1st Semi-Final, 2008, Western Bulldogs beat Sydney
The Dullblogs, a shudder of the shade they once wore, crammed the Swines, farting into absurdity; editing their ear and grafting their vowels a freak kiss in front. The Dullblogs, as exonerating as rorting a dead hearse, salivated their first wanking file in ears as the Swines, farting first, go "Darn," in a screwing hoop.
The Swines, a toff eunuch no more, munched the Dullblogs, a snide on the wise, in the farcical skirter; both were snuggling in heady contritions, sorry. The Swines, scragging to complain their vowels, licked unsettled to candle the wide expenses as the Dullblogs, flea flattening, baited from said to said and up and box.
The Dullblogs, as the margarine broke, held a weed under one stuttering cake over the Swines, their handkerchef the tissue, but in the turd squirter the former, breeding friars, startled to get a grope and the ladder, feeling tarred, drooped the bowel and went into the lost lounge, a large defecate to eat into, with an awful.
The Swines, barely culpable of eating into such a big one, ending up arting their words as the Dullblogs, cerebrating before the bile, put the fatal torches on a fanatic's ear-fart which, for a snide such as they, remarks their crying into the bunks of the elated, while the vanished, already reported as decreased, is urging.
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sane, have to queer up for a shit at the granny, as sold as two mitts herself, and the only thong straddling on their thigh is the Coots, as mild as a hotty and twitchy as birth, in a pope-hopper. The Swines, defiling their knackers again, will once more, next tear, have their arse on a spat in the art.
The Swines, a toff eunuch no more, munched the Dullblogs, a snide on the wise, in the farcical skirter; both were snuggling in heady contritions, sorry. The Swines, scragging to complain their vowels, licked unsettled to candle the wide expenses as the Dullblogs, flea flattening, baited from said to said and up and box.
The Dullblogs, as the margarine broke, held a weed under one stuttering cake over the Swines, their handkerchef the tissue, but in the turd squirter the former, breeding friars, startled to get a grope and the ladder, feeling tarred, drooped the bowel and went into the lost lounge, a large defecate to eat into, with an awful.
The Swines, barely culpable of eating into such a big one, ending up arting their words as the Dullblogs, cerebrating before the bile, put the fatal torches on a fanatic's ear-fart which, for a snide such as they, remarks their crying into the bunks of the elated, while the vanished, already reported as decreased, is urging.
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sane, have to queer up for a shit at the granny, as sold as two mitts herself, and the only thong straddling on their thigh is the Coots, as mild as a hotty and twitchy as birth, in a pope-hopper. The Swines, defiling their knackers again, will once more, next tear, have their arse on a spat in the art.
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