Folks, the Red Hen, America (Lexington, Va.) not to be confused with the Red Hen of Australia that Welsh rabbit, Julia Gillard, another ravin, fumin, smokin, dumb broad from the left of sanity, has escaped her pen and run amuck in the chitlin fields of middle America. If Sarah Huckabee Sanders had been a nice little black or ethnic okie from the underbelly of America where the sun never shines and everyone wears white shoes, then the shit of the do-gooders would have hit the fans of the righteous and the good Lord Almighty, would have laid a thousand doo-dahs! doo-dahs! De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Can’t touch bottom wid a ten foot pole—Oh! doo-dah-day! Stephanie Wilkinson, co-owner of the Red Hen, is a horse’s arse!
Katy Gallagher, a Labor dead beat, was thrown out of the Senate for breaching section 44 of Constitution. Now she’s back, without so much as a by your leave, spreading buttercups and daisies as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth; not a care in the world not an ounce of remorse for duping the Australian public. This country is overrun with pommy retreads.
Crocodiles have been seen swimming and sunning themselves at two popular Far North Queensland water holes. Take it from me folks, ya can always tell a crocodile lover because they wear their underdaks up their bum crack and live in a cold climate. Everyone knows a dead croc is a good one; shoot em high, shoot em low, shoot em up anytime. Those dam crocs we seek em here, we seek em der, we seek em ebbrywhere. Those dam crocs are good for nuttin, nuttin, not a ting at all. Lets get rid of them and celebrate a day at the beach croc free.
But the biggest kick I ever got was doing a thing called the Crocodile Chop. While the other kids were rocking round the clock, we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Chop.
Folks, the amount of ill wind that is directed at Barnaby Joyce at the moment, is hard to fathom. I thought, perhaps people had confused Barnaby with another person; voila: the pin dropped and there it is to behold. Barnaby Joyce is neither the son of William Joyce, Lord Haw-Haw nor the reincarnation of Lord Haw-Haw. So can we move on please. Try and pick on someone your own size.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,
Up stairs an’ doon stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin’ at the window, crying at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed, for the shirt-lifters are about?”
One thing Barnaby Joyce and Vikki Campion have that all these other nasty oopsies don’t have, is dear little baby Sebastian. When ya a desiccated, wizened piece of LBT who’s spent a life cockin ya arse at anything that moves in a gay mardi gras, it would be niece to come home and settle down with a wee bairn. Envy, dear reader; envy.
Well me old hearties here we go again, the domestic violence stick to beat men over the head with but more importantly to continue the feminist propaganda of blaming men for all the ills in the world is being paraded round the table again. We are told by the homosexual elements of the world that gender is not a fixed determinant but a matter of choice, and rigidity in questions of social and sexual intercourse should be rejected and always remain a matter of choice as the individual is a sovereign person at liberty to define their own status and happiness. It has nothing to with the church or the state. Feminists have constantly been shifting the debate in a way to remove all blame from women in regards any association or dealings with men, eg the crapola over female consent to sex: women reserve the right to with draw their consent, post-coital tristesse. Now we find that the results prove that domestic violence, in its most dangerous form, is overwhelmingly committed by men against women. Until women acknowledge and accept that they are just as culpable as the man in a relationship and drop the bullshit about men stealing their affection and love the story of sex and violence will go on ever.