DX grunt
3rd March 2011, 11:39 AM
YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE........
An update of this thread will be forthcoming in the next day or so. Thanks to Bigrig for his time and effort during my absence.
Far out .... you guys can dribble, I mean talk......
Just a friendly reminder..... this is a family based forum - what ever state of consciousness you're in.
So, remember your words may be interpreted differently by readers/visitors to this thread/website in their, possibly, different state of consciousness.
Now for a home schooling lesson ...... 3 words = 1, 2 3. Not 1, 2, 3, 4, or even 5. lololol
Please don't respond to this thread.... You'll upset the apple cart. lol.
Take care out there.
Ross
DX grunt
DX grunt
4th March 2011, 10:36 AM
You lot owe me - big time ....... For those that attend the 2012 eyeball, I expect a donation of 2 cans of Ted's each - the rest of you, I'll think of something. lol. just kidding.
Please remember that lots of people read this thread and your state of consciousness, enthuasism, and what ever pops into your brain and fingers while typing may be different from that of a reader. Some of this has been 'slightly' edited.
Thanks again to Bigrig for keeping you in the loop while I was away.
Enjoy.
Come back Rosscoe. Seriously, please do as scotty’s swamped. Can’t handle the ducks in the pool of beer. Scotty threw up at the thought, just before renigging what he’s supposed (to do) on the bottle, to have agreed to look after the dhucks on the isle of white wedding bliss, with frilly garters, and a blue thong hanging from his runny nose, green slimey wet bits in them. Amazingly, he licked with his prickly green continental cucumber looking long tongue. His own …… long, wait and left handed, took hold of the sky hook and lifted high above big toe with his nose that took ages.
Quality takes time. Time equals bourbons. Bourbon equals instability. Beer, beer beer.
“Doubting my insanity? Be truthful. Insanity rules, my master of baffled bulls**t and ideosecrecies of one’s hairy a**e crack heaven, with scabby dags and giant fags dangling from way above your head – with festering puss that oozes out around your eyes and drips around your pieholes and blistered feet”.
M m@cs pies, thick and lumpy. Pooey sized bites that are delicious until the next grissle loaded chunk starts to come from the inside that dark cavity and explodes from the inner sanctum of the shell of Burt’s bowl, filled to the brim with the warped extremities of thick chunky, regurgitated lambs brains with cheese sauce. What, more to gold top mushrooms. Off track again. Smokin lab too. Yea man, it’s a quirky place to make love to sweet potatoes in Burt’s bedroom.
Bring the gimp and grumby bears and the care bears, my little ponies. Herm@n and SheerAh humping over barrels, while Skel@tor watched. B@tm@n and R0b!n were not impressed with W0nd3r W0m@n, so they decided the aliens needed care bear sputum over martian testicals for Sunday brunch. Superman licked it and the alien kicked the bucket.
“Not you as well. I’m still alive.”
“They gunna getya,” cried the hampster to the Clunk.
“But he’s sleeping”.
“Wake him up for a drink”, he said. Then they applied lube all around the little hole and then inserted large amounts of strawberry jam.
Little green martians…”F&*^ the martians”, until he squealed with great delight. “Roll me over, do it again, but this time, do it gently”, she said again, “cause something is tickling my bu^^”. “Ho, Ho, Ho, S@nt@ Cl@use’s beard, as it trailed through the sh!t – and got damp. It became mouldy and went mouldy – green stuff everywhere.
“Lick it up”
“Nah, snort it with a hose – long and deep”
“Ooooh, yeah baby”
“Good Shit, aye”?
It’s a monster dribbling down her front end loader b00b job failure, balancing on the end of b00bs with tickly tackies that tickle, aye – ya dangly bits.
“Oh the frustration,” and screams Buuuurrrrt - wigs flapping everywhere.
“W@nker,” said Patty. “Bloody old frump”.
“Strewth, it’s the Beverley Hills Billies”
“P!ssed again, ma?”
“Not me mister – for a change”.
“Not on school night”, said three fickle gun toating Mexicans with chilli coated maracas and pistolas – hanging low from stinky leetle beeegs.
“Enchalatas, amigos. Chilllieee.
“Up ya clacka”, and the frog leaped forward 20cm and said “Oh shoot me now, coz I’m waiting for another frog to pass by, for mating purposes, because I have an insatiable urge at this particular point of time to have a friend for dinner for frogs legs with chilleee flys, and red wine spiced up with lots of ginger.
“How uncouth,” said the old bishop to the vicar. “They don’t have safe se#”.
“Aren’t they celibate”?
“Ha, ha. Good question. Celibacy is un-natural,” said the frog to the bishop to the vicar, to the monk, to the enchilada of the taco.
“They need more Kentucky Fr!ed Rabbit Road Kill too. That’s very kinky – no black pudding. Thank god for that, because it makes you go.
“Where we going?”
“To Coopers Creek, that’s for sure – nice and sunny. Lots of fish would be nice on the barbeque, with a beer or maybe two and then three – x3 and more.” Everything in moderation – even black pudding. Twas an offer from the boss. “Where’s this going?” “Dead and gone”. “Ate them – yum”.
Back to weekend. Poor, poor frog. Scrub worms or tse tse flyks or soft lures wrapped around your hook thingy with your dangly bits that would hurt. Would be painful, but slightly pleasurable. “You are sick”. “Which is wrong?”
He likes piercings. The pleasurable pain of sticking metal thru your lips and out your left red swollen nostril and cheek – as blood squirts from your nose, dribbles down chin. “AND I’M SICK”.. onto your silky soft lips – swollen with excess green festering puss….. “NOW THAT’S SICK”. Not sick – puss in boots was divin down low to the bottom of the mudpit to entice AB to follow him to the vicar and Burt Newt0n to have a top twenty idols. Not us Bob…..off road camping 0rgy of eating bunyups and old possums in the stewpot. What old possums? Your it, aye. And yer boots for spaggetti and frogs alacarte. What a feast for the dog and his owner – who was sick from eating frogs.
Need a beer to cool down the GU radiator before he drinks the crab juice and spews his guts all over his clean patrol.
“ Oh, bloody hell – missed the landcrab”.
“No it didn’t. Perfect shot. Now repeat it”. Eats into paint like acid does. Cheap landcrab paint – very thin mix. “Clean the GU”. “Already done that”. Now a mudbath for all involved. Down to river.
Can’t - Bob’s fishing…He gets sh!tty. You are right. Let’s mudbath him. So do I. Roofy likes fishing in a mud bath. Sometimes you swim next to reeds – slime green – like Hippo’s boogers. That smell like off silage wrap rolled in sheep pellets and roo poo. Luvelly jubbly with squashed frogs, tadpoles warts and pineapple fritters, crackle, ice cream, popcorn, crème of newt, eye of lizard and nowoolies avatar. “Ooohhhh, my spider craws on wrangers, and on chips - don’t forget salt and tommy sauce for the aaaa apples covered in toffee and wombat droppings. Good ‘n’ nutty and emu grits – nice and chewy.
Boxes - little boxes of fine chockies makes you fat. After that feast, we’re up the hills with the ol’ goat herder carrying a whip, wearing black leather bumless pants and fishnet stockings, with ugly cr0tchless kn!ckers – smell just great.
DX grunt needs bath because he been everywhere, man. Driving, driving and playing in sand. Jumping the dunes in black fishnets - keeps him cool – and lots sand, sun and stingers caught in a net – “fishnet” stockings – but no fish – only fishy smells and a wet mattress from gull wing to the sea, jumping dolphins 2c how smart they train us humans to feed fish – to throw fish to us in…. at insane humans until a shark nibbles a fin and then all of the bunyups and the aliens died of shock. Thank god. Amen.
But the Mexicans and the Italians ate more pizza and drank wine around a campfire with good company. Lots of yarns – not all true, not all false, but totally believable in every detail, except the bit where it’s true, and the only thing about truth bit that is, it’s alike that no one like. But it’s all for the greater part of life in the ocean – until caught out.
It was now snail versus slug. N’the race was on for the quickest cooked beans on the planet made by 4x4 campers in Qld, Vic nNSW, SA, WA, nTassie, NT & ACT – together on the …I didn’t forget the top end or Kris nACT. Lol lol lol.
While we were drinking bourbons and sipping lemon tea with a snag and cold beer – watching Bigrig play up by drinking lemonade and getting a litre of milk, mixing it together, adding some scotch and some juice, while eating oysters out on Plassy’s boat, where frantically bailing the scotch into a large bucket. “Who spilt it – Jack or Jill, David and Goliath, Bill or Ben, Mork or Mindy. Who really knows?
Thomas the tankengine – he did it. He was going fast – way too fast to stop him, when Bigrig and bucket came to the rusted cattlegrid, when he realized there’s a hole init. Filled with muddy slop scotch beer and c0ke. He then dived in. It took the winch, which fat controller got for Bigrig – though he’s forgotten all about it since last session of sorting trains and drinking beer with drunken martians and plastered numbats and naked nymphs. What a bender. Will go blind and do things that they shouldn’t – ask -dhuck does.
Lost the thread and the need to repair socks and y fronts and shirt buttons – all made with itchy fiberglass thread and dental floss, utilizing pub!c h@ir from AB’s nether regions from a large steaming bowl of the world’s finest sticky sago pudding. The pudding was sourced from the steamy tar pits of outer Mongolia, created by yaks, ridden by monks in the Simpson Desert with solem faces praying that the next generation of kids had some respect for the Aussie way on the wrong planet, where aliens live, eating human brains and driving space ships to get bunyips from under bridges humping the ground in pink skirts, drinking glasses of beer, while eating spicy curry pasta soup – with a hint of lemon dipped tyres that were all-terrains, deep fried and quietly snap frozen in DX’s freezer.
“You like tyres – just black rubbers, in the freezer?” Quite a fettish for animalistic men.
Very quietly they tip toed away without being seen by the Rozzas – who were very interested in AB’s GQ. But Timbo’s mate sensed something bad as they cruised at great speed towards the infinite Cooper’s Creek Reserve.
Unfortunately someone didn’t have a G string, so went skinny dipping in sloppy green sauce, with red algae from planet Mars.
Soup for bunyips, spiders from Mars, dogs from Pluto and dhucks from Uranus. Saturn and Mars where they… where I can’t see Uranus. A big brown cloud of muddied water ran down his chin onto his very large belly.
And next he called over Clunk. “Oi, Fat Boy”. Clunk trudged over.
“Is that really you in there?”
“You’re in deep you old b@st@rd”, as he yelled Ahh Ahhh Ahhh (like Tarzan does).
Jane answered: ‘w@nker’, to which T@rzan and Chee@h said: “You mongrel animal. Bring my elephant. He big trunk. He wopem good and make big bowl of soup, croutons and beer, stinky p00 balls and sticky dags hanging from their sweaty dangly bits either side of their ball joints and wheel bearings”. But Clunk scratched his wide load, loosely tied down on Tim’s truck with occy straps and booger strings from little babies’ fully loaded nappies.
Into the sling shot, big hairy balls that were smelly and stained with diesel and petrol, sourced from L!b!a, straight from G@d@f!’s own personal cache – wrapped in gold wrapped chocolate coins – with caramel centres that were gooey with blood from an experimental whale – shot by blue peas for tuna patties – for experimental purposes – but taste yuuummm when eaten raw with fir se@l blood, washed down with moon –bear bile. Ah, yummy yummy, in my tummy. It slowly expands until an almighty foul smelling fart launches my Patrol into a landcrab.
I peeled myself off the seat and on to the crappa for a big after grog bog – needed for research and whipped crapola with my m0t0r0l@ off the front of my stinkin two headed thingybob.
Hope you kept a sample of ya mum’s home made sticky sago pudding for biological warfare against you know who, and his mass of loyal supporters? Rage towards the terrible f@rt gas, gagging and choking until he plugged his but hole with a carrot and blew his head off.
Now that’s done, he went for some apple pie, when he slipped on a banana and came third, instead of first, thereby losing the biggest thing of his life. Whole of L!by@ and jumped into the green slop of martian regurgitation of bunyips and space age thrippets. “I’m here”, screamed the Gh()st Busters. Let’s bust the gh()sts with our toasters, then eat them with lotsa butter and yummie v3g3m!t# and black coffee and orange juice – while watching TV, to gain knowledge about the desert, about nothing serious, or very funny, but interesting nevertheless. Cause was about eating bunyips eating martians in their spaceships.
Twas the Enterpr!se in the middle of the Simpson – in the heat – beside the stove – cooking a stew, maybe a p00 scooper salad with crusty croutons. “Mmm, yummy”, he shouts out to Rosco, while holding a beer in one hand and a chocolate in his stinky jocks. Except the problem. They weren’t his – they were Patty’s and that was Burt was cut from chunnel #### in a straight jacket and cuffs, with fluffy straps hanging from nostril from the shot.
While upside down, he tried relieving wit cough medication and vodka shot. That haggling cough stopped dun lone from thirty day in his trax. He had a nasty case of hiccups and laughing at same time.
#3877… page 388
DX grunt
5th March 2011, 09:22 PM
Another update people.......................................I'll keep on top of it this time. lolol
While upside down, he tried relieving wit cough medication and vodka shot. That haggling cough stopped dun lone from thirty day in his trax. He had a nasty case of hiccups and laughing at same time, as drinking c()ke while on the…...(?????)
“Wot a yarn,” she said – smiling with seductive lips stuck on her forehead, eating salty plumbs that made her squeal like she ‘love u longtime. And in the heat of the moment, who should arrive in the woods, but a group of ‘trollers, driving tough patrollers, skulling dead landcruisers left by owners of the cruisers, covered in bunyip and other crap that Burt had sh@t on yesterday looking at cruisers – and his son couldn’t believe what just happened.
Then, just like before, cracked it again. His piston broke and rings shattered, bent his rod through the side of his custard pie soft cruiser block.
Nissan Patrol will always triumph over anything and everything that crosses its palm with gold inlaid mickey Thompsons, available at the bargain basement price of twenty bucks worth of chips, with 4 frogs and a princess with a very large tub of mayonnaise and pea soup.
To fix the thermostat, with the exemption of the 4 frogs dying of thirst, until Bigrig’s carton fell off his laden fridge into a large tub of ice.
“Load of b*##@h!t. It really slipped deeper and deeper into the mud and got stuck.
“Oh Fxxk,” he cried.
Andy, as he reached for a beer – while crying uncontrollably – his truck stuck, no winch aboard, and now way out, no GU available for the snatch - and that’s bad for Big Fletcha’s stubby holder stick. “No recovery practice means no knowledge – boo hoo hoo”
3960 p 396
DX grunt
5th March 2011, 09:40 PM
well Rosscoe at least we have it now as BigRig let us down(lol), he had the whole two weeks you were away(slacko scotty) and what happened a real sober man had to do it. 3 cheers for DX GRunt!
Scotty did a great job. I thought he was going to do a second update but he didn't. It took me hours to handwrite it and type it! Luckily I can touch type and it wasn't a big issue. I expect at least a block when we meet - and that's not a block of wood either. lol
The thing about this thread is that you can't predict its intensity. Some days we're lucky to get a bite, other days it's 3-5 pages - at 10 entries per page. Thanks Scotty - great job.
Now let's get back on track.... please
Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.2 Copyright © 2024 vBulletin Solutions, Inc. All rights reserved.