I’m piling on those roo-eaters while they’re sleeping away their winter night while the rest of us are getting ready to watch the Summer Olympics.
In a fortnight, the whole world will forget that the “thorpedo” ever existed. As a matter of fact, I expect it to be so bad that we’ll have to rename “torpedos” to disassociate them from the “Blunder from Down Under”
Thorpeed-slow isn’t man enough to sniff Phelps’ speedo.
While you all are spreading vegemite on Koalas that you’re throwin’ on the barbie, Ian will be coughing up water from Michael Phelps’ wake.
As Paul Hogan would say, " 'At’s not a swimmah. THIS is a swimmah."
So you all can keep that digiridoo-listening, upside-down-walking, kangaroo-boxing, barby-shrimping, broken-egg-opera-house-attending, wake-chugging, spawn-of-criminal-being, water-vortex-reversing, rabbit-proof-fencing, croc-hunting, QUEEN OF THE DESERT.
Cause we got Michael Phelps. And he’s gonna get down GOOD ON YA!
“PHELPS. . .American for ‘kicking Thorpe’s ass’”.