boar

When middle-aged Aussie blokes get a bit of the old brewer’s droop they sneak on down to the GP’s surgery, slink into the Doc’s treatment room, and whisper out the side of their mouth that the missus likes it more than three times a day, and that they’re finding the fourth backup a little bit testing, so ‘can you slip me a pack or three of those little blue bottler’s Doc?’.

Well at least that’s what I’m told anyway. I personally have never had the problem, but I suppose if the Bead-Twirler started asking for a ninth or tenth before midday I might find myself in the same boat, so I can emphasise with the limp lads, a little bit at least.

My mate Gorgeous George swears by the diamond-shaped blue babies – which are better known to Joe Public by the brand name Viagra – but his missus told me on the QT that you can’t make a silk purse out of a boar’s ear, and hard or soft old Gorgeous remains a 3 out of 10 in the sack any day of the week, except when he’s pissed on a Saturday night and then he drops to a two.

But before the poor bugger gets too downcast I will state for the record, and I quote, ‘He may be a dud root. But he’s my dud root’. Word is that the boys down at the Burwood pub are now calling him Brett, but of course not to his face, cos he’s got some pretty tough friends. Poor buggers don’t realise that he actually pays blokes like Iron Mike to pose in pictures with him, but let’s not spoil his tough guy reputation hey, otherwise I’ll need to start looking out for him when we go for a drink, and the Twirler gets the sh*ts when I come home with bruised knuckles and some bugger’s blood all over me shirt.

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Back to boars though, and these bloody Russian sheilas are crazy aren’t they, cos have you heard about what Maria Sharapova got up to in Australia in her failed attempt to get me into her hotel bed?

The mad bint started popping Meldonium, which isn’t a nuclear bomb of a pill that turns a bird into Molly, or a tennis performance-enhancing drug, but rather a sneaky old treatment developed behind the Iron Curtain by Commie scientists to improve the sex-lives of boars and big blonde broads who like bouncing Butterfly’s balls.

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Geez sportsfans, I know all these Slavic sheila’s want to get into me pants, but it’s a bit bloody extreme isn’t it?

Now as we all know loose lips sink battleships, and I’m normally not one to lag, but we can’t see poor Miss-understood and Miss-edout Maria lose her livelihood just because the ITF and the drug agencies don’t have a clue about the real reason she popped the horny pills can we?

And besides, now that the cat’s out of the bag Serena’s got the sh*ts and she keeps tweeting me asking where I really was that night she was out on center court after Maria had been bounced from the Aussie Open, and its clear that she suspects Maria was doing a bit of different bouncing, and in old Archie’s bed.

Of course I was down at Bunger sculling schooners on the evening in question – well that’s my story anyway, and I’m sticking to it, and Kevvie’s covering for me on one and got his grandaughter to photoshop a picture (below) and false date it as evidence just in case spunky Serena pays him a surprise visit in the Zillman Waterholes bar to eyeball him and put the the acid on him about my water-tight alibi.

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But the whole thing is starting to get out of hand, and I’m worried that Serena’s gunna spill the beans to the Bead-Twirler, and then we’ll have a bloody international sex-scandal on our hands.

And if that happens, it’s not just gunna be Serena who’s rooted and Maria who’s not is it?Because who’s gunna buy Archie’s goddamn smokes for him every day if the Twirler won’t open up the silk purse and let me inside?

Bloody Russians.

Ronnie Reagan was right, they’re all bad news. Even the randy rootbag racquet swingers.

Dead set, the whole thing’s more than a Bunger boy can boar!

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I’m bloody watching you big-banging Butterfly boy!