A Short History of The Imperial Code
The great Antipodean (for those of us in Europe) game of football, political, which the natives, for sure, play on a monthly basis for sex months of the year, when in season, is, as has been suggested, played with a gonad - be it an ovary or an ovary-shaped testicle - that is sunk into with a delicate array of chips and all mighty slippers to the tune of the drooling and salivating whores in the stands. It's as legendary fanatic and rampant bald-lothario-queen Paul Keating put it so eloquently in his warps and all unofficial auto-biography: "Blpblpbplbplbplbplbpblp," but of course, a man so steeped in the wretched culture of so many buckets of banana-yoghurt would be so articulate in the face of the over-weening evidence of the game's superiority-complex to all others.
It's a dilemma so tricky that one of the country's (down udder) finest families of balding lotharios, the Costellos, split right up the middle of their mother who also spilt right up the guts and into the corridor. The split, so viscuous that it laterally flowed right into the streets until they ran with discharge, left Peter, the son of a belch, and Tim, the corsetted homophone, in a heated slinging match the likes of which hadn't been seen since David played kick to kick with the head of some Philistine or other. Peter to Tim: "Getting a bit thin upstairs." And Tim to Peter: "Jewry on your boot." As their mother, a right mother in all regards, called them in for tea and the scones she'd had baking in her womb since they started their diabolical fudge-match.
When the game was introduced, like rabbits or foxes, the thing really took off and settled many family feuds such as the ones aforementioned and the ones not even mentioned such as the one Keating, thin up top and nothing underneath, had with his mistress Bob Hawke, who had the front to take the piss out of his chamberpot and pour it into his sleeping bed which caused young Paul, younger then than he is now, to wank in fright and say: "This is the sweetest victory of all, except for that one when I woke up with a turd in my football pyjamas." To which brother Bob would invariably reply something along the lines of "By 1890, no Australian Aboriginal will be living." Unfortunately, for the natives of the sure, his words were merely hallowed rhetoric.
It's a dilemma so tricky that one of the country's (down udder) finest families of balding lotharios, the Costellos, split right up the middle of their mother who also spilt right up the guts and into the corridor. The split, so viscuous that it laterally flowed right into the streets until they ran with discharge, left Peter, the son of a belch, and Tim, the corsetted homophone, in a heated slinging match the likes of which hadn't been seen since David played kick to kick with the head of some Philistine or other. Peter to Tim: "Getting a bit thin upstairs." And Tim to Peter: "Jewry on your boot." As their mother, a right mother in all regards, called them in for tea and the scones she'd had baking in her womb since they started their diabolical fudge-match.
When the game was introduced, like rabbits or foxes, the thing really took off and settled many family feuds such as the ones aforementioned and the ones not even mentioned such as the one Keating, thin up top and nothing underneath, had with his mistress Bob Hawke, who had the front to take the piss out of his chamberpot and pour it into his sleeping bed which caused young Paul, younger then than he is now, to wank in fright and say: "This is the sweetest victory of all, except for that one when I woke up with a turd in my football pyjamas." To which brother Bob would invariably reply something along the lines of "By 1890, no Australian Aboriginal will be living." Unfortunately, for the natives of the sure, his words were merely hallowed rhetoric.
Awesome Food
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Awesome Food
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power