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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

Consumption Malfunction - September 2008

Kraft, Cheeses Packing Darkies over Racist Cheese, Coon, in More Strife

September 28th 2008 00:02
Kraft Cheese, the tyrannical manufacturers of vegetableless Vegemite and cheese Coon, is in trouble with the Jews after the release of its new line of sliced ham called Kosher.

"A pig is a dirty animal," Muslims facing Maccas, who are distributing the new and delicious product, prayed as Jews, working behind the scenes, as always, conspired to rob me.

The delicious pig-based ham, nearly 5% pure ham, has hit rivals for sex with a complete stranger with muscles in their thighs like you wouldn't believe and breasts made of milk.

"You don't say SPAM, you say shit," better rivals told their accountant, probably a Jew, as they rolled around in their filth while cutting off the lips and anus of a crucified porker.

The delicious lips and anus, 5% lips and anus, from the lips and anus of a pig have many groups up in arms, but it's the Kosher name that has Jews calling for all babies to be killed.

"It's not Kosher," a gentile told his terrible infant's kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Goldberg, as she took the suckling morsel off to the laughterhouse for a spot of sentenceless murder.

Kraft Cheese spokespeople, slippery customers, have told their customers, slippery, to slip their hands, slippery, into their pockets to feel around for their own lips and anuses, in response.

"We're asking people not to look at the label," they said in a statement, as they processed some food the way God intended, when he sent his first born down to the shops.




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Posted By: Norm - Category: Food
   


Stephen Hawking Drowns

September 26th 2008 02:08
Universally acclaimed, award-wage winning ego-head, Stephen Hawking has drowned in the bath after forgetting that he can't swim.

"I knew I should never have let him go in the water," his wheelchair, fizzably shaken, told a shocked English public that was today calling for a pizza.

A person, two walking legs and two wanking arms, had earlier told the police that he had witnessed the terrible events unfold before his very arse.

"At first I couldn't believe it," the Pommy bastard, revisiting the scene told us, "I mean, who washes during the week?" he continued, raving his arms in the hair.

The media pack, a giant organism of clicking and recoding instrumentals, could only nod off in aggrievement at the words of the only knowing witness.

"It's a sad day for the universe," a visibly showing spokesman for the scientific community said, as he whipped away the tears from his wife's crying arse.

Hawking, it is understood, was physically incapable of turning the taps on, as Ginger Rogers explained to Fred Astaire, so how did he drown?

"This wouldn't happen if we could imply slaves, any race'll do, to look after the elite," a voice of treason told his butler, a half and half.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: True Stories
   


Dr. Nitschke's Evil Twin Reanimates James Joyce's Petrified Corpse

September 24th 2008 23:56
Dr. Nitschke, the doctor at the top of a pair of sandals worn with socks, has warned the world of the deadly danger of James Joyce's Zombie.

"He's secretly planning some unspeakable horror," the Good Doctor, good and a doctor, told his evil twin as he attached the wings of a pig to a chicken.

The danger, warns Dr Nitschke, of this new Zombie is that "he threatens people's faith in the afterlife" and that means that.

"This book of his, have you read it?, is worse than that one Satan wrote," Nitschke told his flock, as he held his copy of the good book aloft.

The Good Book, good, was, despite the best efforts of our Fuhrer who art in Heaven, written by the unholy hand of the satanic worshipper, the Devil.

"I take it all back," Joyce's corpse, beyond putrified, whimpered as he took dictation for the foreword to the new Edition of Ulysses.

The foreword, dictated by the Good Doctor, contains the instructions for how to go about your business with a match and not get caught.

"It's all in the book, but you have to read it from right to left," the increasingly Islamic sounding doctor, a deadly shit, told his Zombie receptionist.

The Zombie receptionist, none other than the waking corpse of what's-his-farce, was, for the first time in his afterlife, taking a letter.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Health
   


Margaret Thatcher Gives Birth to A Victorian

September 24th 2008 00:32
The greatest Prime Minister in British herstory, Sir Margaret Thatcher has, at the ripe old age of 5 foot 4, given birth to an antique bed-head.

The bed-head, a cast-iron job with some truly wonderful lattice, was delivered by Caesarian suction, a new method initiated by Hoover.

"It's older than you," jubilant nurses, picketing their noses with placards, told the exhausted vacuum-cleaner as Thatcher escaped to the roof.

Doctors, erudite and learned chops with oft-white coats, climbed up there too to talk the extremely distraught mother down.

"We wouldn't let her get a word in," they told each other as they gave the bouncing bed a workout with a very voluminous mid-waif.

She was somehere in between very skinny and just plain anarchic, jealous nurses told Thatcher who was asking to go the lav.

"I need to go number 10s," the free-thinking labour-gal told her chamberpot, as she hailed down on a cab from the roof.

The taxi, one of those black numbers driven by one of those black numbers, was a right toff, or so Thatcher's butler told panel-beaters.

"On tonight's show," one panellist, having just adopted the suckling antique, told viewers who had tuned out for the oven's on.
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Posted By: Norm - Category: Family
   


I kissed a girl and, I liked it: Norm

September 22nd 2008 22:42
The internet's brightest star and horse-bound show-pony, Norm, punctured right, has spelled the beans on his desire to lock laps with a wall fitting.

"She's a woman. I'm a man. The feelings are real," he said, degreasing himself up for a spirited bout of love-making with his slitted lover, devastitilatingly powerful.

It is humoured that Norm's lower lap, keeping his mouth closed, hit the floor, spitlessly clean, when he saw the female, two eyes and a mouth, there with her sister.

"Her sister's very cute, but she had that special something. I think she had something in her eye, anyway." Norm, unusually candid, told inane objects, inanimatedly.

For her part, the one I have myopics on, has cleft me in no doubt as to what she thinks about nature taking its course with a plug, male in parts, and a fixture.

"I can't read Welsh or Women," Norm, cussing the back of his hand for knowing the front all too well, told a Welsh women, his inventions pure, his desire simple.

As it stands now, both their laps, our male's and our female's, remain fixed on a mating of minds that could be the real thing, according to some dodgy wiring.

"It could be a four-letter word starting with an 'L'," Norm, never a crossword out of hand, said penciling it in before going for the ink, and taking a drink with his arse.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Love
   


Bill Shorten gives his wife the golden headshake

September 21st 2008 00:16
Labor MP, Collingwood fan, husband of three beautiful children and cement mixer, Bill Shorten has dropped a bombshell on his wife by revealing to her, his one and only, that he, his one true love, was leaving her, for butter or worse, to pursue a career in politics.

"It's not true that you can't be a public figure and still have a private life," Shorten, just under six-foot, told his trowel as he stole underwear from the communal washing line of his apartment complex, gently warping the smut from his dribbling aroma-catcher.

A lifelong devotee of serving causes greater than himself, Shorten has figuratively defended his right to pursue the daughter of the Queen's erected appointment in our little ant-hill, as the crumpling empire, an ever imploding construction of concrete ideals, blew up in our farces.

"It's not true that you can't drop your wife in cement and build a house on her," the embattled MP, once shouted as a future fuhrer, wrote in his dying blood as he sat on a bench outside the widow of his beloved, piddling his thumbs while his wife stunk steeper still.

Collingwood president, and taut-fisted Scot, Eddie McGuire has been quick to distance himself from the refrigerator, a good white thing that crassly houses chilled air, as he prepared to front the Medea, after informing her of his interest in perusing the scene, aswell.



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Posted By: Norm - Category: Family
   


The Tooth Fairy: Women are Sending me Broke

September 17th 2008 22:12
Women, foreign critters without impotent dangling bits who might bite off your penis at the drop of a that, have for the first time spoken, through clenched fists, about their fears of accidentally on purpose castrating their mates.

"When I was a young girl, I used to make a fortune off the tooth fairy," one woman, a two-legged thing with pursed laps, said playing with the teeth on her zapper as she flossed her parloury whites with a tea-bag.

It is long been accepted in male society, a thing with one head up the front and one up the back, that women, four-legged crappy crawlers, are a threat to their stranglehold on the pursed strings, and could snap at any time.

"I well remember my mother's embraces," said one fearful man, his knackers dragging on the ground, as he sat in the dentist's chair, "her teeth were all over the place," he continued, as the dentist, someone who's seen it all, produced a musical.

What we've all known for years is that women, yearning many on their backs, have, in their most intimate parts, the ability to cut a man, a worrier, down to size with just one or two sharp words, well armed, from their laps.

"You're going to require a filling," the dentist, underpants over the noise and mouth, told his patient, a woman who had fallen under, as he prepared the cavity while his assistant, and another woman, gagged and winced.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: True Stories
   


Schoolgirl Wets His Pants: The Cult of Personality

September 14th 2008 21:14
A giddy schoolgirl, chewing her gums and patting her hair, has wet his pants after his mum said he could have his best friend stay over, on the condition that he wouldn't wet his pants.

"I told her, I said son, you can have your friend stay over as long as you don't get hysterical," his mum said, as her daughter, completely historical, picked out a dress for the swimwear suction.

The occasion, already the biggest thing to hit the goat-firing folks around these parts, will have the neighbours plopping in to see what all the fuss is about as the cult of personality hits new sighs.

"I'm against everything Stalin stood for," the giddy girl, giddy, said as he prepared her ring for a visitor and trimmed her handlebars, while his mum, off her rocker for the evening, prepared a room for their guest, Amen.

The pants, wet, and their owner, wetter, have been on the phone, telling everyone about the hysterical occasion, perhaps the biggest in human hysteria, easily the most impotent and very derisive.

"Blank and you'll miss it," the schoolgirl, name of Dorothy, told his companions, after hitting her head, having to have a little lie down, and going on a fanatical journey through the arse of a storm.



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Posted By: Norm - Category: People
   


The Human Body's Biggest Organ: The Cover Up EXPOSED

September 14th 2008 00:14
Our epidermis, a rubbery layer or two of rubber layers that comes in a variety of colours that you can pick from: scabs, cankers, boils, fleas, abrasions, irritations and the lick, is, to the knackered eye, some of the most erratic and infighting material known to man-managers.

"It's like a giant nose for feeling your way around," said one deranged individual, their skin, laterally hanging off their bones, the bags shagging under their arse, their brain, over-stipulated, the conditions for information being faultered out by some unseemly net that shorts it all out.

Skin, all the colours of the brainbrow, with time, with resolutions around the sun that put the solarium in our cistern, will, if you should be so lucky, grow to winkle like the charred skin of a chicken that you might odour at the shop, and hang off your ropeabley deossifying architecture.

Our epidermis, a Greek word for marble sculpture, is, off course, something to be steeply ashamed or, conversantly, proud of, as it scurries us cooking and cleaning through this laugh, because, I feel and I feel it in my ossified vision, at the end of the day, when the sin has gone down, we're supposed, too.

"I'd feel naked without my skin," our waving lunatic said, raving at the shivering moon as the smooth and shaky organ for touching slapped through their very thingers, "but at least, I always have my notions to hang my hat on," they said, feeling seething agony as every type went buying thongs.

The cover-up, the biggest sandal since the word began sinning, has, separating the nefarious tribes of the world by the odour of their touchy instrument, made humans, less humane than I'd chair to mention, hack each other to afterlife with any bludging or sharp instrument on hand.

The torching of skin, let's say, yours and moan, makes us, you, me and the rust, and the blood, all the same odour if I'm not pisstaking, make our heart's, another bloody organ, pump at an ever incessant and involuntary spade, as we grow and sag through this strife we wiff.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Family
   


The Beautiful Blossom Arrives in Time For Spring

September 12th 2008 23:58
All of nature, something to be very frightened off, is sinning; the notes rising and failing like loaves in the wind, to the tune of the Earth, a wet subject spanning in space, in harmony with the Sun, a furry ball of considerable mirth.

In particular, many trees, upright objects, rooted to the spot, are positively gushing with new life, something that can only end badly, at the merest hint of the Sun, that blousing furball upstairs, getting closer, if my knowledge is to be trousered.

The indivisible, but imminently divisible, result of the upright organisations' joyous salivation at the passionate thought of all those clitters, with winks, gyrating in the hair, is the fruit of their temptation; I spank, off course, of those daring buds.

The daring buds, blossoming in the heat, as is stipulated in the paperwork, are sending those snifferers, those ill-begrotting sins and doorstops of ours, these hay-fervour sufferers, to the bottoms of tissues, with joy.

Their joy, these downtrodden faux-pas of nature's grinding plan, is the joy of one fire-ball in a kitty's wind-instrument; it's the choice of the people, and that far outwits anything nature, that goadless whore, could ever come crying about.

The indivisible, must intensely bountiful, experience of having your nasally passages inseminated by the sluttest hint of a touch of tree-pellets in the hair, is cause for us, we and they, to wrench for the bucket of terse issues.

The daring buds, cottoning on to the secretions dribbling from certain passages, are, at this very tiny minute, arching to excess the dopest recesses of the parts of the nose-flower the pellets are itching to have hideous nasal sex with.

In particular, the sort of henous pimping and thrushing that nature, in all its assorted sordid discussed, would have us, goat-feeling folks, turn our minds to at the most warm and tenderloin occasions, such as bedding down for a nup.

All of nature, of which we, and I mean every lost one of us, are unquenchably a part of, is working in ways that are as playing as the nose on your farce, twice as irritable, thrice as rainy and, if you don't bereave me, I'll pork you in the eye.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Health
   


Vegemite v Marmite, cast your votes

September 10th 2008 01:33
Vegemite, a dark paste which is really nice in smelly doses, is fighting out a viscose war of nutrition with its nemesis: that other dork spread, Marmite, in a frighteningly hurtful and serious and real and dire and important and painful bottle for the ages.

"It's on, Vegemite!" Marmite said, welding a butter-knife lauded with cow-product, as Vegemite, offering the alive brunch of friendship, was rather taken aback to the Boer War and the Crimean and the Balkans in a deliciously pelletable capsule.

"It looks like me," Vegemite, a delightfully irrelevant spread choked, panting at the tiny capsule, "except, I can't stomach it," it said, putting itself about the place as Marmite, omni-impotent, got all gooey as it braised a toast to itself in topical fashion.

The bitter feud, no big deal and actually mouldy amusing, is as bitter as a yeast-injection can pissably get, and that's an extract from the movie to be shat in high-deafening pitch written by crappywriters who know their Kraft, inside and art.

"I must have the last word," Marmite, a waving mildman, said as Vegemite, flightfully laconic, peeled back its sticker to reveal its true contents, "Inside we're both just as thick as one another," it said, as Marmite, on toast, was used as a lubricant.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Food
   


Millions of Germs Living in Your Toilet: Pine-O-Cleen

September 7th 2008 23:57
Pine-O-Cleen, a disinfectant that gets in right under the whim, has revealed that the humble toilet, humble in anyone's humble one, is a hotbed of poetical intrigue and intentional affairs.

"The results are in and it's bad news, I'm afraid," said a hard-shitting communist for a reading noosepooper, as, around the land, Australians clapped into any receptacle they could.

Purveyors of filth, such as this little black duck, have choked under the whim and, found that taking the piss is what all good shitting-chores are maded for, or so it steams, madames.

"Germs in my toilet?," this little prick of a duck quacked to his pubic heirs as he got ino those trebled spots, "Lucky for me it's all just water off my back," he waddled on, yawning lewdly.

Sadly for the duck, what it fought was water was a more vicious substance, which I opened wild to google, rinse and wish its hands in the enchanted grotty, that is, a humble demean.

"Are you taking the piss?" sterile surfaces of the rotten word asked, as a nearby colostomy blog was filled to the prim with a goaded material that smells disaster for the sanitation of the notion.

Taking the piss, the work of the cathartic, is to be taken with a pinch of salt, a touch of pooper, and a splash of whatever one has lying around, or so it is rotten somewhere - I swear to goad!



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Posted By: Norm - Category: Home & Garden
   


The Problem with Pulling out of Vietnam too quickly

September 6th 2008 23:20
Certainly, you, as uninfirmed as you are, and I, as effusive as I am, know that the war our boys are raging to fight the yelling peril in Vietnam is headed for eminent stale-meat, say civil war boofs.

"Certainly, this war, and it is - we have guns and planes and they have holes with sharp sticks, almost pencils - is about as civil as they come, for certain," said Johnny on the spit, getting cooked on all sides, as speculation mountaineered over the repercussions of a sudden withdrawal from the war torn piece of land with borders on all sides.

Certainly, the only treason anyone in the West - a fast monolith of labial demicritic volumes - cries for the people of Vietnam, tiny yelling types barely accustomed to the concrete jingle, is because her people have loved us long time.

If we were to suddenly get the hell out of their, quick smirk, the consequences would be diabolical for the West - a bunch of suits with ties and shy shoes and I think you stopped in something, but I don't know how to tell you without embarrassing you, and hang on, my fly's undone, and that's no good for anyone.

If I was to tell you a bunch of stuff, in no particular odour, that had happened to these loving people of Vietnam, a loving people not to be trusted one bit and just ask those pillows of literal democracy, the French, you'd probably lean out of your window, see a dog poo on your law and become irate.

Now, here's the kicker, the bit where I finish off with something for you to thank about - please think me later, because right now I have to tell you about how fastly interior you are in the light of my stunning bunions. I might add a short sentence that is nothing short of ghostly. Now, run along and straighten your toes.


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Posted By: Norm - Category: Travel
   


Indonesian influx infiltrates Ramsay Street

September 5th 2008 23:24
An unexpected surge in the numbers of New Australians looking to infest in property in the boom-suburb of Erinsborough is forcing Australian residents of the area to stock up on firearms and hone their markspersonship.

A shitting-range has been set up by the Allah-fearing-fearing folks of the oddest sub-blurb in suburban Melbourne to cater for the itchy digits of the chanel-sniffing and tease-willing residents concerned about their neighbours.

We caught up with militia-leader, and former republican Lou as he set up target practice for his friend Harold, a recovering talkaholic and spiritual leader of the movement described as the Keep Australia Beautiful Liberation Army Movement or KABLAM.

"These bottles are empty, so there's nothing to worry about." Lou, a one-time Miss Australia congestant told Harold, who was appearing increasingly nefarious about hitting the bottle until he realised he had left the oven on with a batch of scones barking.

"What we're trying to do here," Lou, a charismatic short-arse with a head like a half-eaten monkey, droned, "what we're trying to do here," he repeated, unsure whether I was listening at the time, unaware that I was, "what we're trying to do here," he reiterated, driving his pants home with all the delicacy of the ardour of a prawn laughed in the sun.

It was then that I, in all my munificent splendour, candidly informed Lou of his right to remain silent as I was ushered away by federal police, obversely on the take, to be briefed, hosed-down, felt-up, waxed lyrical and gagged by an order.




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Posted By: Norm - Category: Entertainment
   


Don Bradman's Zombie's Good Name Blackened by Child Sex Claims

September 4th 2008 01:35
Our Don Bradman's undead corpse, roaming cyber-space for flesh-victims, has been caught with his pants down the gagging throat of a child, below-the-age-of-can-sense.

"They're not my pants," the startled Don, told the media, as hehe fumbled around for some trousers in the dork, while being ushered away to his seat in a porked carriage.

The Dork, the minor, had earlier eaten a tinny full of flesh, in an ad campaign for gormless sponsor Victoria Bitter, mutter of fact, I've vomitted now, to be aired this combing season.

"They taste more salty than bitter," the Dork, a filthy slot, explained to brineless yabbies served on bread, while eating the secret pockets of the Don's private personal pants.

The pants, the sort of threaded numbers that every gold-fearing man-managerial maniac sported in the Don's day, are hard to compare to the two-legged log-warmers of today.

"The pockets aren't deep enough," the Don's zombie complained to his accountant, who was squirelling away ill-begotten anuses, when the authorities, broke, downed the door.

"It tastes like mahogany," one agent told the Don, as the Dork, emotionless on the floor, put down the pants, put on a pair of sex and left on a belt bound for the muttering country.

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Posted By: Norm - Category: Travel
   


RSPCA slams the treatment of Afghan captives by Australian soldiers

September 2nd 2008 02:30
Diggers have come under fire from the RSPCA for placing hairy animals in pens with 'hairy animals'.

"These dogs have had to share a pen with these dogs," RSPCA top dog, Hugh Worth told his bagle as he ate a horse.

Earlier he had told his wife, part Afghan, that he could eat a couple of jockeys, before taking off his underpants, without removing his trousers.

"I always wear a couple of pairs," he said, as his wife, humping her leg, begged for a bit but only got a pot on the head.

The Diggers, excellent on the lead but very naughty when left alone, pehaps because of separation anxiety, had earlier pulled the washing off the line.

"I'm going to give you such a snack!" our neighbours, the Indonesians, praised the Diggers as they faced their arses to Maccas and sighed.

Dogs, users of pens and unlike their masters, dirty animals, eat meat, sniff each other's bottoms, have sex on all fours and mate, are just plain embarrassed about farts too.

"Be a good boy, be a good boy, be a good boy," the Diggers had told themselves, as they piss-farted around in someone else's backyard.

I'm not pissing on your leg, it is pissing down.

My foot!






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Posted By: Norm - Category: Home & Garden
   


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