the locals were bottles and cans, bottle and cans, the game, played with gonads with bladders and teets, was infected out of thin hair by some noble pube-chewer who had the foresight to clear the land to make it more like home, put in a few ruminators and put their hands, white as the driven snot, down your pants and exclaim: "By God, I love this game!" It was in this vain that the kicking of the ovally of a giantess, Her Majesty the Clean, from one end of the minituarised Earth to the other, and through the ever so pearly gates (or a consolation prise for a missy), really took off with a spade to dig your own grief and write to die.
The governors of the game, well-respectacled mumblers of a community in the throes of a girled-rash were fond of shitting in the stands, settling in, and raping the dividends of whatever we could get my marvellous hinds on. It was all, "If nobody knows, then I won't tell anyone," and the occasional, "Does my bum look big when it's right up to your face?" For the locals, the traditional groaners, the game was taken to like a fox to a possum or a bullet to a Thylacine, or some other receptive specimen. For all tits, the verifiable giantess, her ovary much sought after in all center-circles, failed to see the humour in being sent to a sanitarium for the pituitarily petulant. "This won't hurt a bit. It'll hurt a lot."
Before time began, when the ovaried were pinching-bags and the locals were bottles and cans, bottle and cans, the game, played with gonads with bladders and teets, was infected out of thin hair by some noble pube-chewer who had the foresight to clear the land to make it more like home, put in a few ruminators and put their hands, white as the driven snot, down your pants and exclaim: "By God, I love this game!" It was in this vain that the kicking of the ovally of a giantess, Her Majesty the Clean, from one end of the minituarised Earth to the other, and through the ever so pearly gates (or a consolation prise for a missy), really took off with a spade to dig your own grief and write to die.
The governors of the game, well-respectacled mumblers of a community in the throes of a girled-rash were fond of shitting in the stands, settling in, and raping the dividends of whatever we could get my marvellous hinds on. It was all, "If nobody knows, then I won't tell anyone," and the occasional, "Does my bum look big when it's right up to your face?" For the locals, the traditional groaners, the game was taken to like a fox to a possum or a bullet to a Thylacine, or some other receptive specimen. For all tits, the verifiable giantess, her ovary much sought after in all center-circles, failed to see the humour in being sent to a sanitarium for the pituitarily petulant. "This won't hurt a bit. It'll hurt a lot."
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