BL> What's a Collingwood? Is it anything like a Number-1 iron?

 FM> Oh ye Philistines, ye of no broad education, ye of the code of
 FM> the northern states.

 FM> Besides, the bits I've watched make me quite sure it's a
 FM> poofter's game. Speaking of which, did you know that Phil Gould
 FM> (East's coach) is a date puncher?

  Never! He's such a manly chap... even if he did coach those Penrith
poofters.

 FM> You don't understand... *lawn-mowers* write limericks, you were
 FM> put on this earth merely to interpret them.

  So *that's* where the inpiration comes from!

 BL>       There was a queer poet named Byron,
 BL>       For whom all the women were dyin'
 BL>       But he only wrote verse, for better or worse
 BL>       When he played on the wing with a try on.

 FM> An engineer working for Pye
 FM> Went home one night with a train controller
 FM> He soldered it up
 FM> Although several bits were wrong
 FM> And ended up stuffing the lebbos sister!

  That must shitty modern verse - nothing rhymes. It needs more
adjectives...

  Speaking of which, a certain Kiwi bastard who shall remain nameless
dropped in an interesting yuppy toy for you to play with. It is built
by Tektronix, and I liked the case so much I stripped it out and use
it as a wine cooler. I've also got a collection of railroading
magazines, and disc that says Quicken from Brenton. It doesn't work. I
made an infusion of the disc with boiling water and drank the tea, but
I'm as slow as ever.

  The equipment I am holding is storage for you comes with a Jensens
Shoes bag, for what it's worth.

  BTW, the lebbo bloke next door has dyed his hair blonde, and I
suspect he has turned queer, so you'll have to give the correct
password or I won't let you in. I expect that we'll all be raped in
our beds, and I haven't slept for three nights sitting up with a
shotgun to protect my virgin arsehole, so be sure you get the password
right or I'll blow your fucking head off.

Regards,
Bob
    
___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.12
@EOT:

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