I also have doubts if you really are an Aussie because you came into a bar and never bought a drink Damn me didgeridoo Dave! I'm as dry as a dead dingo's donga! How much can a koala bear!

My daddy doesn’t gib me guns, ’cause he doesn’t like dem. But Pop will gib me one when I gets ten.

[…] the opinion, therefore, that those ruffless males are birds of a very late brood of the preceding season, is a reasonable conjecture.

If this results in a society which MacIntyre has criticized as being the province of the manager, the aesthete and the analyst, types almost sinister in their philosophical lightmindedness, superficiality, programmed uninterestingness, and their depressingly spineless willingness to grant the presence of 'despicable types' for the sake of political freedom, then so be it.