The title of this short, very short, piece has hit back at the clams of the content that there is nothing in it.
"I strongly deny that I have ever had anything to do with the actual content," the title told reporters waiting on their hands and feet.
It's a clam that the content has rejected in the strongest possible times.
"The title and I both know who's been leading who," the continent told shifting plates of peas.
In these heady times, the battle between head and body has never been more farce.
"I could go on all day," the body of peas told the head of a fork and spoon.
A speedy resolution is expected to be brought by a screen in process.
The filthy content of this post has lashed out violently at the title of this piece in a stunning burst of creativity by its haphazard author.
The content, who wished to be remain deeply discontented now that it's wintery, has refused to admit that.
When questioned by the author of the piece, the content simply went blank and urinated over an acclaimed author.
"I'm not an acclaimed author," the author of the content wrote in his own faeces, "But I wish I wasn't," he said eating a mudcake.
The title, alarmed that its passivity has been called into question, has remained steadfast in its public position that it should lead.
"My fellow Australians," the leader told its subjects, "I am the one with the big title here," he said while polishing his bedpost.
The saga is set to have tongues wagging school and hanging out in undesirable locations across the virtual world.
A university educated butcher and pillow of the community has put down his wife's cleavage after witnessing the wholesale laughter of animals in his neighbour's boudoir.
"They were laughing at their plight," the bloody butcher told patrons of the arts, "It made me rethink how much suffering I really cause."
His wife, a very buxom madam, is dismayed that her inseminator will no longer be eating her lactating treats.
"This is absolute tripe," she sniped, "And it's only $2 a kilo."
Cows, happy to be taken to laughter, refused to admit that they are the central fingers in a rort that seeds millions of bucks flow into already bulging hips.
"Those with money don't really care as long their money is making yet more," one innocent veal chop told apple sauces who wished to remain apples.
Corn-lover, chimp-magnet, and dog-skinner, Jennifer Lopez has been upstaged in a special ceremony to honour the charitable work of her crab-catcher.
The mangey oyster, responsible for more head-trauma than her larynx, will never be the sane again after delivering two bouncing baby bangers onto a plate of mash.
The pair of sausages, mostly lips and anuses, stunningly responsible for upstaging Lopez's stunner of a stunt, are avoiding the media for fear of a squint of sauce.
Lopez strenuosly denies reports that her monkey-maker will never wink quite as well as before.
"These little ones of mine," JLo told her bank-roller, "didn't even touch the sides."
"I've still got my own lips and anus anyway," a furious JLo said while scoffing down a sausage.
Lopez is set to jump her motormouth over her grand canyon in the coming weeks.
Acquisitional artist to the stores, Ken Done has been arrested by police at his palatial abode after an investigation discovered he was the head of a child-pornography rink.
"He's been skating on thin ice," said the detective in charge of the arresting ice-ballet.
The artist, businessman, designer, child-molester, pedophile, poofter-pasher, scrabble-player, monopoly-exponent, tea-toweller, t-shirter, back-scratcher, mind-bender, moustache-wearer and short-lifter released a statement to the media that was too bright and colourful to be anything other than the work of a bucket-waver.
"I am innocent of the charges," he stated, "but I wouldn't mind if I wasn't."
The skirt-licker is believed to have a penchant for people in pre-pubescence.
"What's done is done," Done told his bank-manager while frittering away his banana-lounge.
The case continues.
Serial Killers Union of Australia (SKUA) boss Ivan Milat has met with officials from the meat industry to discuss a possible amalgamation of the two industries that Milat describes as "very, very, very, very, violent."
"Most people, the great majority, think that acts of wretched violence, brutality and inhumanity are somehow utterly repugnant to them," the multilpe mutilator told his gun collection.
"That they think this as they tuck into their mutton-chops, in their leather shoes is what I would call having your head in the bloody sand-pit," he chuffed chewing his rump.
A meat-worker, who wished to remain in a blood-stained suit and accustomed to the wholesale slaughter of the innocent, has asked vegetarians protesting the stringing-up and throat-slitting of beasts to "eat me".
"Clearly killing is every communities bread and butter," he called from his carcass.
That ordinary people think they are not directly responsible for taking lives is just more evidence of the world in which we live.
That we live in fear of it coming back to bite us at the hands of a more brutal (human)animal is not a fair price to pay.
That not enough of us here in a free-country aren't taken by murderers has me scratching my only mutton-chops.
SKUA boss Milat told his victims that his victims tolled more than the humans he tied up and tortured.
"I started out with animals," the skewerer said, "then I really took to people."
The buxom beauty behind so many of our favourite ballads has gone ballistic at the break in her bony beaver-burrower.
"It smells fishy to me," undies-nostrillers told themselves while whacking their walnuts.
Britney's publicist, a part-time publican and bookie, told passing carps that Spears went to the doctor complaining of pains all over her money-maker but upon feeling herself up and down was informed of a fractured finger.
The devastated bird-giver will have the digit in traction for up to one metre while the injury heals.
Her beaver, busier than a St. Kilda beaver working towards a lodging, will have to make do with a steady diet of synthetic fingers until then.
Logs for Ms. Spears beaver have made quite a splash in recent weeks.
"She loves that shit," lovers for the lady laid bare today and tomorrow and yesterday and next week.
In a coup for wealthy arts-holes, striving artists have increased the size of the pool in the Archibald lottery.
"We've had to dig around in the dirt for years," said one blood-shot-eyed loser in a dtch.
The coup, chicken-feed for wealthy cats, is a cage.
The pool cleaner, a woman without a moustache, arrived with her children to sweep the pool for her.
"It's not creepy to get my crawlers to do my dirty work," she told the wealthy land-owners.
There can only be one winner in the exploitation of pool-diggers.
"It's me," the winner told jubilant art-lovers.
When asked if she could be any clearer, she told baby-shitters for Sean Connery: "Do I have to paint a picture for you?"
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