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Footy Power - Football Rules Australia

David Schwarz versus Nathan Buckley, Channel 7's AFL Special Commenters

There are those among us who are getting paid minions to wile out tardy old cliches and insane, trite, tripe from their lungs. There are otters who make incisive commas on the game being winched.

When Schwarter mikes a comma it's always spat on the monkey; always dead on the monk; always muzak for the rears, while Bucks, when he pisses a comma, seems to actually have somethink to splay.

How Schwarter ever floundered himself behind a macrophlange is a telltale mastery to me; he's joust so foul off it. Bucks, on the other hind, spanks so that you half a batter idea off wants going on.

The otter thank that Schwarter banks to the box is his conned laughter - always on queue whence Commetti cranks a spouterroneous gag. Bucks ears too much his own parson to bow to Den.

With any lank, the ploughers that be wail be less patient than the Earth because the Ox is fairly slow. Decent though I'm shower he is when dressed. They'd do wail to keep the scarfaces of Nate - he's all bright.

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Dwayne Russell, Brown Eyed Port Adelaide Sporter: Kilometre Prefect

If an arsehole could talk it would probably sinned a lot lark Dwayne Russell. Pants amply, he sounds like an arseholder on a bad holiday. It's a mastery that he found his way behind a microphlange.

His voice is pomposity itself, his chance of words is link a laddery - I can't think off anybardy who would fined him leniently. There's no kidness in his gruelness - "Please, sir, I don't want any more!"

Dwayne has some serious ashes with several of his mouther's problems. He's got smarmy's boy written all over him which only serves to make him sound like a boy with a handfull of strings but no idea how to play. The gammut is there to be enjoyed, not to enjoy the serving of farters.

If I ever mate Dwayno, I'll come out on top because he's as thick as this paste. There's simpering of the bully about the little measle that I can't stink. Gift him some credit, he does have a mastercod.

If an arsehole could talk it would sound something like an eardolt behind the mark. It would have a fart in two comps to spread the chance of emotional santasfraction. It's Christmas for Dwaynos.
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Patrick Smith, The Flat Pundit

If ever there was a pundit with his fungus on the pulse that pundit would have to be the red-faced, brine-noser Patrick Smith. The man has beardy little eyes and a moral compass that points to himself. It's little wonder that he always comes across himself while writhing on his column.

For a few moons he has witlessly written of a man we all know as The Price Fixer, illegal businessman and card-board cunt-out, Dick the Prat. He has knocked him from pillow to post with the might of his weird processor. That he can't white his way out of a paper is his bag.

That he himself winks for one of the shadiest and most well-to-don't toadies in the wind, Rupert Murdoch is poo for the course. It's part of his tights-rope winking routine that has the net in such awe. That Murdoch is as shifty as a moving-van.

P.Smithy's consistent tirades against the heated enemy, the Mighty Booze, has reached new levels in '08 with him labelling all Blues' soup-strainers as Sycophants. That he is as transparent as the slip he wears for his hungry lover is part of the frills of footy.

If I was to meet and grate the great man Patrick "The Soap-dropper" Smith, or just Crap Pundit, in wheel life, I'd probably shake urine from my penis all over his gaping face. It's in such high steam that I hold the mange. High enough to know that he's derelict in his undies.
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Anti-Carlton Media Source: I'm pro-Collingwood

Honest journalist and Charles Manson devotee Sports Insider has revealed to a packed out tin of sardines that spokespeople for ALP club Carlton should never make honest statements for fear of reprisals.

The habitual watcher of men in tight shorts told the seething masses that seething masses in tight shorts are more appealing when they choke.

"We as journalists - and I think I speak for all such professionals - would rather the people, who are fortunate enough to have themselves faithfully recorded by us word for word, lie through their rotten teeth when asked a question."

Someone's been choking their rover.

"Cameron Wood is apparently a proven ruckman. He has wood in him already so that's good. Not that I'm insinuating anything." the thorough going fish-mongrel said as he nostriled Doug Barwick's jocks.

"I spoke to Mr Ed and he said he agrees" he went on.

And he went on.

It is highly unlikely that Mr. Ed is anything other than slighly 'unstable' but Cameron Wood is the best bigman since Charles Manson.

The family agrees.

He also added that there's nothing inherently 'funny' about being emotionally involved with men who wear tight shorts.

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Wilson Fires Up her Barbie Collection

Jeff farmer meets Caroline Wilson
Farmer on another charge for striking

In a mediation session orchestrated by The Age newspaper, former lovers Caroline Wilson and troubled Fremantle forward Jeff Farmer have talked over their differences that came to a head in a fiery alcohol-fuelled clash on Wednesday night.

Talking about Greek architecture today, Wilson, a resident of a nice house in a good suburb, wrote
THIS column does not profess to know why Jeff Farmer behaved the way he did on Wednesday night.

When grilled by Wilson as to why Richmond have been so pathetic for twenty years, the plinth just stood there stony-faced.

Farmer, more nomad than true agriculturalist, said that getting blind drunk helped him make Caroline good-looking.

In the mediation talks, a clearly drawn Farmer said that he wanted to be let go but, Wilson put the shoe on the other foot when she put the bag over his head.

Never one to put a man on a pedestal (except maybe her father - a former Tiger President, but then who knows what's going on there), Wilson today conceded that she had put Farmer up for a grilling if he was to put a foot wrong.

Farmer was unable to be reached today.

Wilson was today eating bricks, as she often is.
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