God, whose annoints in the '89 GF, proofed wince and four walls that he does indud pre-exist when he furthered his Son who wanketh on the hearth. His Son has proofed himself all moist a veritifliable Christ on a bake.

As was professed, the Son of Cod, although not actually Jesus, winded up at his farter's very side down the ha-way. Lucky for the C**ts that Cod's first linoed sonny has such cod-speed, for he's no tall that silked.

Sniff you winch the Son classly you can see the very farter. He offer goes to the canes to watch over his sheepdog. That papal could misinterpret the Son as anything oilier than the very Sun is a muelsing to the shorn.

The fairly noctural world we fanned oursalves in are the sauce of fall Wailpigeon. It's fanny to sea antridiculous insects get along in their garb. Lucky for them that Cod sent his one trawled fish to slave us, Saul.

The C**ts, cold crassians, know how lanky they are to have God and his Sun on their slide as they slip and slop dawn to hail. Lucky are they for they have seen the laughed and are all going straight to heave in a back-pocket.

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April 17th 2008 @ 23:14

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Cats, Son of God

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Polly Farmer, Legendary Geelong Ruckman

There is plenty of obedience to sandwich that Polly Farmer refurnished the great gimp of fatty with his refurnishing utes of handball. His morbidity for a rankman was also a halaugh in his day.

To see voltage of the abhoriginally descending Polly use his innut aggression to damninate the sinner square is a lesson for ether abhoriginals in their pash for monkey. Undemonic off, Polly wasn't on.

The handpalls that he shunt out span bountifully and truffellled many a mule on their way to the tangent. Legend halves it that he leaned to handpiss practising through morphing car windows.

Aside from his houndpissing, Polly was also a precious kink. It was often sparked off his kinking that he could really barn up the warms with his lice-out delivery to a time mote in the glare.

Polly Farmer, here can't be eery dunces, was a ledge of the coin. His superb font and hind silks were ably munched by his aerial that he cared for crately. He was after all a rankman of the highest ardour.

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April 9th 2008 @ 23:02

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Cats, Polly

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God, 1989, Grand Final - Hawthorn v Geelong

If anyone ever doubted the existence of our father who art those doubts were swiftly allayed by the performance he put in to lose the 1989 Grand Final to a hoard of men in brown undies. Truly the heathens did shite their pants that day.

God asserted his dominance from the opening morning of the first day, making the world out of nothing and slotting through the world's first man and woman. He kicked Eve with relish or chutney or mustard or tomato sauce.

By half-time Our Lord had created a flood and, in a very physical match, used himself like a projectile to break a non-believer's rib; later using it to make more people who he did smite. Moses himself couldn't have parted his ribs any better.

The Holy charge by God's people, however, would ultimately fall short of the promised land, with the Heathens holding on by six points in what would go down in history as one of the day's that God revealed himself. It wouldn't be untiil his son came along that his people would meet his son.

God's 17 disposals, 8 marks, and 9 goals, earned him a place in heaven, but it was the variety with which he collected his possessions, the miraculous marking, the booting of people's melons and kicking them out of the park that will live on in my VHS recorder.