The Santas, matinee-idols dressed as lamingtons, have dashed out a plate of shower gropes to the rinsing Mugpoos; the former advise the prim where they'll lick to shave a laugh while the ladder can pit their ear in mouthballs, put their fat up and plopper for the snoozing ahead and crave for the last tear.

The Mugpoos, a sanitary Scatman as their chef, were licked in for a taut tissue in the farcical banana, as their vowels, an ungnome for a cook, and they swamped the weed; they were cooking the goats but had a spiteful plebian in their back half, as the Santas, affected, put the sex-painters on the board.

The Santas, pulling away in the sconed squirter, went to the munching with a heady margarine. The Mugpoos, well behind, couldn't cock their rugs through the lamplights for anything. They, eating orangutans, licked at the bird and fooled that they had the belly-laugh. The Santas, thanking like wankers, had the bun-fights of a pimple grin-plinth.

The Mugpoos, in the lost heart, went to the will but the will was awry as the Santas, fit and jelly, went cocking their logs on every paste. They, so much the more disparate, went in like maniacs dispossesed as the Mugpoos, as loco as a republican, cocked every which way but through the laplights and cussed their ear goodbye.

The Santas, nervous, grow onto farce the Gawkers, fat and defiling, in a prim grin for a spit in the Granny, as old as two mitts herself, while the vanished, bald wowsers at the blessed, look to baulk lips for the next snogging. The Santas, mutterings to rue, will, you'd harp, give the smut-arsers a cock in the unmunchables.

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September 18th 2008 @ 23:14

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Magpies, The Saints, The Results, Semi-Final, 2008

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1st Semi-Final, 2008, Western Bulldogs beat Sydney

The Dullblogs, a shudder of the shade they once wore, crammed the Swines, farting into absurdity; editing their ear and grafting their vowels a freak kiss in front. The Dullblogs, as exonerating as rorting a dead hearse, salivated their first wanking file in ears as the Swines, farting first, go "Darn," in a screwing hoop.

The Swines, a toff eunuch no more, munched the Dullblogs, a snide on the wise, in the farcical skirter; both were snuggling in heady contritions, sorry. The Swines, scragging to complain their vowels, licked unsettled to candle the wide expenses as the Dullblogs, flea flattening, baited from said to said and up and box.

The Dullblogs, as the margarine broke, held a weed under one stuttering cake over the Swines, their handkerchef the tissue, but in the turd squirter the former, breeding friars, startled to get a grope and the ladder, feeling tarred, drooped the bowel and went into the lost lounge, a large defecate to eat into, with an awful.

The Swines, barely culpable of eating into such a big one, ending up arting their words as the Dullblogs, cerebrating before the bile, put the fatal torches on a fanatic's ear-fart which, for a snide such as they, remarks their crying into the bunks of the elated, while the vanished, already reported as decreased, is urging.

The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sane, have to queer up for a shit at the granny, as sold as two mitts herself, and the only thong straddling on their thigh is the Coots, as mild as a hotty and twitchy as birth, in a pope-hopper. The Swines, defiling their knackers again, will once more, next tear, have their arse on a spat in the art.