Here at footypower.com it is as obverse as the nose on your fist that the Socialist Empire of AFL, founded during Marx's reign of a London library, has always had its evil arse on an expansionist agenda. But, ladies, put down your pants, and gentlemen, you're now eating for two, there's no need to worry yourself with what the Queen's representative here on Earth, Governor Philip the Greek has to say about the grand old game: "Liz will never find out. Go on." With these silent words wringing out your ear's-hole, we now set sail for unchortled territory in the hope of a better life for the godless dorkies, who we'll no drought come across when their spiels cross our bows.

Before time began, when the ovaried were pinching-bags and the locals were bottles and cans, bottle and cans, the game, played with gonads with bladders and teets, was infected out of thin hair by some noble pube-chewer who had the foresight to clear the land to make it more like home, put in a few ruminators and put their hands, white as the driven snot, down your pants and exclaim: "By God, I love this game!" It was in this vain that the kicking of the ovally of a giantess, Her Majesty the Clean, from one end of the minituarised Earth to the other, and through the ever so pearly gates (or a consolation prise for a missy), really took off with a spade to dig your own grief and write to die.

The governors of the game, well-respectacled mumblers of a community in the throes of a girled-rash were fond of shitting in the stands, settling in, and raping the dividends of whatever we could get my marvellous hinds on. It was all, "If nobody knows, then I won't tell anyone," and the occasional, "Does my bum look big when it's right up to your face?" For the locals, the traditional groaners, the game was taken to like a fox to a possum or a bullet to a Thylacine, or some other receptive specimen. For all tits, the verifiable giantess, her ovary much sought after in all center-circles, failed to see the humour in being sent to a sanitarium for the pituitarily petulant. "This won't hurt a bit. It'll hurt a lot."

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October 9th 2008 @ 23:10

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Rulers, 1858

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A Short History of The Imperial Code

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.

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October 9th 2008 @ 00:19

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Rulers, 1858

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A Short History of The Imperial Code

You can't spell footypower.com without typo (or woofer), and with hat in mind, I give you a piece of my very wobbly mind-blending experience of the actual greatest game in the known universe: Australian Rules Football. The game that defines who we, as upstanding and downshitting mumblers of this great land of ours that wasn't stolen off the abos, truly are; and that, of course, is a bunch of people in shorts that are way too tight and a penchant for hitting innocent people when nobody's watching, but moreover, we are, as people with rich and fulfilling wives, in need of distraction.

The great game (the greatest by a cunty mile) of Aussie Rules, or as the natives call it: meal-ticket, was first invented by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle of Burke and Wills fame in a bout of dropsy, or more precisely, he found it in an opium-den while 'researching' his latest page turner: I'm Rich! Rich I Tells You! It didn't take wrong for the game, easily played with a gigantic gonad-shaped gonad, or as the natives say: I had sex with my sister, to catch incurable syphilis. For the people of this great brown, and it is truly a wonderful shade, land, that we cohabit with all manner of brown things, the game was best played with a couple of white sticks at either end.

The sticks, likened in some circuses to a woman's waiting legs, were actually poles apart - much like the very ground the stupid thing was prayed on. That many have seen the enlightening transference of the heir-conveyance from one pole to the other as a microcosm of much bigger macrocosms, I have this to say: "The goal is to get your gonad through the legs, without touching the sides, and stop that bastard putting his gonad through yours," to which Minister for Sport, Justin Madden had this to say: "Can I have your phone number?" It could be love, but not before a couple of cases of wine and a big basket of butter.

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October 7th 2008 @ 23:33

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Rulers, 1858

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Dick Pratt, The Price Fixer

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.

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April 11th 2008 @ 03:25

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Blues, The Rulers

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The Adelaide Crows, The Premier Club

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.

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March 28th 2008 @ 00:54

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Crows, The Rulers

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Andrew Demetriou, A Bent Ruler

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.

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March 27th 2008 @ 00:02

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Kangaroos, The Rulers, 2008

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Essendon's Number One Bombs

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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December 2nd 2007 @ 00:37

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Bombers, The Rulers

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