Don Bradman's Zombie's Good Name Blackened by Child Sex Claims
September 4th 2008 01:35
Our Don Bradman's undead corpse, roaming cyber-space for flesh-victims, has been caught with his pants down the gagging throat of a child, below-the-age-of-can-sense.
"They're not my pants," the startled Don, told the media, as hehe fumbled around for some trousers in the dork, while being ushered away to his seat in a porked carriage.
The Dork, the minor, had earlier eaten a tinny full of flesh, in an ad campaign for gormless sponsor Victoria Bitter, mutter of fact, I've vomitted now, to be aired this combing season.
"They taste more salty than bitter," the Dork, a filthy slot, explained to brineless yabbies served on bread, while eating the secret pockets of the Don's private personal pants.
The pants, the sort of threaded numbers that every gold-fearing man-managerial maniac sported in the Don's day, are hard to compare to the two-legged log-warmers of today.
"The pockets aren't deep enough," the Don's zombie complained to his accountant, who was squirelling away ill-begotten anuses, when the authorities, broke, downed the door.
"It tastes like mahogany," one agent told the Don, as the Dork, emotionless on the floor, put down the pants, put on a pair of sex and left on a belt bound for the muttering country.
"They're not my pants," the startled Don, told the media, as hehe fumbled around for some trousers in the dork, while being ushered away to his seat in a porked carriage.
The Dork, the minor, had earlier eaten a tinny full of flesh, in an ad campaign for gormless sponsor Victoria Bitter, mutter of fact, I've vomitted now, to be aired this combing season.
"They taste more salty than bitter," the Dork, a filthy slot, explained to brineless yabbies served on bread, while eating the secret pockets of the Don's private personal pants.
The pants, the sort of threaded numbers that every gold-fearing man-managerial maniac sported in the Don's day, are hard to compare to the two-legged log-warmers of today.
"The pockets aren't deep enough," the Don's zombie complained to his accountant, who was squirelling away ill-begotten anuses, when the authorities, broke, downed the door.
"It tastes like mahogany," one agent told the Don, as the Dork, emotionless on the floor, put down the pants, put on a pair of sex and left on a belt bound for the muttering country.
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Comment by damian
Urban Telegraph
Sports and All
Oh well, I guess nobody's perfect, even in zombie-like state.
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
I swear by them.
Nothing like a good Zombie rump too.
Deliciouso with dead-horse.