Venstre-vikingernes saga

The much talk about who will be the Left’s crown prince has created a printed Christmas spirit in the party. It was a very cool game that year in the chief Erik from Ringe camp. Although the combatants sucked Skjoldmøen Helga’s home-topped variety sausages in it with lust and gassed in the subject of avet-turned creatures, not everything was as it should be. Galt was when the goose had to be cut for. As usual, it was chieftain to put out the roast, but just as Erik from Ringe was ready, there sounded low-key sneaky talk at the long table. One and another made it known that the chief should rehearse others in the millet for the job. For this it should happen that the chief lost the strength to divorce chest and abdominal fillings in equal lunches, it was best to know who had the ability to control the sword in the scene of fate when mouth water wells made warriors plump. When Fo 'r Erik from Ringe up and quad: “About someone dares to mention that chieftain only does not let the cuckoo get first of prunes and fright and mouths with darkness, while good people have to let themselves gnaw to gump, then chieftain has yet the strength to make small chopped jam of slike heavy-duty thoughts.” Then there was no more talk about it that winter.