The inevitable slide that has come with being igratiatingly obscure has led me to slide, slip, fall, flounder, flap, and just generally fall down the latter. I can't say that I scare too much about hats. They don't frighten me one bait. That I now fanned myself spanking down the latter is really rather fartunate, really. I mean, if I scared about hats. I'll say it again, I can't remember anything and half of them are warts. I'm not unhippy at all. Actually, I'm very much the sower of my own seats. They just grow under my very bottom. Under my very bottom are my very legs. If I could see them, I'd say they were. I've been tolled they're still there and quite expansively. It's not risque to say that I don't care.
A group of sight-impaired people who were promised front-row seats to the Maria Sharapova match at Rod Laver arena last night, and paid big money for the tickets, only to be taken to a pig farm at Werribee by a Melbourne con man. The visually-impaired were convinced they were on centre court at the Sharapova match when they heard the constant grunting and squealing of the pigs, unaware the con man was smacking them on the rump with a tennis racquet and throwing tennis balls at their snouts. When one of their guide dogs jumped the fence around the pig-sty to defend the pigs, he was attacked by a near-sighted sow, leading to an all-in brawl between the pigs and the guide dogs. The sight-impaired thought the barking was unruly ethnic supporters. It wasn't until the owner of the pig farm arrived, and threw rotten capsicums at the con man, causing him to flee in the bus that they realised something was wrong. The con man has been described as having a loud voice. Anyone with information on a man with a loud voice is urged to contact Crime Stoppers.
The Australian Opens’ 36th biggest loser, a fit and ripped Marcos Baghdatis, has had an obese person’s gutful of pussy woos Australian attitudes to politically correct bullshit. “I can’t tolerate tolerance or the tolerant,” he said as he burnt a thousand Australian flags from Cheap as Chips with Cash Converters matches to get a souvlaki barbie going in the back yard of the Melbourne soccer-loving bikie group of louts and hoons, Hellas Angels. “The next Skip, Bunning’s sausage-sizzle eating bogan who apologises for calling me a Turkish Cyprian Smelly Wog Bastard, I’ll serve such a big backhander with a topspinning kick and slice, they’ll wish their parents were Lleyton and Bec Hewitt and they went MIA before the soapie action started in the bedroom. Either that, or I’ll drag them from their new-estate addresses in Melbourne’s western suburbs to a Greek restaurant in South Yarra by their hairy nipples and bumholes and challenge them to a moustache-off with my auntie to see who gets the last lamb steak.”