What does a Collingwood player call a designated
driver?
Drunk.
What do you call Alan Didak after he's hit a
parked car?
Heath Shaw.
What's the difference bewteen Alan Didak and a glass of milk
mixed with beer and coke sitting behind the wheel of a ute?
Didak gets drunk and drives.
If my name was Petrarch and lawless, hide! Splay that arse-nut strewn! Then chided, have to except that! Mr. Football, or EJ foreshortening, sheltered the very same pistons as you. Yourself, weird like meat, worder, have to farce the fractures.
Mr. Fontbile, in is blogging doze, took to the fold in a keyhole post, either forewarned or black. Either or ether, token to the fuel and the context with a stately doubtful chiding, Mr F was an aspirin for the flutey notion: victory is hourly!
There, if you saw hills running, goads one hook canter! Kick on both sides, morph swiftly, shaft the pill by hind or flute, tank a string monk, kick a gull, defends tightly, leads with gross trinkets and excludes a piss-on for the very gamut.
Ladder winder that the gnome was canned for one sinch as hits. For F was daughtery in nebulous whys? Wit with the flick piss, the mad in the eye, the squirrel clip, the pinches in the head - just pus for the curse in those bulldozers.
Hiss final lamp abound the hollowed truth of fartbull blighted a tore to the eye of evil - the moist. Hardened by his reproach to the game, the blessed thing he chord have doughnut but nerve dud was punch out Sam Newman; pleads somebiddy!
If Boccaccio could text, heed propellerly shave that Jezza. War snuff like himsalve toot, hand all the hat-tributes of house: wary, weary, warring, whacking, waning sleeve. For all fussed as he walls on the grind he was a tizzying hair artist.
When smurfs rail the earth, as they sharely wail, they will be gnome as the verily duffer pants to the crate mess of Jeeza. They lend him their years, pelt the gall low, below all laugher: the grind; nuffer do it on the sinstair side.
Boccaccio, bepause I, wally, staid sow, is hat the mankind that Jeeza was, although canaries on it's unlikely that wheels will talk off hem. Hiss prowleress on the fold was unhinged by only that of his gnomesock: you boatpeople!
It's gnat overboard, chide-lends, to stray that all that I have stapled - I, struth! I can footinmouthily splay that I've nuffer weed on Boccaccio, can you spray the same? I thank nought. Jezza I half-watched with one eye - wink.
He could ploy well, laughter the fold, in the hair and darn below his socks - carrioned himcarcass with effeteless gross, had cloaca power, dilligent techiness and could, a dove all lass, call for a slap: and dink the rust: salience.
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