Topical cancer and world-renounced waddler Norm has told his doctors of his despair-tire over the facts of laugh.
"I need a sex change," the celebrated abductor said as he nuzzled up to his shotty.
"Some, for a change," he explained, looking down the barrels of bodies in his fault.
"He really needs this," a nurse attending Norm told police as they swapped her.
Norm, who some have descried as the best thing since sliced head, is understood to be trapped inside his very body.
"I have described myself thus," Norm said, picking pellets out of his teeth.
"Don't call me chicken," he said as he hatched a planet.
Doctors believe that we are all trapped inside our bodices.
The heavily pregnant father of his wife and gun wielding wrestling maniac told the disbelieving Pollack, before he pimped him full of lead, that he was one of his chosen people.
"I am not saying I'm God, or that I'm a know-it-all. I'm just saying I'm a woman trapped inside the body of a man," the transgendered man told customs officials.
Police politely apprehended the suspicious sort swiftly as s/he tried on swimsuits in a stall at the delicatessan.
"There's nothing delicate about this salami," the suspect said swinging a sausage from his skirt.
Shoppers had become alarmed after waking up to a loud ringing in their rears later identified as shorts being fried from the assailant's scone.
"Have you ever seen a Jew earing shorts?", a white-wing croupier told gambollers as he chased after the trannie.
It was then that Police swooned on the shemale with a mating ritual that onlookers have described as a cancer.
Pollack, lying dying in the street, could only watch on as his wife pissed before his eyes.
Thus ended the worst day of shooting in the detractor's career.
Churchman cometh Pope Ratsinger has praised Henson's reanimated corpse for its Christ-like resurrection.
"I wouldn't leave him alone with my own children," Ratsinger told his cronies as he dressed up in garb consistent with the humility one would associate with being in awe of the all matey.
Henson, beshotted dead by irate taxidermist Travis Bickle, has walked the art scene on the hunt for brains.
"Sadly, the people who come after me don't have any," Henson's Zombie confessed to his shepherd's piles.
The piles, distinctly uncomfortable, have come out of hiding from the rectum of an actor.
As the chilled actor Jodie Foster said to the bishop: "Let's just get this over with," as the bishop's leg made it's way over.
Pedophiles trawling the net have latched onto the only known photographs of naked children made available by the bishop's sheep and the chilled tractor, Henson.
"The human body, at all stages of its development, is something we should all feel..." Henson broke off with as his corpse became stiff.
"Ashamed of!" the choir varnished offal with.
The stiffs continue to work the dearth.
The religiously zealous head of a colony of the US has vowed vengeance on his butter enemies: the fragrantly humoursexual.
"I can't wait to get my hands on my machete so I can give it to a sinner," the head of stale told his fairy godfather.
Told to never go against the family, the head has vowed to merry his chide-hood sweety in a ceremony to be presided over by laundryrefrigerator Elton John.
"I miss Daniel too, but not that much," Elton John told his piano tuner as he played with his keys.
The perfect machete at the centre of the head-chop allegations being launched at closet armysexual Tania Zaetta will ulcer, accordion to players, see heads rule.
Heads of all notions are lathering adults.
The new vehicle, descried by executives as the latest in the ever-decreasing gap between desitiny and home, is descried by environmentalists as a car that shits all over anything else on the road.
Utilising cheap immigrant workers under the floor of the vehicle, where they live with their children and grandchildren, the Commoder wipes up after it's off.
"Australia is a notion of passengers," revealed one immigrant living and working under the bonnet.
The Commoder, with a being in every bonnet, faeces injected and fast like a fridge on rollerskits, is a must for eery Australians looking to announce their identity.
"It's not a symbol of why the world is fast going to shit the way that it is when all we want is more of the things that are sending the world to shit," said one silly sausage.
Pricks.
The playboy, dirty old maniac, womens' lip-operationer and smacking jacket wearer told his mum that he only reads Newsweek for the naked self-interest.
Hef, unashamedly and unreservedly and unapologetically and unrepentantly informed, told his mater that he couldn't imagine a bunny with a name ending in Berg.
"There's no Hebrew word for breast augmentation," Hef crowed as he unveiled his new venture, Playkike.
"I'm bringing the beard back to the bearded clam," he said clasping his clammy ones together.
His mother, totally stuffed and off her rocker, found his stash under his bed as she was hunting rabbis and is believed to have bought his story.
"He could sell Ice to smack-heads," a rabbi told his meddling mother as he posed for the chimera.
Playkike will be on selves very shirtly.
Held in the labyrinthial dungeons of the Whitehouse, US Presidenture George W. Bush married his daughter of twenty or so ears in a lavish musical conducted by the reanimated corpse of Nazi synthesizer Herbert Von Karajan.
"I was very happy to give away my daughter," Bush said under his breathmint.
"She's no oil painting. I couldn't give her away," he revealed, giving himself away.
His other daughter, no less of a thing unlike an oil painting than the other who's not one either, is up for auction on Ebay.
"The highest bid so far is $2.78, but I'm not going to give her away," Bush told bargain haunters.
Condoleeza Rice, clearly inflatulated with Georgey, heartbroken at losing the olive of her martini is still holding out hopelessly for another shot at the title.
"I'm not going to throw myself at him," Rice said as she threw herself over the hippy couple.
Marriage is a holy unction between a man and woe.
The knotted scientist and wizard of us, noted for his bad spills and pantfalls, has achieved spiritual and intellectual perfunction through eaing his own words.
"It's psycho Delphic, baby!" the wizardly scientist said with great flailing, inspite, humourility and encompassion, as pink elephants chaired him off to his rightful palace.
The tinman told him that all he needs is a heart.
"Who needs a heart when you have a brain like mine, baby?" he said while practising voodoo on his enemy for the week and spilling very badly.
It is understood that inadvertently spilling badly is concordant with inadmissable arrogance.
The trip, egregiously spurious and pretty, was another induced experience brought on by the scientist's unfathomable shallowness.
If anyone needs any proof, the scientist is selling his patented fig jam at stalls.
Just ask him.
Apologetic ineffectual and cerebral acuity sufferer Norm has told pseudo-sufferers that he's sorry that his 'sorry' was so verily sorry.
"Sorry, this sorry sorry is a sorry sorry from a very sorry soul," said a true ineffectual, explert in all, moister of nuns, teacher of the pimples and ha and matey elephant ridder.
The battle betwine he and Norm for the arse and minds of the pimples has wed some to bereave that the former is the grater.
"He grates on me," said terminal ladder-slider, unintelligible builder, voracious animus, and pus-taker Norm.
For all hat, Norm is verisimiltude to sorrow over the wailments of the world.
"Mire than yule ulcer nose," he bespoke while tailoring his suet.
The bottle for hammerous righteousness goes right drown to aviary shingle word ratten.
The dove, ill, is in the detoils.
Channel No. Ten's flagrantly leathery soap Neighbours is being forced to watch itself as Big Brother moves in dangerously close on its slot.
"No one else is watching, and we've run out of ideas," said perennial pansies getting out of bed incredulously eerily to shoot.
Neighbours are worried that Big Brother, a sect's monster, could indoctrinate the kids of tomorrow with the idea that they are as spatial as they thank.
Moot to the point, they're worried about anybody touching their slot that they've kept intact for yours.
"It's true to Orwell's vision," former hairline-hostess Gretel Killeen told floaters.
"He needed spectacles. I need glasses." she dribbled as she sank yet another shout.
We should all be hardened by our unthanking youths.
Overwhelmingly, Australian market economists are expecting the Reserve Bank of Australia to wear frilly undies while taking a wooden spoon on the buttocks this week. The impending rate rise is in response to severe tropical weather figures for the fifth quarter. And so, with another interesting rake hike to deal with, here are ten ways you can scrounge up some extra cash each month to meet your mortgage repayments and keep that smiling face on your head you've grown so very accustomed to over the eons:
1. Go troppo in the queue at the supermarket. Analysts believe that psychotic individuals are 5 times more likely to have free meals than ordinary nuerotics.
2. Sell your body for a few quick bucks. 3 out of 17 marriages are arranged by a pasta-eating magnet-salesman with a dodgy leg twitch and two manic mittens of disproportionate dimensional aspect.
3. Yodel. People with tense chords are unlikely to be understood by your average wallet whacker. Being understood is a profitable mistake you can easily make.
4. See 5.
5. See 4.
6. Erupt at the bank like you was a volcano with a sawn off shotty and a baklava. Greek pastries go well up top and less well down the back.
7. Review the contents of your knickerbockers.
8. Fit in with society. It's what everyone is supposed to do. You are no different to everyone. Everyone is composed of anyone. Anyone: that could be you.
9. Die without fuss or ticker-tape parades. No open coffin ticker-tape worms for you. Not in this life.
10. Become a celebrity. Don't be afraid to have your image plastered all over your visage.
In a shock to many floorgrowers of computer keyboards, top expats have discovered that we'd be safer if we ate dinner in the dunny and wrote and read wiping up afterwords.
"This is a slap in the face to the computer literati," said one well-gnome internet ulcer as he took to his missus with a rolling pin.
The study, conducted by unemployed ticket-inspectors, took over three ears to complete and caustic over an onion dullards to furnish.
"We suspected that computer keyboards were home to dangerous microdes," said a leading expat, "and now I have to go to the buffet-room."
Computer keyboards, home to dangerous macrorganisations, will now be fitted out with sanitary journal cakes to protect us from bad spells and the like.
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