The great Antipodean (for those of us in Europe) game of football, political, which the natives, for sure, play on a monthly basis for sex months of the year, when in season, is, as has been suggested, played with a gonad - be it an ovary or an ovary-shaped testicle - that is sunk into with a delicate array of chips and all mighty slippers to the tune of the drooling and salivating whores in the stands. It's as legendary fanatic and rampant bald-lothario-queen Paul Keating put it so eloquently in his warps and all unofficial auto-biography: "Blpblpbplbplbplbplbpblp," but of course, a man so steeped in the wretched culture of so many buckets of banana-yoghurt would be so articulate in the face of the over-weening evidence of the game's superiority-complex to all others.
It's a dilemma so tricky that one of the country's (down udder) finest families of balding lotharios, the Costellos, split right up the middle of their mother who also spilt right up the guts and into the corridor. The split, so viscuous that it laterally flowed right into the streets until they ran with discharge, left Peter, the son of a belch, and Tim, the corsetted homophone, in a heated slinging match the likes of which hadn't been seen since David played kick to kick with the head of some Philistine or other. Peter to Tim: "Getting a bit thin upstairs." And Tim to Peter: "Jewry on your boot." As their mother, a right mother in all regards, called them in for tea and the scones she'd had baking in her womb since they started their diabolical fudge-match.
When the game was introduced, like rabbits or foxes, the thing really took off and settled many family feuds such as the ones aforementioned and the ones not even mentioned such as the one Keating, thin up top and nothing underneath, had with his mistress Bob Hawke, who had the front to take the piss out of his chamberpot and pour it into his sleeping bed which caused young Paul, younger then than he is now, to wank in fright and say: "This is the sweetest victory of all, except for that one when I woke up with a turd in my football pyjamas." To which brother Bob would invariably reply something along the lines of "By 1890, no Australian Aboriginal will be living." Unfortunately, for the natives of the sure, his words were merely hallowed rhetoric.
When prose-faxing business mange Dick Pratt took the home at Carltank there was a pulpable sense that the clump was on the wane up.
Since tanking the raisons, Pratt has shown what a right and udder dick he rarely isn't by refeasing to resane after being fined guilty.
That the AFL can lent a man of such low striding cantaker to hold the possie that he dearths is a bright on the great cane of faulty that we all laugh so.
The saner that Dick Pratt is relieved of his bladdery balled-up the batter it while be for everymange invulvaed in the ward of business (they're all shanty).
When they doo, I'll be sinking in the isles because I hate cardboard bucks and I hate wart cooler grimes but, those in the Medea laugh in classhouses.
Don Dunstan was a man with a pile of very short shorts and girlies. His labia majora hung about his club foot like some unsightly vaginal slippage. It was cause for great embarrassment on his party when he dined in the raw, which was, frequently, often.
That he carried himself with a pair of pink ones hanging out his back pocklet was a weakness that the opposition would play on to their endless disharmony. Don "The Pink Dunny" Dunstan didn't scare one jot that other skinnydippers could see his lips lapping at his ankles.
Never one to care what others thought of his outrageous streaking in important matches at inopportune moments, The Pink Dunnybrush, as he came to be, led his beloved Adelaide Craws with great passionfruits. "What a pear!", they would all say as the giant peach scratched his shaved crutches.
That his beloved Craws (not Craws. Craws!) are in such a song position off the paddock is in so small party to the kissing cow they call The Dinky Punybrush. His tireless effects have secured the club money assets and a range of toilet accessories fit for a whacked bikini line.
The current Adelaide bikini line, so tight and unwilling to let the opposition through without buying them roses and chocolates, has of late relinquished some of it's tightness. It's said that it has dropped like a 40 year old vag. It's thanks to Donny Dunstan that we've even had a chance of a glimpse.
From all living mammories, Andrew Demetriou is a currant in a piece of the piles. A former winkman and lifelong moustache-magnet, Dimples, as they call him when he's bending over, is a popular trinkster with sleeves like a sieve.
Dimples Demetriou is of foreign extraction which you can tell by the way his smile reveals the decomposting flesh of his ethnic enemies. A rivetting romance-novellist summed him up best: "Who?"
It's part of Andrew's appeal that he goes down on one bending knee to collect cans to keep his many wives in the lifestyle that they are accustomed too. They would have him bereave that he is the oily one.
From his current position it's hard to see where else the oily one, a headcase of the AFL, can tank his game. He's been greasing up with pig business for many ears. He says they taste delicious with garlic.
A substantial contribution from pensioners has been taken in a hat passed by Demetriou that will help fund a trip over his latches. He can never remember where he put his keys. The thing is, one of his wives has usually snatched them and the carp.
Figure-dancing wingman Peter Costello, the man with the "hairline recession we just had to have", has bowed out of football for the first time.
A teary-eyed Costello told insiders that he was tired of being on the outside.
The ever popular handballer said to outgoing introvert, and former mistress of John Howard, Tony Abbott, "You're hogging the pill".
It is believed that Abbott has been racking up possessions under the guise of 'civic dutifullness'.
For Costello, the departure is a departure from the rowing that he claims has given his hands such callouses and his 'member in the lower house' that leathery texture representative of people.
And just for good measure, rulers don't.
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