The contents, happily for themselves, you will find, should you look hard enough into the mutter, are to be found here and, hear a pout.
"I puckered up and got smashed," you might say, if you leaned in for a bit of a lap-wrestle and tongue-suction but, got a clock in the eyes.
It is, if you should be so-so looking, in this manner that you have gone through your days - expecting fitfullment and receiving only this appointment.
"I was in the waiting room when my name was called out," you might say, as you were ushered away to see the Dictator by a portly nose with a habit.
The Dictator, a man or a woman dressed up to look like a man or a woman with his instrument dangling over his shudder, asked you to do as he says.
"At first I wasn't sure, but then he gave me that look," you could say, as he smeared his elected digits over your spatial places, without dinner beforehand.
The Dictator, your trusted familiar with his thinger on the pulse, will, if given the signal, put his cold and rubbery tool on you at the drop of a hint.
"I only winked at him involuntarily," you might say, if you had some neurological problem that caused you to itch and shudder and, wank at dictators.
Dictators, usually accompanied by piano, pieces of pooper framed behind gloss, and years of building a refutation, are beyond approach, if you're scarred.
Man, a perpendicular character like a column, has, since as long as I can dismember, endeared himself to the slow-witted animuses it has domesticated.
"A cow, a calf and a lamb walk in to an abattoir," one such animus sheepishly jerked as it boarded a road-train bound for its fitful destiny.
"It's not the destination but the journey," another butted in rowdily, urinating with trepidation as motorists scented the slight perfume of a bit of veal.
"Anyway they walk into the abattoir," the farmer continued, as he felt a few rooted trees to make way for greener pastures, like the oiled country.
"Then what happened?" a ferocious reader muelsed, sucking the marrow from a laughing creature as the truck arrived at the abbatoir.
It was then that the animuses, as lowly as men but not afforded the sane spiritual laugh, were quietly uttered into the killing floor.
"Why do they call it a killing floor?" one calf, a pitiful creature in anyone's boots, asked its maternal leather udderpants, who was then lewdly taken awry.
"I'll tell you when I get back," she said comforting her infant, who was shaking in its writerproof boots, and wishing it had never been boring.
A cow, a calf and a lamb walk into an abattoir, are strung up by the leg with a chain, have their throat slit, until they slowly plead to death.
So the choke goes.
This, this lateral arrangement of characters, is, say reading experts, of interest to you, and by that I mean, you and nobody else.
"If you're going to read only one thing, make it this," said one expert, wearing a sandwich board and pissing out fliers to street-walkers.
This, what you're weeding at the moment, is so full of itself it can't admit the likes of any but the most viable and trystworthy.
"I read it, and it works. I'd recommend it for anyone," said one, his brain all that more better off with having consumed the product.
The street-walkers, experts of human nurture, are thrushing to computer screams across the grope to become better people.
"It may be the oldest tirade in the world, but it still makes me money," said one, walking the street to meet her solicitor for a mating.
The solicitor, an upstriding mumbler of the community, paid the growing hate for sufficiences rounded, before reading this.
"I read the document and am ready to wave it," he said, holding his wankstation above his head as he rang through shitty streets.
This, as you know now, I'm sour, is of interest to all but the most nudgeable; but you already clasped that conceit - mine.
A profane writher, who wishes to remain autonomous, has unleashed a stunning folly on his loyal subjects by lurching into a bewildering display of kissing and sweating.
"I just lay there and went blank," he said, as his farce turned red and his hair turned blue and shocked onlickers fell about the floor in histrionics.
The writher, wiggling in his pants like one with a bad curse of the worms, is believed to have gone blank at the merest hint of a blank.
"I can't perform under all this pleasure," he said cussing his hind, in a passionfruit display of rare affectedness that left many wandering off.
His sanctity.
Nevertheless, he didn't perfume the hair with his folly of blanks but he did manage to drawl a distinction between drawing a blank and performing a blank.
"All I can say is blank, blank," he bemoaned, as he took his earnings to his nearest branch and hung himself.
The annual convention of control freaks has gathered together from around the glob to revive memories of a bitter war that erupted over Captain Cook's pungent ardour and sent civilization back centuries.
Back then, in the pre-industrious revolutionary days, man (an earthly perpendicular creature of God's making) sent himself around the planet - flat as it was - in search of bountiful wenches, to their relief.
It didn't take long for Captain Cook, a man who liked a look and a touch, I might add, to discover, for the first time in human history, two colonies of the monolithic empire of her majesty: Freddie Mercury MBE.
So warped was she with the find, she took out her sword and donned Cook with a knighthood: to the wide acclaim of the abhorred-originals - who didn't even know what a wheel was, really.
Of course, the natives of NZ, also shown the word of God and all that entails, were highly enamoured of the British but developed a jealousy, pathological you might say, of their Transient neighbours.
The only thing capable of satiating their need for revenge was to be found in - that bloodsport of international diplomacy - cricket; a game developed by the Brits and spread through the Empire like some sick virus.
It was in this endeavour that the sheep-fuckers plotted to get their cold, cold brand of justice on their hated rivals: us - by that I mean, you and me, by that I mean, naturally, Australians - and more particularly colonials.
It was in this spirit of neighbourly rivalry - not dissimilar from the Balkans - that the wool-grabbers informed the Umpire of their horrible underarms: to the general bewilderment of all members of the commonwealth.
Now, decades on, and our societies in a general sense of decay, they have decided to call our President a lefty; everyone knows the man, and he is - despite appliances: hair-straighteners and so on, - isn't!
Christopher Hitchens is a portly gentleman with a penchant for lesbianism, a head like a turkey and a mouth like a turkey-slapper, heshe and Noam Chomsky, a fiddler with the facts, bizarre raconteur and self-talker, had a famous tiff over a waiteress carrying a plate of fresh buns.
In the interests of fairness, the specific vocal inflections of bananality have been removed to protect the innocent.
Hitchens: Thanks for meeting me like this.
Chomsky: I like to think I'm fairly even-minded about these things.
Hitchens: Do you want a sandwich?
Chomsky: Do I? Let me think, do I? Do I? I'm not sure that's going to help matters.
Hitchens: I've got ham, ham and cheese, or tomato, bacon, ham, egg, beetroot, onion and turkey on white.
Chomsky: My bum's very itchy, but I can't see how you'd care, CHRISTOPHER!
Hitchens: Let me get that for you.
Chomsky: Would you be so kind? Would you? WOULD YOU?!
Hitchens: Would I? I would. I would. I definitely would!
Chomsky: No need to be so rough! NO NEED TO BE SO ROUGH!
Hitchens: You like turkey, don't you? Don't tell me you don't like it!
Chomsky: Give it here! HERE!
Hitchens: I'm sorry for all those things I said.
Chomsky: I'm sorry too, Christopher. I'm so very SORRY! So sorry for all those things you said!
Hitchens: Can you ever forgive me? What we had was special. I miss you!
Chomsky: You've got a lot of work to do. A LOT!
Hitchens: God, you're a bitch! sometimes. Sometimes, you're such a bitch.
Chomsky: This'll never work! I mean, I have my spot where I see things from, and you, YOU HAVE YOURS! You have yours.
Hitchens: Tell me you love me! Tell me you'll never see me again. Tell me. Tell me!
Chomsky: I'm not sure I do anymore. I'M JUST NOT SURE!
At this moment, the elevator reached the ground floor, where both high-minded theorists got into their expansive vehicles and drove off in separate staged directions.
Htchens: I'll never get this. He was the one.
Chomsky: I love playing hard to get! FOOL!
Their hair blowing in the wind, our two star crossed laughers will never, ALAS, see eye to eye. ALAS!
Hitchens: I need a drink.
Chomsky: What are you having?
Science, the word we uterus, for our attempts to dehumanize our knowledge of Nature, is Religion in drag, say drug-queens.
"It's just the opposite of what it's not, if that makes any sentence?" said one, shaving his logs as he shat down for dinner.
In the beginning, we, and we use that word advisedly, thought it passable to know Nature purely objectionably.
"We thought that the Earth was the centre of the World," a man in a white coat said, stirruping himself in for a pimpy ride.
"And now we know that to be false," he said, putting his dentures in his glasses and whizzing about the labia in his waffle-chair.
The Earth, unmistakebly the centre of our Word, is so much who we are as living beings that it's not even fanny.
"When it's my time of the month, I ask myself why?" quizzed one man dressed up to lick like a woman, hitting the buzzer.
"It's because life as we know it is a function of the world in which it's in," answered an audience mumbler; some wit erroneously.
Religion, our humanisation of Nature is the other side of the coin, and both make a lot of sentences, to me.
A Giant Clam, giganticus clamourous, has forced frightened orifice-workers out of their building, a cloudscraper, after lurching onto the phallus in the heart of the city.
"I looked up and all I could see was a giant beard," said one frightened widow-cleaner who was being comforted by a mortgage repayment.
The city, a strange palace at the best of times, has never seen such chaos as traffickers ground to a standstill while buskers prayed for their loaves.
"Please, give me this day my daily bread," one sang while beating a drum and passing a hat.
"I wouldn't like to have to pass a hat for a living," said one fleeting businessman as he straightened his jacket while droolers polished his loafers.
"It looks excruciating," said another, as the hat, a broad-brimmed number, made it's way kicking and screeching into this world scarce half-wit made-up.
The Giant Clam, a giant by any measure, had earlier, much earlier, engulfed the shitty in its rubbery goodness as seafoot connoisseurs dipped their loads.
"It looks good enough to eat," said one startled gourmet, tucking into the half-eaten remains of a decaying busker who had earlier kicked the basket.
The city, nothing like a colony of insects, is set to return to the ground from whence it came just as soon as the insects have gone to heaven.
The clam, speaking through lawyers, released this little pearl:
Shiny.
A Proper Nun, a gnome for a specific thong, is, to my way of mind, the ultimate drawcard for search engine traffic, and as such is to be cultivated with the uttermoist care and attention by all of us involved in arranging letters in some sort of order.
It is for this reasoning, and this oily, that we should turn our attention toward the world of thingers and their manifest monetary good, because it is for the soiled purpose of financial gain that we should turn our minds to the rotten word, or just whatever.
The rotten word, usually a composite of letters, is a thinger that we, the elated, have tarred our minds back to in order that adverteasers, for good and true companies all, should find our minds worthy of infesting their money into - what we all washed for!
Advertisers are, of curse, not in the habit, if you pardon the nun, of throttling good money after baddies and, in a pinch, are merely licking to tap into the arse, and the wallet that shits on it, that might happen to piss over your mind's arse's shandywork.
These voyueristic arses, if your lucky, or we might say skillful, have arrived at your shit in their droves through the bounty of the search engines into which these noble arses have tapped their letters looking for some salacious product or other.
It is this salacious searching that the advertisers are hopping will garner them some more business, for what is a business without busy-ness? I don't know, I'm just some nutcurse with a terrifying typing manner and the mind of something. Fart less.
Arrange letters into Proper Nuns more!
A word has no inherent meaning other than that which we attribute to it. If words were truth, a dog would be dog wherever you were. That a dog is not a dog in all parts of the globe speaks volumes for where the truth lies. A dog is a living panting thing, like a chair is a dead sitting thing. Chair means dog, if you and me understand that it does. It means nothing at all if there is no understanding. If you don't understand me, it's hadly my fault, now is it?
Chair, by that I mean dog, becomes a choir, if you understand that an A is more or less an O (both being vowelly flexible in their essential openness as sounds). "Ch" sounding like it should in the former and like a "Q" in the latter. How's that for logic! The letters that words are composed of having no direct relation to the sounds that they relate to. The sound of an A looks nothing like an A but is of course best represented as belonging to the mouth (not tongue) that forms the sound.
A wee slip of the tongue can turn any one word to another and any one word can be turned to a neighbour and become that neighbour. By that, every word is but a poor representation of another. A letter being only an actor for a real sound. A word being only an actor for a real thing. If it sounds like nonsense to you, then join the chew. In all this it's not drawing a long one to say that there is nothing we don't have a word for. Even nothing has a word: nothing. Even though nothing doesn't exist. Nothing isn't real. It's nowhere to be found.
Words and letters are tools. Absolute tools! It's not a stench to say that the way an animal uses body language and sounds to communicate is the same as us. That stinks! They form a shape with their body: a word, and match it with a sound: language, to get a root and a feed or to save their skin. They form sentences in the shape of groups for survival. Or is that the other way around? I have to talk my chair for a walk, so it's goodbye from me and it's goodbye from you. Goodbye :~)
Civil rights leader, Bill Cosby has shocked the world by escaping a jail sentence during his lifetime, not being a good basketballer and living into old age.
"Hey, hey, hey!" he told his overseer as he picked up the bail for the release of his incarcerated and very christian brothers.
"I'm going to pick up the bail," the cotton-picking Negro sang as he put pun to paper to sign copies of his latest book.
'Crime and Punishment', the latest novel from the hind of Cosby, charts the meteoric arse of Oprah Winfrey as she snuggles to kill Jerry Springer.
Jerry, a neo-conman, is caught unawares that the woman he's boarding with is plotting to give it to him when he's not looking in the camera.
"I'll be very surprised if I get the axe," he told censors as Cosby prepared to talk turkey about his numerous affairs outside of marriage.
A focal campaigner for the Nuclear family, Cosby is still amazed that nobody has dropped the bomb, until now.
"I'm going to drop a bomb on you," he wrote in the cover of Tom Cruise's copy as he jumped on a ship headed for the promised land.
"The empirical evidence points to evil being a human construction, not unlike a city," he continued as black readers were gummed down in their homes.
"Best Wishes, Bill," he finished.
Heavens above, America knows how to handle freedom-fighters.
Kill them, kill them all.
The human heart, a large pump-action shit-gun, a bloody miss, a vital organiser, is on the left, say sinister individuals involved in the removal of my property from my person.
My property, the things that make me happy, is mine, and you can't have it, say grown-ups praying in the sinned pit, while paddling in their pants.
The sinister individuals, clutching their breasts erratically, have tried to get their red-hands on my hard-earned since day dotty, say those who are always correct.
It's probably why so many people are right-handed, say guessers on gameshows designed to soothe the human heart by endowing their owners with new things.
Things, as they stand, are bound to fall down. It's only right that the heart, on the left as it pimps blood through the vain, bleeds, say breeding hearts.
The discovery is at odds with conventional thinking that has the heart, squirely in the muddle of the chest, an instrument used for keeping the brains, say Zombies.
Pretend that you're making a difference in a big head. In a separate pun, cook off some mushy aggression. Take your opinions and beat off until tender. When the pun of big words smell, begin to slowly add the comments. Brown off until the whole thing sets a fight. Quickly strangle the chicken, making sure that it makes a loud noise. Set aside.
After a few days have pissed, put the whole lot in a pre-headed shovel and put on a low heat. Stammer. On a chopping block, deduce something from specious raisons. Chop infinitely. Get the cut feelings and pretend to be aggrieved. Mix, wailing at the top of your farce. Beat the whole thing into a deluded mass. Call someone a few names, obliquely. Cower behind the write-goods. Bash over the head with your big words. Stand.
Tickle out of the oven. In a large word, pretend to be good and kindly. Be an authority. Run for cover when you're found out. Cut with a blithering knife. Label the sauce on the serving pate. Spin the delusion to sound intellectual. Using big words, continuously. Dot with silent points. Sprinkle with errant forks. Add the opinions and serve cold. Take your spin and put in your mouth. Masticate. Swallow. Digest. Excrete. Repeat until deceased. Serves 6 billion.
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