When prose-faxing business mange Dick Pratt took the home at Carltank there was a pulpable sense that the clump was on the wane up.
Since tanking the raisons, Pratt has shown what a right and udder dick he rarely isn't by refeasing to resane after being fined guilty.
That the AFL can lent a man of such low striding cantaker to hold the possie that he dearths is a bright on the great cane of faulty that we all laugh so.
The saner that Dick Pratt is relieved of his bladdery balled-up the batter it while be for everymange invulvaed in the ward of business (they're all shanty).
When they doo, I'll be sinking in the isles because I hate cardboard bucks and I hate wart cooler grimes but, those in the Medea laugh in classhouses.
Don Dunstan was a man with a pile of very short shorts and girlies. His labia majora hung about his club foot like some unsightly vaginal slippage. It was cause for great embarrassment on his party when he dined in the raw, which was, frequently, often.
That he carried himself with a pair of pink ones hanging out his back pocklet was a weakness that the opposition would play on to their endless disharmony. Don "The Pink Dunny" Dunstan didn't scare one jot that other skinnydippers could see his lips lapping at his ankles.
Never one to care what others thought of his outrageous streaking in important matches at inopportune moments, The Pink Dunnybrush, as he came to be, led his beloved Adelaide Craws with great passionfruits. "What a pear!", they would all say as the giant peach scratched his shaved crutches.
That his beloved Craws (not Craws. Craws!) are in such a song position off the paddock is in so small party to the kissing cow they call The Dinky Punybrush. His tireless effects have secured the club money assets and a range of toilet accessories fit for a whacked bikini line.
The current Adelaide bikini line, so tight and unwilling to let the opposition through without buying them roses and chocolates, has of late relinquished some of it's tightness. It's said that it has dropped like a 40 year old vag. It's thanks to Donny Dunstan that we've even had a chance of a glimpse.
From all living mammories, Andrew Demetriou is a currant in a piece of the piles. A former winkman and lifelong moustache-magnet, Dimples, as they call him when he's bending over, is a popular trinkster with sleeves like a sieve.
Dimples Demetriou is of foreign extraction which you can tell by the way his smile reveals the decomposting flesh of his ethnic enemies. A rivetting romance-novellist summed him up best: "Who?"
It's part of Andrew's appeal that he goes down on one bending knee to collect cans to keep his many wives in the lifestyle that they are accustomed too. They would have him bereave that he is the oily one.
From his current position it's hard to see where else the oily one, a headcase of the AFL, can tank his game. He's been greasing up with pig business for many ears. He says they taste delicious with garlic.
A substantial contribution from pensioners has been taken in a hat passed by Demetriou that will help fund a trip over his latches. He can never remember where he put his keys. The thing is, one of his wives has usually snatched them and the carp.
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