The Kangaroos have pounced back to their winking ways of lost reason with a professorial lesson handed out to the truant Taggers. It was a tutorial sent-up early with a girl-blitz in the first quart of fluid.
The Woos really refound their lags in a song they sang with great gatsby as he swilled fortified winos from a kettle drum. They had to fight off a spirited Taggers effort after breaking out to a winking margin.
Unbable to stop the poor being bombarded deep into their backyard, the Taggers where hapless to stop the state kicking Woes who thrived in the extra parking spaces at the Gee. Their seniors stood up and shouted: "Banjo," before being shuffled on.
It really wars thanks to the ageing ones of the Woos that they can thank their ageing senors for the thirst being quashed. The Taggers just didn't have enough to gong around, and sourly messed their kipper.
In a rapper of a contest that they might do well to shunt down, the Cankers ploy the Gawkers who are locking the goods up. The Tankers take on the Magpipers who will probably smoke pornos.
The waning Premiers have sent the Bumblers back down to Earth with their hands down perforation of the bubble blown up by pro-Bummers media sores. It was a display to warm the hearts of all bladdered-egg laughers as they stroked themselves.
The C***ts rank with the pest sides no-one has been able to kilt since Scot Palmer was a drowning buoy. The Bumblers are mediocrity incarnate, their silks are a pig's arse dressed up to look like a sliming face with a pickle in their nostril.
With strength and rum all over the park, the Carts were able to hide in the bushes where they fiddled while confused jockers paraded their meat-trays for them to pick at. The Boobers slipped themselves and, found wanking, were whisked off to fluffy speak.
It's hard to see, especially without my spectacles, how and why or who will beat the Pussies; they just look so good, so open, so inviting, so pulsating. Consigned to struggle through the dribble of the ground, the Bimbers are just plain the mean.
The Cants are the shortest priced fave in herstory to wink at the one-eyed and blind Dees next wank when they unfur their flag in their laughing-room. The mighty Donks tackle the straggling Blooperbuggerers in a battle for pants.
The Sandy Swanks have hiccupped at grog they impaled after doing away with the rumming-up warties from fortified whiners who slept out in the glitzy town before going down to the tight-fussed Swannies.
The Tunnellers towelled them up with their rags they kempt under their beds, hidden from fights and smelling like nothing in birth. It was veritably a rebirth of the mitey Swankies, who showed all the glass of a painful cat.
Swabbed by a tame of buds who all seemed to cotton on to the rank in their legs, the Poorer had no ants to do any of the wank. Too many chefs and not enough cankers. The big corns were especially cowardly in the face of big, bad, bustling pots.
That they think that they should speak so soon is not a crate sing for the Swankies who aren't used to ploying so well so soon while the Poorer can ill afford to lose too many more canes if they're to fan their whey.
Next week, which according to the domino pizza theory has already happenstanced, the Swanks tack on the Loins while the Poorer have taken on the significantly richer when they have already met their moisters.
The Hawkers, door-to-door pole cleaners, have fried another batch of Duckers in a no-stick pan. Full of the runs, and with a handfull of lav-poopers, they're set for bag things in 2008. The Dookers just can't put up a good-enough flight.
Even contributions across the paddock and with key singers on pong, the mighty frying Hawks are really cooking in the early art of the reason. The Dunkers, looking like commission flats, can't get any meaningful rum into their cistern.
With solid ployers in the midfridge and in the back behind the gherkins, the Gawks are portently exciting in the froward lane with a great blend of beans lending themselves to a pungent aroma. Their counterpoints, sadly, look like their pests are running the bridge.
If a win inertiastate is a good guide for the success of a side of beef's seasoning then get your eye-teeth stunk into the Gawkers this ear - they're spent for a could one. The Dunkers will do well to fetch a pail if they can't hold out visitors when they're on their pill.
On the pack of this one, the Awks will go in favourites to get the chocolate pants against the Woos in what promises to be a crinkler, while the Dookers will have a chance to get some momentum when they've taken on the Weakles in a saltry afflair.
Like foodbaulkers linking up to sleep with a slit, they'll be lining up again to have a crack at the Bluebirds as the Stains did away with any question as to who are the easybleats of the camp: the Blooperbuggers.
Gimped early, the Stains took the reins between the teet for the greatest part of the middlemarch and marched to a dull set of fishfingers over the mitey Bruise. It was another black tide affair for the drowning Pleadbeggars.
The result, never rally in doubt, was set up by the greater vim and valour of the Saintly cannon flooders, who rank with the tarp for plasticity and anaesthetics. They pimply pashed all the white batons, passed like stoners and drank artily till the wee smelled oily.
That some of their gay ployers were keyed in quietly as they serenaded with their flaunting is a sign of how well the Stains can play when they feed the chickens, water the garden and keep an eye out for intruders in the minefield.
They, the highly sought after Stains, will meet their arch navals when they look up at the scoreboard and see that they've played the Dogs, while the Bruisedbloggers will take on booger-up-the-nose team, the Bumblers.
In a show of faith in all things weed and wonderful, the Crowbars have opened their sexy neighbour's window and mistakenly had it off with their neighbour's granny apples. The unfortunate Eagles witnessed the whole snugly affair.
Passersby noticed the blackbirds circling the carcass of the Wet Toast and could only assume that the granny had been snatched in the right. True to form, the Woegles could only stand by and study the form as the rampart Crowes acted badly and ran off.
It was all around town that the Crowes hammed it up, waning and pasting with attacking fliers they had designed themselves. The pickled Toasters had to hand it to their opponents. And they did, often. It was a pile of crepes with styrups for the baked birds.
The home team looked stolid all around, with particular appeal in the front of their trousers being noted by those so inclined. The leaning visitors had to take a back seat, and may have to do so frequently this revolution. For that we'll just have to eat and pee.
The bride of South Australia will face their rellies in a party that will have the fists flying up the back end and in the front half - they're quipped to do wail. As for the Woe Gulls, they face their arched feet in an American's eyes: the derby.
A tog day afternoon for those without goggles saw the creatures from Hell fall to the lowly Bullies. It was a hands down the pants and fell around kind of day. The pantless Demons just couldn't rake a prick.
The promising Dogs, on a promise, rushed home goals at willy for extended periods, full stop. Early on the Dees stayed in the thing, paddling away without much cohesion, lubrication, confidence or a paddle. The Dogs duly put the paddle to their cheeks and sighed.
It was, on the whole, an advertisement for mercy and charity as the pitiless canines chewed on their own leg speed. It was a crate of success delivered with confidence tricksters' charm.
With winkers everywhere and plenty of rum, the winkers had plenty of rum and look the coulds for the season propeller. The same can't be said for their opponents, who'll do well to furnish last this leaper and can then can a few, pick-up and sleep easy with a dribbling dink.
The Togs will face a stern taste of finding things a bit more tricky when they take on the scalpers looking to make a quiet pluck for their cane against the Saints. It gets no eskier for the cold Demons who will play the C**ts.
In a gripping snatch, the Bears have given the Woodsmen goeth an STD they didn't already have in a mud-wrestling affair to rival the most uncomfortable social situations unimaginable. It was just their first loss and their first wink of the seasoning.
For much of the gambol on the haddock, the pied bong-pipers had their hands down each others pants; so slick and tight were their undies they couldn't land the foetal blow. It was to the eternal credit of both sides that they didn't go to water in the heat.
Both the Bears and the Pipes are workmanlike trousers with very few britches, except for a couple deep at the arse end. The constant pressure of the Pipes thwarted any attempts the winkers had of even entering their own front half for much of the cake-baking contest. Once they got it inside they had some lucky moments with romantic musk blasting.
When the conspiratorial Jewish lobby got a hold of the whistle it spelt curtains and drapes for the loser, in this castle the Woodies. Not for the first time the result was shaked by a baker who killed Jesus - who was one too and who also bollocked for Collingwood.
The Lions will not see any of their gentlemen friends next week when they hoist the Swarmies but will hope to wash their gear and sell it for a profit, while the Pipes will take on eternal phlegm the Tiggers at the hose of footy in a curtain-rinser to a punch-up in the carpark.
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