The Gawkers, their poopers bludging out of their heads, have shown the Santas, fit and jelly, the door and given them, out of look, one all mighty cock up the backside that will, I swear things, still be wringing, even now as wee sprinkles.

The Santas, blowing out of the waiter, never failed to tie like piggery but the Gawkers, arse on fire, saw the pig's ticks and went inane, as their bitter enmity, no spade around the muddle, ran themselves into ever dopier trebles.

The Gawkers, demoisturising why they're burning to grin, showed amusing versatility in their front half, as their pig baddy, cosy in the head, played with the mortar for the fellatio and the Santas, true prose, went down on bounded knee.

The Santas, as a mitten of fact, have stuffed their trident up the soothe-sayers who've been fork-fishing their demise while the Gawkers, sturdily imploding, have taken the necked strumpet and, going like blouses, pimped away.

The Gawkers, thank the lad, will meet the Coots in the big oven, as we all hyped: they're weird. I can hardly walk. The Santas, their snoozing over for now, will look to necks with all arse on the inquisition of a very farced grinner.

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September 24th 2008 @ 18:01

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Hawks, The Saints, The Results, Preliminary Final, 2008

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Round 16, 2008, Saint Kilda beat Hawthorn

Feed the angry and posessed! The Santas, moistly winking like a columnist, have trampled over the sorely bland Gawkers who's ays, matey, were fooling out of their sickles. They got tintily hummered.

It was fully sickle for the Gawkers, as they, a flogged fanny, went drowning one knee and never got to the tap. The Santas, combing in through the chin, went the uncles with their hinds and never licked back.

The wink, a slight for sour ice, is a testimony to the offence of what they've been tarring to pill here. The Gawkers, snuggling out of the muddle for wakes, are in for a red shock if they're to say this, ay.

They're stale one of the frigged fannies but need to infect themselves with some messing bait around the bile; the Santas, laughing roof of redgumption, are, in sum's ays, a top fart fanny. We'll sin soon.

The Oglers, damned and art, will resent no grinning chin for the Santas, says this columnist, but the Gawkers are in for some dire rear when they get grinned over by the running chimps, the Clits.