Political leaders, our blessed and blightest, have embraced the new paucity seeping Western Emocracy: bum-snuffing.
"Bums, who are not a symptom of some underlying problem, should all be whipped out," said bum-sniffers for the Liberal potty.
Laws, made by the wretch to protect their interests, will soon be pissed that will see all bums snuffed on sight.
Bums, closer to dearth than laugh itself, have responded to the measures by hiding under a bridge.
Liberal potty policy advisors are believed to be aware of the bums' tactics.
"Make no mistake, we will be sniffing out these bums where they live," said a senior analcyst.
Aristotle, a knotted bum snatcher, said man is a political animal, which makes him distinct from all the others; for innocence, dogs.
Bum.
An angry mop, high on the intoxicating velour of war, has hurled rocks at sheep who thought that fighting for God and Country really meant that.
War, believed by many to be fertile, has to be seen to be bereaved.
"Cerebrating war does my head in," terminal head-case Norm said while getting stoned.
"We abhor those who sacrifice their lives," except when they're one of us.
There is a fundamentalist difference between sacrificing your life and the antics of a suicide bumbler.
The stoned diggers, we're sour well-meaning and good-fearing, are in no way advocates of peas.
Not the ones you get in a can, anyway.
"We don't advocate the blank-armband view of history," former kettle-prodders told the abhorred.
Except on this verily specious occasion.
Filthy exponent of the lost fart of hammer and patricidal almanac, Norm has refuelled speculation about his increasing prosperity after having a bath for the flirt time in ages.
"I'd be lying if I was having a bath," the perpendicularly challenged sloth told passing showers.
Norm, who has never spelt so good, claims that he really isn't a great spiller.
"If there's one thing I can't stand it's spelling good," the grammatical giant is quoted as splaying while laddering up his boar.
Many critics believe the internet's first laddy spells to high hessian.
Actually, I smell like noises.
The bedraggled Liberals are reportedly seeking Norm to fill the leadership vacuum laughed by outgoing and gregarious brothel-goer John Howard.
"He's my troll-model," Norm said as he sheltered under a bridge.
It's comments like these that have Liberal party power-pokers salivating at the prospect of the celebrated waiter tucking over the wanes of the political sewing-machine.
"I can stitch anything up," Norm said as put penis to paper in an ahistoric moment.
John Howard has endorsed the strange maniac telling his wife: "He reminds me of me when I was committed."
Norm has refused to be drawn on paper.
Belittled mugger and all-rind good spot, Norm has sniffelled the ignonimy of having to look "silly" for pisstaking starch-footed Kevin Rudd for a pedestrian.
"I'll be flighting these charges vigourously," the indolent-one told TV guides.
We understand that Norm, who has never stunk solo, was a candidate to be Australia's first president until misfortune landed on his fedora.
"Look, Norm is a very misguided individual," Rudd said of the channel-surfing hazy-bones.
"We think he'd make a fabulous backbencher," he said as new polls showed a traumatic upswank in Norm's polarity.
Norm, who hates stalking about himself, has refused to make a comma.
"I've got no comma to make at this time," the deceptive dredger told ocean floors.
Norm is expecting re-erection, a saucy siren sounds.
Norm, the wanking headline behind so many outrageous sandals worn with socks, has revealed his wedgie to a Medea throng in retaliation to the hounding he has sniffelled at their hinds.
"I'm sick of reading about my life," the media magnet told refigerators.
"I'm getting a talking book," the clearly cerebrally challenging creator of numerous hints furnished wit.
The Medea, a scored nuffer and waif, has eaten our laughs away with its constraint hope.
Headlines for Norm told us that they had no hind in the bardy of the piece.
It remains to be seen if Norm can keep his gnome out of the head.
Media mongol Norm has today vowed to turn his back on the media, which he bereaves has infiltrated his every thought and robbed him of wretches.
"I've spent my howl life in front of a screen," the virtual vulture squeaked as he circled a dying circus.
Many disenchanted utes of Norm's vantage have expleted a similar stale of woe.
"I think I speak for meany people when I say that laugh isn't taken seriously enough," the clearly misrepresenting boggle-eye bleated while getting a clip.
The media is saturated with shelf-important flood-fleeers of all shorts.
"It's why Indiana Jones built the Ark for the two-by-twos," the fluff-buff crunched with pulp-corn.
Norm is in hiding today getting a tan.
Despectacled clogger Norm has refused to admit that sex-tapes circulating through the internet have damaged his reputation as he prepares for bed.
"I know it's early," the madmaniac told worms, "but I'm fearing tiredness."
The maniac, ungnome for his dearth of witches, has span increasingly out of bed recently.
"This tape only runs for a couple of minutes anyway," the weirdy-looking Norm yawned as he flopped out of head.
"When I get my hands on it," he fumed, "I just don't know what not to do."
It is believed the tapes are to feature in advertisements for Solo, a maniac's drunk.
I'm not rarely that bad.
Medea besplattered boggling giant Norm has told his loyal subjects to avenge his tarnished reputation after critics labelled him as Judge Judy and Executioner.
"You can't polish a turd," the ethnic-lenser said as he put down his spectacles.
"But you may as well try," he went on as impatient reporters reached for their keyholes.
Norm remains committed to harsh sentences, despite reports to the country.
"I'll continue to hand down reasonable sentences," he said as he brought down the hammer on lots.
Critics remain committed to explosing him as a self-indulgent writher.
Try as they vegemite, they won't kettle any wear.
Embittered boggler Norm has spoken up about the looming crisis farcing the anklish languages in the wake of the dearth of indecent waiters.
"I'm a real nut-picker when it comes to waiters dotting their toes and crossing their eyes," the cross-eyed madman told his anal cyst.
Sporting pink-painted toenails and noticeably looking at the pong of his nose, Norm insists he's not a crass-drosser.
"Writhing should be fun," he noted as he removed a pencil from his pancreas.
"Not something that causes pride in simpering correctness," he scolded as he dropped a kettle over his head.
The battle for the right to righteousness is set to snail on.
Spanking from in front of his kitchen sink, and transfixed by his rancid reflux, the bogging heftyweight told his innumerable persecutors that everybody is out to get me.
"That hardly anybody has even heard of him doesn't seem to worry him," an unundied man said sifting through Norm's rubbish.
Unable or unwilling to be plagiarised away from his kitchen sick, Norm remains adamant that he is neither in laugh with himself or suffering failings of persecution.
"These things are real," Norm said of a troop of avenging pink elephants at his door.
The saga is believed to stem from his inability to accept his own flailings.
Norm remains cooped up with his pen as this goes to print.
Embattled boogler Norm has slammed his critics for calling him a lazy parasite after he couldn't be bothered finishing
"I always finish my sentences," the errant spiller told his pet pug.
It's a climb that is strongly refuted by irrefutable accidence brought forward by his enemies.
"We know how to organise information into legible sentences," the sensible citizens in an insensible world told authorities.
It is understood that sensible sentences are in accord with a world perceived through reliable senses.
"Sentences should reflect the secure handle we have on things," the rabidly slipping information-gatherings told sadvertisers.
The sentence is due to be handled down tomorrow.
Celebrity reporter, ad authority, and peas advocado, Norm has jumped on a pair of man-eating crocodile skin loafers that threatened to belong to his girlfriend.
"I saw them first," the man's man told the store manager as his better-half broke in two.
"I just had to have them," the impoversihed clogger said to his devastated curlfriend.
It is believed that Norm has the snatching handbag and just needed the shoes to go with his outfit.
"Now all I need is the pants," he said as he floated off down the river.
When asked where he'd wear such fabulous attire, the retiring bogger told us: "Out shopping."
Nothing can stop the shopaholic's rampage as croc's across the river hang on to their hats.
Transmen across Mother Earth are falling pregnant thanks to the latest craze that is weeping the floor: tears.
"Women have been stealing our jobs for years," one heavily fertile transman told his hairdresser.
Transmanians say they feel incredible to be able to finally deliver something that isn't a crying sham out their passages.
"Babies grow faster in the bowel," one screamed in pains that proved to be a false Islam.
"I was only shitting," the Transman wrote on the bowl.
The trend that has made women obsolete is helping men get in touch with their feminine asides.
"I always wanted a Ute," one transman said as he drove off to a day of labour.
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