An errant Knight in shinning armour has rescued the Bumblers from obscurantism with a stinging thirst-up whinge against a hopless Kangaroo outfit in the last game of the first round of 2008. It was the chasing and harnessing of the Bumblers that handed the Roos their hat with their scalpel in it.
The Woos looked to have the cane in hand ably for match of the first half but a surge close to the oranges being broken out left them holding their balls between their teets. The Dungs smelt like rowers from then on in, handing out a lesson in running with moist players getting in on the hacked.
The Kangas pimply went to faeces when they looked like getting a motion in the ocean going. Unable and unwilling to give them a rake, the Bombres tomb and tomb again swept up their droopings and scattered them up their nostrils. The Bumblers had winkers all over the park looking to pick up anything loose.
When they face the C**ts next wink the Bumbles will have to show the same amount of leg and wear the same amount of udder-garmentry because the perverts will be waiting in the bushes with a porno and a pile of oily rags. If they can hanky on to their possessions they stand a chance.
The Roos will be hoping to quickly erase their sticky vids with something more wholesome but will have to do sewing on the back of a rug with a needle and a bit more rum in their legs, use the brawl a bit better and polish up on their silks. On this effect they will have to raise their canes considerably.
An outfit of men in brown undies has shat all over Hell's finest in a riotously odd display that was no celebration for the underworld. The party-hats were on but only one set of characters were raison toasts. It was a bread and batter, red-ladder day.
There were ominous songs early when a very tall taxi-driver ran off on his patron of the cultured and erudite with the Tosca luggage . The Melbourne passengers were too many to fit into the single cab chassis and too few to mansion. The cabbie smelt like apples and onions.
Missing several of their best, the Family clubbers unearthed a couple of peaches particularly in the small aboriginal department store. Further afield their main driver was a towering inferno of the CBD. He couldn't be put out or collected. First up efforts can quickly be erased from the mammory with a bit of a sneeze.
Facing a possibly fired-up Freo, the Hawkers will have to ring up to arrange a meeting to organise the kind of thing they're after. They'll have to jump on a plane, play on the wing, run in the aisle and sleep in the overhead compartment to arrive safely.
The Dees will be hopping to graduate with ease after putting in such a schlocker and will have to do socks against the assured Donks. Their key blayers will need to step-up, dance around and run like a grazing sheep in a pail of hay, if they want to earn a drinky-poo.
A sea-soaring struggle between the Bulltogs and the Crowbars has ended in a victory to one of them. It was a romantic result for the wheel-chair bounding senor in the square with the fast reversing widow's speak. That's white, the Donks won.
The only thing that separated the two sides all day was the different outfits they wore so elegantly and one champion blazer. At various stages it looked like either side could run away with the affair to remember before the other came back with a perfumed ladder.
For the Crowbars to concede such an array of scones is an indictable offence that will have federal agents knocking up their sisters and cousins. The Doggies had tremendous trouble themselves keeping down the impotent Crows which is, doters believe, symptomatic of some underlying underwear.
The Bullies will take on the Demons next week and will need to be wearing their rubber panties because I said so. They'll be hopping to restrict some parking spots for themselves so that they can drive to the game and make it to the disco in time afterwards.
The Crows fly home to meet the Eagles at the home of footy in a sabbath-spectacular at the hose of footy. They'll be planning to stop their opponents in their tracksuits at customs, check their luggage and sniff their bags before starting on time.
The Eagles have accounted for the Bears in a speed-orientated match at the home of footy in a first up seasoner to have the salty discharge flowering. Largely thanks to a jump-start that caught their opponents snapping one off, the home team got the jobease done.
Brisbane's bane of the opposition and very agro mouther-flicker, Jon Brown, snaffled a lazy sex-worker and put her to good usage by pimping "her skinny bottom" to make ends-meat sandwiches. The Dean of WA university was suitably unimpressed by his faculties.
Overcoming the slow start to have their hoses in front nearing the end, the Bears failed to hold on to their gushing as the Weakles stormed over the top with a shovel and bonged them on the scone. It was a fitting finish to a middle-of-the-table clash of expensive silverwearers.
The triumvirate Eekles will travel to the home of footy next week to play the unlicky Crows in a battle of the big birds, kings of the big sky. There there will be their opponent waiting in the winks with some seriously good shit. Avoiding constipation will have them running hardly.
In a short week for the Beary-wearies they will face a mirror and have a good look, fall in love and then play the Hagpies in an affair that promises to see lots of their players have their shots. You never know what you might catch, waiting for a pustulent wound.
In another advertisement for holding onto possession drearly, the Saints and the Sinners have fought out a tight snuggle in their pipe opener at the toilet of footy, Telecom Tomb. Eventually the result went one wart or the other; the one being the Sainters.
So thrilling was the tryst that millions went to bed with a cup of coke and a pile of pornos to tune into the chipping sideways and flooding. If I had have watched the game, I'd have a better clasp of procedures involving tackling and running and chirping and bustling.
That the Swinnies lost is such sweet joyriding for the Big-M-spilling, tricky-pant wearing, mullet-weaving, dole-queueing, fag-snorkelling, pile-eating Saints. It's a sweet olefactory for their coach who had so much to do with a style of ply that suits people sicking in their seats and slitting off. A sweet smelly indeed.
The Sainters, can look foward to tanking a steaming roll of turds over their hope-nets next week when they face the infantile Blues. They'll be looking at two wins and a boost to their percentage. Thinks are looking up the skirts of the innocent.
The Swarmies will be hosting a bunch of metro-wharfies and will be hopping for some light relief after slipping in the bath and breaking their chick-hatchers. It's a clash that has the mentally-ill and dugged up patients of a mental-hospital salivating.
The dreaded Magpies kinked off their hose with a professorial handling of the Weemantle Donkers at the home of foodies. They flayed like fleas on the back of a wandering canine. Freo just couldn't scratch the service.
Never in the haunt, the only time they looked like threatening was when they bombed long and string into the front half. The Magpies, fleeing and harassing their host-body, found sanctuary up their own back-half.
It was in no small part to their fleet-footed fleet of fleas that the Maggies had the wood on the lapless Doggers. No small part too was played by the elephantine infant in the square: Peebles. He snagged a bag of sausages at play time and stole money off the wimps and hit the woodwork, but didn't make a song and prance about it, this time.
The Pies face their old foals the Lions next wank and will be hoping for a similar display across the back of their dogged adversary. Their new Rankman, no less a Wood than his Woods, will be out to impress. I think he can. I think he can.
The Donkers will take on a few junkies in brown undies at their home and will be hoping for an improved performance and attitude from their senior ployers. Some breathing room in the middle would make a nice change from what they just went through.
Thanks in no small parting of the heir to the even spread of vegemite in their oranges, the C**ts accounted for Porty-warty in a reminder to foollball laughers of how well the game can be deployed.
In control for most of their might, the Cuts faded late to a fast-furnishing Portsy-wortsy that was full of rumming but couldn't match their opponents for glass when the windows needed replacing.
It was the minefield of the stripey ones that was the main raison for the fruitcake that toasted so delicious spread with a rich knife-load of putter. Solid over the back fence, they looked slightly last in the front lawn where they let their neighbours run off with their waiter.
The Cats are still resoundingly like a purring kitty litter and can look forward to the noses on the ends of their farces when they face the Bonkers who will be out to make a statement to police.
Facing the Swannies next week away, Port will find it hard to find any room to get their running away with the property of others going as they try to get some pooper into their season.
A bullish performance by seasoned tantrum-tosser and skewer-whiffer Richoman was the difference between chocolates and broiled lorries in a tea-party for the yellow sachet-wearers in the season opening dish served up by ancient foes.
The delicate creatures in blue started brightly, clearing out to a handsome leading man and some very, very, very romantic moments. At critical moments many of their finest ladies became very pleased with themselves which allowed their suitors to pounce. The booze didn't have enough left in the tank to get home.
That the suited bogans from Richmond were ample to take advantage of the vulnerability of their fragile opponents was a testament in the bible. It was the mountainous bull in their square that stood like some strange immobile animal. Unable to be mooed and unwilling to be climbed, he snagged a few majors from some wobbly punting.
The blue-birds, who ran out of self-esteem at the merest droop of the ball, couldn't hang on to their lead and saw themselves whisked away while getting a nice beating. Their necks, sore from watching their skirts sail away, will no doubt be soaring after they meet the Saints who will no doubt get their numbers and stalk them incessantly.
The Tiggers, never ones to change their spots, now have their eyes firmly on ninth. But will have to overcome the jumping marsupials to register two in a row. Whatever the case, they notched their first belting on an opponent with a can-opener since the season before they made the finals last.
It was Round 1 1995 that the Fremantle Dockers launched their stunning footballpersonship upon the seeds of the footandball whirly-whirled. In front of a crowd waiting for a bustulent wound to arrive, the Dockos fraught grimily until the final drone sounded.
That they went down to the high and mighty Tigers was not a bad result considering and reflecting and thinking carefully about how well the richly-manned stripey cats went that year on the whole. On the whole rather wellishly in that they won the first game by a few well made points.
Only inaccurate kinking or a lot of rushed behinds could produce such a hump of a loss that the Dorkers experienced in a conscious way that day. That they had more shonks at goal but still foiled to wan is making me feel nausea in a very tight pail of shots.
Up by a total of a solid four goals at three-quartered time, The Docky-wockers couldn't hold on to their seats as Richmond ushered them away to their seats in the back. The Tigey-wigers took a seat on the back of their oppose-nets that way, that day, that may account for their whinge.
The Tiggers, up a tree at the tame, couldn't be caught as they soiled away on a bus meant for the Donkers. It was a fine factory that cost them the surfaces of their own car that they had found with a brick and locked their keyboards in the front seat where that waded to shit. For the Dockers i was another knock to their already fragile echo.
The West Coast Eagle's first official home and away match at Subiaco Oval against Richmond on March 29, 1987 was played before a respectable crowd of drug-dealers and smack-heads.
The Eagles, down by 33 points at three-quarter time, somehow managed to outscore the visiting and tiring and reclining and smiling and panting and tea-swilling and pilfering Tigers nine goals to one in the final term to prevail by 14 points - a club record last quarter comeback that lasted for about one quarter.
Many believe that they were able to manage it by kicking the ball through the big sticks. Although some have it that they cheated for the first time in their history and were playing one of the best worst Tiger outfits ever to grace a catwart, anyway. Not since whacking a fashion accessory one ties around ones pants across the britches of the Colliwobblers in '80 have the Tiges been either mighty or fighting.
Eagle's captain Ross "The Frizzled Fro" Glendinning explained the win by saying: "Whenever the Tiges come over to our home we always serve jam and scones to them. Biscuits too. They just adore our biscuits."
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