Hi, Bob.

BL>  BL> You haven't lived until you've seen the Broncos beaten by Norths
BL>  BL> in a final.

BL>  FM> You haven't *died* until you've seen the Collingwood *draw*
BL>  FM> with Norths in the final, then go down in the replay.

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

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

BL>  BL> That was the basic problem with Byron. He should have played on
BL>  BL> the wing for Manly instead of writing soppy verses. That sort
BL>  BL> of thing makes you go randy and die of TB.

BL>  FM> I dunno, do you pull more birds by writing soppy verses or
BL>  FM> playing at being manly on the wing?

BL>   On the wing for Manly is not playing - it's deadly serious.

Yeah, well, as serious as you can ever get in a so-called sport which
draws fewer people to a grand final than football gets to a
home-and-away match.

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

BL>  FM> He must have done all right, they named a bay after him. And a
BL>  FM> ball-point pen, if the truth be known.

BL>   Jeeze! I didn't realise there was so much money in soppy verse. I
BL> use a BIC Byron myself, but when I try to write verse it only does
BL> limericks.

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

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.

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

Regards, FIM.

 * * Sailors curse the rain that farmers prayed for in vain.
@EOT:

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