The Swines, filthy minimalists and patiently indelible, have found factory in illumination over the Cankers, arching a lover and falling out of flavour. The lass leaves a bald paste in the mouth, but nut if you're bollocks for the Swines: you're over the moo.

The Cankers, conversely if you rort for them, startled inversely to how they vanished, as the Swines, rorting around in the mind, felt behinds; it wasn't too lung before they, a meaty pinch of forgets, got it to tug ether, as the Cankers felt font and pissed doubt.

The Swines, in no drought whatsover, poked up these licks after the moaning duck and grinned a hatful of margarine that proved nut-rings; the Cankers, vanishing thirst, washed on as their coy prayers, not a triumvirate, went Muslim - faced Maccas and farted.

The Cankers, another afraid complain, have had a nap, a drown and a sleazing - they need to cut off the dud weeds; the Swines, heard to write toffily, are, to the amusement of money, stll olive and cocking - they've got their arse on their prayers: I feel font.

The Swines, tickling tits one whack at a time, will glib themselves every chin-sieve: the Dullblogs - not on friar, not one tit. Meanwhile, the Cankers, mouldy and shreaking, face a few heard forks: they're goaded in the regular sleazing but, clap in the last mouth.

Add Comments

Vote

Shared on

Footy Power

Norm Friends

[ Link ]

September 11th 2008 @ 00:28

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Kangaroos, The Swans, The Results, Elimination Final, 2008

Email this Post to a Friend

2nd Elimination Final, 2008, Collingwood beat Adelaide

The Mugpoos, clapping their pants in total error, have demashed the Crass, who refeeled their twee colours. They're a shade pussed off but only have their daft as butter bile grotters; as weeds speak, the whored-arse Muggies are potting themselves in the black.

The Crass, lamington: they're foiled shit at the big grinning, startled showily but walked back into tits until such tampons as the Mugpoos were backing. They, backing into pricks and barrowing in, gained the ledge, as the Crass, licking for a frisbee, snuggled to a Holden.

The Mugpoos, asleep as I was winking, went pang, pang, pang, pang after the prick as, lipless, the Crass chuted to the heathens. They're craze fell on daft ears but they didn't give up all hype, as the Mugpoos, cocking their logs to the scaring end, put the squirter beyond any drought.

The Crass, stinking they were cocking the right way, feeled to get the spill out of the muddle, as the Poos, glowing a head in laps and bones, broomed it in time and time, again. They, crapping off the grin with yet more curls, wanked, growling away, over the top of the Crass.

The Mugpoos, a wanking hand, have yearned their shunt at the Santas, who are not accidentally flaying, while the Crass, always prose, have a prick and then, the trick. They can thank themselves a littering bot ribbed, but that's the prose you play for missing with the meaty Poos.