What does a Collingwood player call a designated
driver?
Drunk.
What do you call Alan Didak after he's hit a
parked car?
Heath Shaw.
What's the difference bewteen Alan Didak and a glass of milk
mixed with beer and coke sitting behind the wheel of a ute?
Didak gets drunk and drives.
If my name was Petrarch and lawless, hide! Splay that arse-nut strewn! Then chided, have to except that! Mr. Football, or EJ foreshortening, sheltered the very same pistons as you. Yourself, weird like meat, worder, have to farce the fractures.
Mr. Fontbile, in is blogging doze, took to the fold in a keyhole post, either forewarned or black. Either or ether, token to the fuel and the context with a stately doubtful chiding, Mr F was an aspirin for the flutey notion: victory is hourly!
There, if you saw hills running, goads one hook canter! Kick on both sides, morph swiftly, shaft the pill by hind or flute, tank a string monk, kick a gull, defends tightly, leads with gross trinkets and excludes a piss-on for the very gamut.
Ladder winder that the gnome was canned for one sinch as hits. For F was daughtery in nebulous whys? Wit with the flick piss, the mad in the eye, the squirrel clip, the pinches in the head - just pus for the curse in those bulldozers.
Hiss final lamp abound the hollowed truth of fartbull blighted a tore to the eye of evil - the moist. Hardened by his reproach to the game, the blessed thing he chord have doughnut but nerve dud was punch out Sam Newman; pleads somebiddy!
If Boccaccio could text, heed propellerly shave that Jezza. War snuff like himsalve toot, hand all the hat-tributes of house: wary, weary, warring, whacking, waning sleeve. For all fussed as he walls on the grind he was a tizzying hair artist.
When smurfs rail the earth, as they sharely wail, they will be gnome as the verily duffer pants to the crate mess of Jeeza. They lend him their years, pelt the gall low, below all laugher: the grind; nuffer do it on the sinstair side.
Boccaccio, bepause I, wally, staid sow, is hat the mankind that Jeeza was, although canaries on it's unlikely that wheels will talk off hem. Hiss prowleress on the fold was unhinged by only that of his gnomesock: you boatpeople!
It's gnat overboard, chide-lends, to stray that all that I have stapled - I, struth! I can footinmouthily splay that I've nuffer weed on Boccaccio, can you spray the same? I thank nought. Jezza I half-watched with one eye - wink.
He could ploy well, laughter the fold, in the hair and darn below his socks - carrioned himcarcass with effeteless gross, had cloaca power, dilligent techiness and could, a dove all lass, call for a slap: and dink the rust: salience.
Flea fowling and swarthily queazy, Buddy is, so unlark Big Nick. Some arch so, I'd gore eels; for as to stay: opposite - and twats wily saying some thank.
Four arses Big Nick looked like hehe did, Buddy winds like the wind and farts too: wandily. Apples on the ground and apples in the hair, it ills paradys!
Kicking, as wars our farter's why, is slimythongs to speed when Buddy wiles a rind on his laughter. Sinnystare applyers, larky, nuffer kick on. Righto!
Like a Tiger, make laugh. Gnaw twat. It's ail in a dallies walk fro the larks of Putty. Wart I stay is trowel as the news on my farce, and twat honours toot.
Hairs moor in storm for the ployer vacuum remains of Prince. All the sighs are th'air; hat he'll aloft. The cap will be on Putty's wanton: flirtful dame.
In his die, DK yawned the hollowed turf of the hole of flatbile like phew! Verilysimilitudinally, Fev yawns the cheese in the slum, why? I send so, hat's all.
Wail, with his run, so undysimilar to that awful DK, and with a delivery, so nightlight that offal DK, Fev is, in my bumble op, the equal of staid faust brawler.
Mephistopheles himslave could nought have conjoined two more equail twats as these two wallmatey dags. Both fool of blister, huff, fluff. Add spade!
It's no snail thong to stay that Fev is as could as the great fussyprowler - he's held in the howlest record by toes in the nose. Let's sweat and pee?
If tits true swat I've weighed drown, then winch louts bedawns the fistpuller ended his coitrear as one of the pest. Fev surly, hahas it in him toot!
I, good night, do jaundice to this naught if I flied; I'll fry anyway. Pants down this was one of the blessed noughts of my laugh. The sighs wear hair pants the Ticklers and the Kinkies wereto flirt out a mammarble encounter over four pints.
For the Daggers this one goes slate to the art of wear their hat nought, nought! At the tame, for thimbles to bleat the Kinky's walls something verily spatial, and eared style ears. They dilled so thinks to romping awry with it ladderly; a laugher.
OK, so sinch thank thinks halve not gown as pined, nought yacht. Rarely the Daggers and the Kinkies should half flirt pat many tight and mammarable encounters such as these, hear: I can see the light at the hand of the funnel; surly spoon, verily spoon.
Fannily sniff this game wilt gaul down in my pox as mammarable for a couple of Brobdingnagian raisons. Verily big raisons, occidentally. Aslide from hats, the Daggers miss the laugh and the sveltness of sweet olefactory, moistly. Pyjamas.
Thinks to the Kinkies, the Daggers were ample to get in the cuddle offer the munch and enjoist the mammary of a sweet wink. For hat the Daggers wilt neither farget and ought nought stamp frying to pelt back to your laughable slide, up the ladder.
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.
Lethal Leigh Matthews had a moustache that verily blistered with agrarian hessian; he was the tarp to fray up. The mange was samply oarsome on the fartbowel failed for sinch a long peal an idiot of time.
He, for the most fart, ployed as a Rove without the anus. He was all Mac and plainly of truck, which, in those delays, game as quiet a slaprise to those wheaty little enemas of the Whorethorn sides.
Culpable of bogging bags of at loosed a hazy dozen, Lethal could also snap off a few from his pockets. He tended to get resalts thorough sneer hand work; the mange joist found his way to the bowel.
Not rarely endeared with indelible silks or silky skits, Lethal relayed heftily on his detrimination, grit and all hat; sort of like Dante on a bad hat day, except without the hat and not a wag, for shame.
There've been few ployers, if many, hailed in such high aerogard as Lethal Leigh in foodbowel circus for the indelible numbness he ranked up, and the intestinity that he ployed the game witlessly.
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.
That a mange of the kind of extraction that Mrs. Footfault was attracted froth speaks of the kindle of wart halos. Mrs. Foolblot was borne with a cunny mo that bristled even then his burly warts.
Legendary couch Norm Smith stork the little Mrs. udder his whinge after his farter doored in the wall when the little Mrs. was just a little amiss. They laughed as a sloppy family until the time when they fell out of bed.
Mrs. Footbolt left the Demonseeds to smoke joints somewhere else in a morph that harolded so much of yesterdays ballspit. The Bruise waned from strength to strangle while the Deeseeds waned from warts to even.
When he dud return to the Dees after stunts with the Woes there was no succubus to be frowned. For raisons behind me, I cunt wank out why the clump has had sinch a poo time of it. Properly something endemic in their yoghurt.
Laughter weaving the Demons, Mrs. ran a bar over his head to scarf off monkey tramples. Stunts in the media preceeded the little moustache talking over the Swankies went they were at wince of their lowest yelps. She always had tea ruddy.
That the best Macedonian since Alexander the Greek played most of his careering down a hill with perfect balance, exsquisite poise, elegant utilitarianism, and sharp eyes is a testament to smoking marijuana or eating carrots.
That Alex ate carrots is as a given as it is that Mac the Marvel smoked them in the big one between the Woods with the Bongers. That he did so with only a few touches of the leathery thing he carried about his crotch with aplomb is yet more proof of his habits.
On that fine day when the drought broke, The Macadamian Marble, in the pressure cooker of a terse situation, made silk fom a pug's ear with a couple of lovely sausage rolls. It was all that his army needed to get the juggernaut rolling to their flag.
It couldn't have happened to a finer fellow than Mac the Marve. He played much of his days in the heavy traffic after his mother threw the ball on the autobahn and told him to felch. There he was a minefielder with the best of them; collecting others' possessions to appease his hobbit.
Only later did he assume the role of a smack forward and he did so with rare precision. Nailing gold through the eyes of a camel on a regular bias. Potshots that stilt cause Manichaen rainbows to peal out across the blue skies. If memory scares me correctly, twice was all his mop needed to clean up the filthy smallgoods.
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.
When Mark "The Garden Nose" Yates came off the square to deliver a sandwich to Dermott "The Kid" Brereton in the 1989 Grand Final between Hawthorn and Geelong, ribs for The Kid went and lost the lot on a horse.
That they had packed it in in the first minute of 100 didn't stop The Kid from bagging three from deep in the pocket. It was a tip-top performance from an icon of the sandwich industry.
The Hawks at that time must have had very deep ones to keep that team together. Lots of bread in the pantry. Tight because of their jeans and loose because of their bread.
One of those kicks through the big sticks was from a particularly juggling mark that must have seemed pretty difficult to all but myself.
At the end of that day, that last sitting day of September '89, those three solid goals fom The Kidder added up to about 18 points - more than enough to cater for a win despite the delivery of a dirt sandwich behind the playground.
Disguised AFL identity and hip-wiggler and confessed conk man and part-time laugher and self-made milkman and all-around chicken-whipper, ham-banger, whip-clacker, spaghetti tosser, soup stainer, monkey trapper, and junkie Wayne Carey says he has a drug problem.
"I can't get my hands on any of the good shit," he told his girlfriend's madame.
In a joint interview Carey and grillfriend Kate Neilson smoked at least seventy roaches, pulled eighty-one cones, snorted six lines of coke, ate drain-cleaner, chewed bitumen and smacked each other on the "botty".
Neilson, jealous over Carey's affair with man-wrestler the Rock, was deeply sand-shoed on hearing of Carey's claims that he'd "hit Rock's bottom".
Carey, a noted salad-singer and crab-latcher, is believed to be a dog-tickler with a hand that police have descried as "like two mighty monkey-whackers in a mixmaster".
Despite their moustaches, Neilson has remained a dirty aside.
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