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Wide World of Sport - The Peng Cricket Challenge Cup.


Noba

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Oh, How I hate Stuartssessess;

Let me count the ways.

Whether 'tis by their breadth of shootey behavior,

Or the depth of the running aroundedness,

Yeah, and verily,

Do I hate them.

I hate them for their rapid-fire retorts

and the rat-at-ata-at-tat-atat-attat (oh, feck it) of their multiple machine guns.

Such puny fruit-flys of combat, yet wearying in their tenacity

I hates them.

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And so dawns another typical day in the military career of your old, all-mighty, all-conquering Unca Stukey.

Noba has surrendered.....

Leeo is within mere turns of a losing his last flag.....

Boo thought that losing a tank to an 88 pillbox meant it was a good idea to drive another tank in the same direction....bad idea.

Joe Xhia is hiding behind real life excuses of something called 'work'. He lies.....

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There you have it, then. It is Saturday morning...roughly speaking, and I am alive, while Dalem is clearly dead. I look around. I see myself; I do not see Dalem.

I attribute my well-deserved victory to clean living, a light, healthful diet of pork, alcohol and radishes, and by the judicious use of my vote to support the Liberal Party. All of which has led to this glorious day, and a soon to be cooked breakfast of eggs, pig and stout.

While the outcome was never in doubt, I would like to say that my opponent fought a good fight, but was sadly competing in a league beyond his abilities. And, despite the brutal and savage taunting, which included over 45 minutes of randomly reading things to me off his bookshelves, despite my repeated protests, I bear him no ill-will.

As I move now to fill myself a healthful glass, I can only imagine the surprised and rather comical expression that must be on his face right now, as his soul arrives in Hell. Good luck to him, I say, best wishes, and mind the laughing demon with the instruments of torture behind you. Do not think of this as a 'defeat', Dalem, but rather a simple act of 'extraordinary rendition'.

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There you have it, then. It is Saturday morning...roughly speaking, and I am alive, while Dalem is clearly dead. I look around. I see myself; I do not see Dalem.

I attribute my well-deserved victory to clean living, a light, healthful diet of pork, alcohol and radishes, and by the judicious use of my vote to support the Liberal Party. All of which has led to this glorious day, and a soon to be cooked breakfast of eggs, pig and stout.

While the outcome was never in doubt, I would like to say that my opponent fought a good fight, but was sadly competing in a league beyond his abilities. And, despite the brutal and savage taunting, which included over 45 minutes of randomly reading things to me off his bookshelves, despite my repeated protests, I bear him no ill-will.

As I move now to fill myself a healthful glass, I can only imagine the surprised and rather comical expression that must be on his face right now, as his soul arrives in Hell. Good luck to him, I say, best wishes, and mind the laughing demon with the instruments of torture behind you. Do not think of this as a 'defeat', Dalem, but rather a simple act of 'extraordinary rendition'.

What?

I mean... what?

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I hear the Bard, and I have a sudden urge to wend my way to Many-apple-ess to give the Gnome a hug. We are of a kind, separated by distance. But the death of a dalem is not to be celebrated, but to be pitied. Without a dalem, how do we know that we but trod upon the same path of illusion. Where cigars matter, and health care don't; where we bail out the rich, and drown the poor; where we make money on the backs of the average slob, and thank the board for puttin' the screws in?

I've drank enough to drown a hippo, yet still, these truth's do I hold dear; a bawdy song and sharing of liquor with the bard sings sweetly to my ear. "Head West, old man, for we have streams aplenty, oceans to roam, and an old agitator can easily find home."

So let it be slurred, so let it be done.

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There you have it, then. It is Saturday morning...roughly speaking, and I am alive, while Dalem is clearly dead. I look around. I see myself; I do not see Dalem.

I attribute my well-deserved victory to clean living, a light, healthful diet of pork, alcohol and radishes, and by the judicious use of my vote to support the Liberal Party. All of which has led to this glorious day, and a soon to be cooked breakfast of eggs, pig and stout.

While the outcome was never in doubt, I would like to say that my opponent fought a good fight, but was sadly competing in a league beyond his abilities. And, despite the brutal and savage taunting, which included over 45 minutes of randomly reading things to me off his bookshelves, despite my repeated protests, I bear him no ill-will.

As I move now to fill myself a healthful glass, I can only imagine the surprised and rather comical expression that must be on his face right now, as his soul arrives in Hell. Good luck to him, I say, best wishes, and mind the laughing demon with the instruments of torture behind you. Do not think of this as a 'defeat', Dalem, but rather a simple act of 'extraordinary rendition'.

What?

I mean... what?

Best I can tell, we're dealing with a split-personality here. Seanachai occupies the right brain while dalem occupied the left brain. The stroke affected the left brain, ergo, dalem is now dead.

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Anyhoos, another business trip beckons...back to India for 3 days.

I'm taking the Lady Baroness Von Stuka along this time as the 2nd day is a free day and i've got a driver to take us to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal. If you are good little bunnies I might even post a photo! (Yes , yes Michael stop clapping your hands, I know you are excited)

I WILL be in internet contact so don't anyone be thinking your old Unca Stukey will be taking his eye off the ball, I am...............ever vigilant.

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AHAHAaaAaa!!!!! Fandangling another's post!!! A criminal offence by your own undertaking Joey Xhiacophagus, I will devise a suitable sentence to be passed upon you whilst I soak up the luxury of business class travel and 5 star hotels in exotic lands.

PS. You are now officially a Boo clone, you know that don't you?

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AHAHAaaAaa!!!!! Fandangling another's post!!! A criminal offence by your own undertaking Joey Xhiacophagus, I will devise a suitable sentence to be passed upon you whilst I soak up the luxury of business class travel and 5 star hotels in exotic lands.

PS. You are now officially a Boo clone, you know that don't you?

Not at all young Stuka, nothing could be further from the truth.

There is a very substantial difference between simply changing the actual post ... something that even a simpleton like Boo Radley ... or you ... could do in a moment and CORRECTING an incorrect word usage with an acknowledgement that it WAS a correction.

After all, the 32 words whose meaning you actually know can only go so far.

By the way, do the five star hotels in the hellholes you visit have running water and if so how far do you have to go to get to the gutter it flows through?

Joe

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Whoah, whoah, whoah....just a minute there, pardner...

You really mean to tell us you don't know how to make beer?

Somebody get a rope.

Gawd you're dense ... I refer to the statement made by Seanachai in which he said/wrote:
... and a soon to be cooked breakfast of eggs, pig and stout.

Since I'm fairly well up to speed on the process of cooking eggs and pigs I thought I'd inquire as to the methodology he used in cooking stout.

Did I REALLY sign off on you becoming a Knight?

Joe

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