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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

Disgraced protege of scurrulous ace and guttural reporter SportingMind, John Hopoate has reanimated his ailing career by entering into the inaugural fisting event held in Greece.

"He's got the goods, this kid," a Greek fister and black-market stall-holder told his go-between as Hopoate, shielded from the media by SportingMind, was put through some fisting manouevres.

"He's the best I've ever seen," SportingMind, on ambassadorial duties, told the world's media. "His mastery of the fist shows a deep understanding of what can be done with it."

The event, the first of its kind anywhere outside a Rugby League Stadium, involves a number of difficult fist-signals that competitors have to grapple with, but it's above the shoulders that the game is won and lost.

"The rules stipulate that the signal must be held above the shoulders for no fewer than 6 days, which makes it marginally more exciting than anything you could witness on the League field," SportingMind, a convert to the great game of Aussie Rules, said.

Hopoate, perhaps the eventual champion, has already demonstrated his understanding of the complexities of how insular a society ours really is by accidentally sticking his finger up at someone, at the wrong time.

"That someone wasn't me," Nine's Ken Sutcliffe, and former underwear model for Graham Kennedy, told his self, "but I sometimes wish it wasn't," a confused Sutcliffe read off a cue-card.


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Norm, the hot little sex-machine-operator behind so many sandwiches, has put his weight behind Kraft Mayonnaise and, at the same time, in a delicious piece of ironical simultaneity, slammed Praise.

"I often find myself saying one thing and doing another," he said, as he pictured doing another, a blunt spreader, who was busying herself spreading something shocking on a bed of something, shocking.

"Praise is just one thing that I see get spread around too often," Norm, his hand on a second-hand book, told his blissfully unaware spreader, and read the reviews on the disposal piece of literature.

"I couldn't put it down. I think the printers put too much glue in the binding."
Bryce Courtenay

"It's quite simply the greatest thing that has ever been made out of arranging characters in a certain order to make words that are arranged in a certain order that, it has been arranged, has been duplicated, numerous times, on someone's orders. "
Tim Winton

"Kraft is always getting better. It just is!" Norm, shouting at the top of his voice, ever so slightly taken by the rave reviews, went to the counter and asked: "the things worth Praise are shit, yes?"

"Do you want Praise?" the disposable literature seller asked Norm, beside himself with his latest purchase. "Give me Kraft or give me nothing," he mumbled as he walked and talked out the door.

Norm, a self-satisfied sandwich eater and lover of fine spreads everywhere and man of lettuce, tripped on the step, fell face-first into his book and the egg-based spread, praiseworthy, went all over his mouth.
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Two white supremacists have been charged with threatening to kill Democrat Barack Obama during a "killing spree" of some 102 African-Americans, officials said.

The list is, now, here, exclusively, for the first time, for the last time, available for your arse only, with the full addition of the assassins' character studies, inclusive.

1. Barack Hussein (formerly Mohammed) Obama
Persona: hung like a horse, Hussein poses in his swimmers for our women.
Threats: possibly a Communist. A Socialist. Descended from slaves.
Likes: to use his penis on his wife when not showing to our women.
Favorite quote: "Are you jiving me, turkey?"

2. Tiger Woods
Persona: hung like a hippo, Woods poses for the camera and carries a stick.
Threats: violent and dangerous. In and out of prison (visiting his Uncle Joe).
Likes: walks on the beach with Barry Manilow. Selling drugs. Illegal ones.
Favorite quote: "She ain't heavy, she's my brother. You mothers!"

3. Michael Jackson
Persona: hang from a tree or other stationary object until he stops dancing.
Threats: first black president to walk on the moon. Exercise extreme caution.
Likes: bowling. Phone-sex. Blowing other people's noses. Father's day.
Favorite quote: "He had something in his eye. It's love. Okay, it's purely physical."

4 - 102. Oprah Winfrey
Persona: won't stop talking. She just won't shut up. And people watch this?!
Threats: a powerful anus capable of up to 235 km/ph and loaded with meaning.
Likes: shitting around the house. Cleaning up after others. Fried watermelon.
Favorite quote: "Are you going to eat that?"

The document secretly revealed to us here, and only us here, is now in the hands of the intelligence agencies of America, who've already misplaced it.

The white-supremacists, keeping the bloodlines of our righteous farters' pure and simple, must have forgot that the Jews are the real problem. Always have been.

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The IOC has delivered stunning news to fans of fist-sports everywhere by officially announcing the 2012 Games as the first to feature a fist-sport: Rock, Paper, Scissors.

"Keen masturbators everywhere have waited a long time for this news. We're going to need a few minutes. Alone, please," a fist-sport spokesman told the world's waiting media.

The sport of Rock, Paper, Scissors is believed to have been invented in Iran by shepherds after they ran out of short straws and had to compete over the only camel.

The official fist-book on the great sport tells us:

The sport is played between two and sees the fists, white-knuckled, made into either a Rock which beats Scissors but loses to Paper, Scissors which beats Paper but loses to Rock, or Paper which beats Rock but loses to Scissors.

The sport is played over three or five or seven or nine or eleven or thirteen or any odd number up to infinity until one of the players wins more than the other by two.

There are matches still being played between families that have gone on since before the time of Jesus and may go on until someone drops the bomb, considered endgame in some circles.

The sport is the greatest thing a person can do with their fists other than slam it down onto a table and is much more or less preferable to other indoor-fist-sports.


"More than anything else, this sport, a great occasion for all who still have hands attached to their wrists," Iranian champion Salman Rushdie tells us, "is great for drawing attention to wankers."

"This is the greatest day in our history!" an Iranian villager told a passing F-16, shaking his fist belligerently, before having the arm that it was attached to blown off the torso that held the head, soon to be sent skywards, up.

The sport of Rock, Paper, Scissors is a thrilling spectacle that is seen by some as the fullest realisation of our abilty to curl our fingers into a fist and beat a bitter enemy with it.


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What makes Bell tick

October 27th 2008 01:41
Morgan Bell, a conglomerate of lesbotic-fembotic-humanists, is a blogger run by a sexually perverted and socially mischievous covern of ham-radio-operating women's libbers.

"She is getting very sleepy. On my account, she'll fall asleep. Now!" her acquisitive inquisitors demanded as Bell, suprisingly kinder than most, opened up about the people behind her succubus.

"I'm every woman. It's all in me," Bell stated quite literally, in a code that only the initiated can begin to understand. "I could begin to understand it, but that's about it," a virgin blogger told us, before the ritualistic laughter.

"Ha! Ha-ha. Ha!"

"I can tell you that I've been on intimate terms with Morgan, and she is more than a woman. She's at least two. Make it three. At least four. All these hands. Everywhere!" a 56kg woman said, slipping out of something more comfortable.

"Ms. Bell is the head of an international campaign of error," an unknown man, his voice, in his head, crackling, claimed. "She's plotting to crash her computer into my battleship," he continued, sinking further. "If anything happens to me, she'll have had a hand in it. All these hands. Everywhere!"

Norm, a known errorist and believed head of his own network of lies, has leapt to the defence of the poor defenceless creature, and member of the weaker sex, but has refused to be drawn.


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A Sydney family which claims it was served ice-cream containing human excrement at an eastern suburbs hotel is being encouraged to lodge a formal complaint.

"We didn't ask for any ice cream," the father of the nuclear family told the waiter, his son, who was orbitting him like some strange microcosm of the world at large.

"But really, a formal complaint? That sounds so official. I'd really rather just sue, if that's all right?", the nuclear father, splitting things, told the manager, a real prick.

"Look here," the waiter, a bit worried about his shares since things turned to shit, told his manager, "He ordered ice cream with whatever shit we had. Ice cream!"

"Now wait just a minute!" the father, the centre of his known universe, butted in, "Can you? I've just got to lay some pipes," the father, and apparent plumber, asked.

"The toilets are that way. No, wait. That way. Hang on," the clearly confused manager, and big money-yearner, directed the father and would-be shit-hanger.

"I can't hang on. I have to go right now. You bloody shit!" the father, experiencing some haemorrhaging from the back-pocket, yelled at the manager, shocked.

"Are you going to eat that?" the waiter, clearly emaciated, asked of the heavy-shitter as he set his finger on a bulging button, "Go on, then," the father, relieved, responded.

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Superman versus Jesus, NEW BLOCKBUSTER

October 25th 2008 00:26
An unknown Producer, Jehovah perhaps, has written a blank cheque for Nietzsche to pit his cartoon character Superman against the suprisingly light-skinned Jesus in a NEW BLOCKBUSTER to be shown in time for the latter's birthday.

"It's not my birthday," a confused Jesus, trailer-park trash if ever there was any, told the stripper, later his wife, who jumped on the cake, as the birthday-boy, in his birthday suit, thanked his father and prepared for the fight of his life.

"I do things a bit differently. Instead of saving the world by saving the world, I'm going to save the world by effectively killing myself," the Superhero and wood-worker, told his legions of followers, some of whom helped devise the plot.

"While it's true that I can't fly, run very fast or stop a speeding bullet, I can suffer in my jocks, for nearly a day," Jesus, getting out of his birthday suit, said through his soap-strainer as, like the Sun's rays, he walked on water while someone watered the vineyard and the Sun turned the water into wine and the Sun rose after being betrayed by one of the twelve moons that seems to follow the Sun, as surely as Night follows day as surely as Religion is not the Personification of Nature, as surely as the Sun is the brightest star in the heavens above, and Jesus never shows his face at night.

Superman, a moral code of his own, an inspiration for nerdy journalists everywhere, his jocks on the outside, was, today, relaxing behind his typewriter as the battle, a one-sided affair if ever you saw one, prepares to hot up.

"The only thing that gets me is a piece of my past-life," Superman, secretly a reporter, told Jesus, in no way shape or form another name for the centre of a system of beliefs and in no way paralleled by the solar system, in a fine display of lunacy.

We tried to contact Jesus, through this medium we found on the internet, but instead we got Richard Wagner who offered this: "I want to tell my daughter that John Edwards is a liar. He is. I never talk to him. Also, Hitler was right all along. My old stuff is better than my new stuff."



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Norm, philandering despot and self-effusive waiter, has been deeply hurt and aroused by feelings of guilt, shame, pride, tenderness, resentment, pride, despair, delight, fear, hatred, envy, indolence, apathy, desire and levity over ideas he might not have any.

"He's got no idea how to set me on fire," Gandhi said, saturated in petrol as he sniffed the can, his fingers, your bum, your mum, my mum, as Norm, fumbling for a good match, struck up a conversation with a conservationist and, as it turned out, rape-victim.

"I swear, I never laid a thinger on her, your honour," the recently captured, bagged, tagged, catalogued, classified, Norm, guilty as sinfulness, told his single-cell mate and micro-organism, wriggling around your honour's chamberpot in an unintelligent display of life.

"What have I got to feel guilty about? Other than this sentence," the clearly shady Norm, a narcissist if ever I saw one, told his toilet, steaming with life, as he watched his face, and the judge, in a position of authority, took off his wig, scratched his pater and swore to God.

"Let me explain a few things," Norm, you've probably never hear of him yet, beseeched of his new chums in the toilet, "I'm more than a match for any of you. I'm a wet-blanket, a stick in the mud, a wet blanket in the mud, a stick in the blanket and the lust goes on."

Norm, more than a match, not up, himself, dispassionate, like a computer, except a smut-arse, warm and tender, unfeeling, feeling, all things to all men, unpopular, unconcerned, has his head down and his bum up and his head up and his bum down, looking for a light.

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The businessman behind such interesting blogs as For the Sake of Argument and My Apologetics, Damo has, thanks to some fine work on the couch, won the role of the jealous nobody Salieri, opposite intentionally acclaimed genius Norm - set to play Mozart, himself, in Amadeus II: Norm is the better of the two.

"When they said I could poison people, I went ape-shit!" Damo, quite the balanced individualist, told his pet monkey and cousin, as they picked fleas off each other's scalp, eating their finds, and just generally grooming one another in a fine display of humanity.

"I beat out a host of other keyboarders," the musically challenging leader of the free-world told his treacherous subjects, who are all out to plant an axe in his mind, pull down his pants and expose his error, which is never the source of humour: righteousness is, naturally.

"I can't think of a single difference between intellect and knowledge. I really look forward to working with him. I really admire his ability to do stuff. He's never known himself to be wrong. I've never known myself. It's going to be awesome," Norm thought, to himself, sucking his thumb.

Salieri, the bitter and jealous and angry and pantsless and poisonous and righteous and pompous keyboarder who poisoned the talented and strong and fun-loving and brilliant and handsome keyboarder, Mozart was, on the whole, angry and without pants and clamouring for status.

"I'm really going to have to get into this character. Do a lot of research. Look deep into myself to find a jealous and angry and trouserless and irate and unfunny and righteous and pompous keyboarder who can't stand seeing others enjoy themselves," the puritanical farce of reason told his personal agent of universal creation.

"This whole thing could blow up in my face, but I don't care," Norm, pashing the boundaries of common decency and accepted codes of understanding, told his case-worker, as the supreme linguistic genius and unbelievably good creator of so much fluff it's just not funny built a pope-bomb.

Editorial Comment:
Mozart is crap.




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Norm, the moist sought over arsehole on the face of God's greedy Earth, has revealed to his boyfriend that he is secretly gay and, seeing another woman, with whom he's engaged in mutual masturbation with.

"It's like wedded bliss, but we're more engaged in it," the gingerly-walking weirdo told a complete stranger on the train, who was wearing a white crumpled business shirt and a pair of socks with a wry smile.

Norm's boyfriend, caught mapping by the whole sordid affair, has been caught with his pants down his throat for not the first time in a short time, and has gone looking for the object of his desire: 'these gorgeous drapes'.

"When I get my hands on him," the spurned lover, openly gaily admitted, "I'm going to cut his hair to make it look messy!" the total bitch and a bit of a letdown in the sack, always nagging, jealous and possessive, shrieked.

"I'm a bit of a wiz with a pair of snippers but you should see me giving a blow-wave," the decidely camp, but not really my type, exiter said, carrying his arse, a little bit on the saggy side and not very tight at all, out the door.

"You're not are you? Gay, I mean," Norm's bumbuddy, giving him one all mighty rogering in the bottom, said, unaware that Norm, a bit on the effeminate side, is actually a bit of a lady-man, ladies and ginnies.

"He plays with his arsehole in the shower," his ladyfriend, a mouthful of carpet, revealed to the train-driver, "He's always dropping the soap in it," she said over the speakers, as the train, in a tunnel, went towards the light.





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Mass-murderer Martin Bryant, released from maximum insecurity by hosting his own blog, has delivered a stunning routine of his own material to stunned audiences at The Comedy Festival to make himself feel better.

"So a funny thing happened to me on the way here tonight," Bryant, an axe-murderer with a gun, told coffee-sippers who couldn't help but laugh, "I followed this mother and her two kids trying to hide behind a tree."

It is understood that Bryant, a sandwich short and no picnicker, then let the mother and her two kids have both barrels of a routine classified, by those on the nose, as unsuitable for young and impressionable minds.

"I'll tell you what I told them," Bryant, a shining example of humanity, "I told them: I believe women should have the right to hear me tell funny jokes about things I've noticed that are funny. Let them choose! For God's sake, let them make a decision!"

Men and women (disguised to look and sound ominous) are appalled but not surprised that Bryant, an unsocialist, would endorse such a radical notion as killing innocent things who know not what is going on in the world today.

"I'm appalled but not surprised that the veal is so expensive," one patroniser, paternal in every way ape and farm, told a waiter, down on his haunches in admiration, "It's really too much. It's just a joke!"

"You're killing me! Stop! You're killing me!" the waiter went on, counting the cost of giving his laugh to such an unworthy cause as working for a business that caters to such delicate constitutions as those he has to.


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Backyard doctors, absolutely quackers, have called for more Coathangers, after Women, putting the ute in utilitarian, have come to their senses and relinquished their right to "make decisions about their bodies."

"I'm coming off the top rope," former wrestler George "The Animal" Stone said to the monsterously overwrought Andre, The Giant Communist Infiltrator, as he prepared to lay down the law to those fooled with spectacles.

"I'm coming off a top rape," said the father and grandfather of his wife, as he prepared to hang up his bits after another hard day at the office, as his brother, wearing cloth, lined up a backyard doctor - block to be knocked off.

"It's mine, you can't have it," the backyard doctor, block in hand, said, delivering a coathanger of his own to the head of an infant whose mother, hooking to make ends meet, put the finishing torches on her flat.

"I'm hooked on coathangers," the infant, clearly touched by divine inspiration, told firefighters as their body, incinerated to a crisp, was returned to its father who art a man patrolling the streets in search of fond mammaries.

"The stock-maket crash has really fucked me," our lady said, slipping into a plastic bag and flirting down the river as her super, gone for all money, fell even further than it already had before thongs got out of hind.

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Zoloft, the upper for those on a downer, has recorded its highest day of trading after Depression, affecting the laughs of many millionaires, begins to see billions pill-popping.

"Gold is worth a lot because it takes a lot of work to find and it's much sought after by those of us impressed by chains," an economist, teetering on the brink, said, holding the keys to the chuckles.

Zoloft is now worth a lot because the Stock Market, really all about emotional investment, is in a bit of a slump that may see folks out on their arses begging on the streets and prostituting themselves, selling drugs, winding up in prison and having a bit of a 'headache'.

"Have you ever been raped in the bottom?" a stockbroker, collar as white as, inquired of his youngest son as he tucked him into bed, while his wife, drugged to the arse-balls, broke free from her chains.

"Let me tell you, the only thing worth anything in this world is keeping your anus intact," the stockbroker, and father, his collar as white as, said as he gave his guinea-pig a 'seeing to'.

The stock-market, an emotional experience for emotional cripples, has seen CAPITALISM, in bitter harmony with the lower-cases, take it right in the eyes from card-carrying Columnists.

"I used to write for the money, until I saw my paypacket," the Columnist, under your bed, said infesting his hard-earned emotion in the only investment worth anything: the hunt for arseholes.


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Time machine commuters from the Middle Ages, Latin lovers if ever they saw you, are appalled at the lack of learning on the part of modern scholars; shocked and appalled.

"Shocked and appalled. I'm shocked and appalled and, what's more, do you know where I can find Thomas Edison?" the towering collossus of erudition said, brushing up on his vernacular.

"I'll be! There must be an easier way to make sure film is never invented," the antique said, thumbing his nose through the white pages in a desparate bidet to track down the not-so-steamy inventor of the end of learning.

The Latin-lover, a bucket of dim-sims, and brandishing all his scholarly erudition, Romance naturally, had, earlier in his trip, gone to the pictures to 'escape the horrible truth of his life,' only to find: no subtitles.

"I couldn't believe what I was watching," the teary scholar, sitting on the urinal, said, "In the days of silent pictures, I could at least have something to read when I took the kids out," he said, taking some kids out with a cat with nine tails.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoowwwwwwwrrr ."

"If I ever do happen to find Edison, I'll be all like, 'Are you Thomas Edison?' and he'll be all like 'No. Please, no!' and I'll be all like 'See you later, baby!' and then I'll be all like "I'll be back,' and he'll be all like 'Can you get me a drink?' and I'll be all like 'I'm not a pack-horse, you know!' and he'll be all like 'Go on!" and then I'll be all like 'Whatever,' and then I'll be liked by all, including him!"

The time-travelling supplier, government sponsored, has today alerted its officers to be on the lookout for the coke-carrying scholar of yesteryear, and have been instructed to assault the senseless.

Edison, the first man to electrocute an ephelant, has thanked the Academy, and in particular Plato for his fine work in Republic; "Thank you, Plato." he said, sipping his coco-cola through a straw-hat. "I'd like to thank Zeus, but he's dead," he went on a blender, "so I can't."

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German man gets a Pole's arms

October 8th 2008 22:33
A German man, his living room ample, has signalled his country's desire to dominate the world, once more, by having a pair of Polish arms attached to his armless torso.

"Now I can sign all sorts of treaties that I have no intention of upholding," the suspicious looking German, German, told his right-hand man, Polish, who was missing one.

"To my wife, I love you," the Pole said, as his wife also a Pole, was used to touch up a particularly unsightly woman from 2 feet away, in an act of three scenes and two feet.

"It's a classic modern structure," avant-garde directors, on the cutting edge of going out with a limb, told audience mumblers who were beside themselves with seating arrangements.

"They're a bit short," the German man, trusted as long as he's thrown, said as he dreamt of one day getting a handjob off someone other than his wife, a Pole of about two feet and a head.

"It's alright we can let them out a bit," the microwave surgeon, spinning in his chair and cooking from the inside out, said, really cooking with gas and stitching everyone up.

The German man, in an ominous omen of things to come, was today plotting to get more arms from places as far away as Iran and North Korea attached to his living apparatus.

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An unknowable, unknown, has mentioned the war, a funny game of shit and miss with live rounds, as Australians have bent over for the Americans, who actually lost the war.

"Hang on a minute there, little buddy," the captains of incest told the giggling islanders who were busy wrapping themselves in all thongs American at the expense of their own ginger.

"I just love films and coca-cola and money and I hate football," the slightly defensive islanders, white on the inside and yellow on the inside, told their accusers, waving the flag.

"Films are an artform as old as American imperialism itself," the film puffs, immersed in their only electronic catatonia, told red-hot pokers that had their arseholes written on them.

"It's no different to reading," their accusers, vampires, said taking a good look in the mirror, as they read passages from the Koran and washed their bits and pieces in coca-cola.

"All we're asking for is to be off this island," a millionaire, and his trophy-arsed wife, wrote in the sand with stones as big companies, like the US government, infiltrated a movie.

"The message is sublime," film-goers and promoters of all things overseas said as they raised the flag, bent over, counted their gash and took it like a man: in the eyes-hole.




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An unidentifiable woman, like a man but with working nipples, has had to be admitted to a psychiatric hopsital after finding a penis in a man's trousers.

"She's critical," doctor's told nurses as Pomeranz, clearly a puppet for swarthy industrialists, commended them on their fine noodlework.

"She's not going to make it," the doctors, certifiable, told viewers, referring to the proposed sequel of Speed 3: Even Speedier to be, possibly, produced by the critic.

"It's like the prequels, only this time it's set in my refrigerator," screenwriters, hanging out for their piece of the puzzle, told themselves as they set to work.

"Get a real job," their nearest and dearest, brandishing a bottle of ouzo, screamed at their nearest who were just out the door and into an occupation.

"I give it 1 Star," God, our man with his fingers on the buttons, said, as he did up his work shirt and got down to the dirty business of running the solar system.

The man's penis, like a vagina in name only, was found by Pomeranz as she rifled through his longings, though the two were complete stranglers.












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Bearded clamourer, defamed wino, persistent pederast and sanctified salami sandwich, Derryn Hinch has had his wish of being buried beside his 'companion' Stan Zemanek ratified by the Pope.

"You can do as you wish, Saint Derryn of AW, just so long as you don't engage in unprotected sex with his rotten body before ejaculating in his blinking anus," the clearly misguided Pope told followers.

"For what it's worth [believed to go for about $49.95, depending on who you ask] I've never had unprotected intercourse like I have with Saint Stanley of 2GB," Saint Derryn, wearing women's clothes, told listeners.

"I'd like to take you up on that last comment," a caller, someone who had hadn't heard the calling, told the producers before being cut off at the ankles and turned into Chum, so chumpy you can carve it!

"We've got God, from Heaven," producers told listeners, playing for their wives and a new microwave from LG, Life's Good, "and he'd like to plug his new book, which is coming out soon,"

"I call it the Newest Testament," God, clearly a man with a beard or a woman with one or both or neither with both or either, told the line that had gone dead, "it's a self-help book I dedicate to myself. Hello? Hello? Hello! Jesus Christ!"

Zemanek, down there (pointing), was today, preparing a passage in his latest romance novel entitled, My Life as a Corspe, as he took a fistful of vaseline, smeared it all over and waited to be canonised, officially.

"I've waited my whole afterlife for this moment," Saint Stanley of 2UE, his eyes on fire, told Saint Derryn as the two, anuses in the sack, met on a mountain for a spot of fisting and some beans.


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Media heavyweight, fit porker and baby-sitter for Nicole, Oprah has been detained for further questions after it was revealed she had Nicole's aborted kids frozen.

"I'll ask the questions here," Oprah, an arse-queen, told officers who were only just doing their job after Ms. Winfrey, sightly insane, was seen paying with gash, I'll choke.

The fridge, a freezer, was seen to be emoting a strange and pungentlemanly order when Nicole, the aborted mutterer of three or more frozen snacks, came to pick them up.

"She said, everything was cool, sister, which immediately set off alarms in my heavily fortified wine," Nicole, a harmless baglady freezing to death, told her trolley of possesions as she froze for the cameras.

The aborted children, placated from an orphanage, had been placed in the freezer, a refrigerator, because they were going off, according to Oprah on her high rooting show.

"The little maggots were everywhere," she said as she talked into a chop, well-done, and stuffed her fuss while asking the question: Can you believe I hate the whole thing?

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The Last Supper, a going awry dinner held for God's legitimate son, has found fitting repesentation, twice, in the thing used to constrict language, says author Dan Brown.

"Call me crazy, but don't call in without calling," the slightly unbalanced arranger of characters in an odour that rejects the chaos that sounds us on a dilly basis said, piddling his thumbs.

The Alphabet, two lots of twelve and one, is a fair refraction of God-knows-what but, there can be no question that at the centre of the fist sits a G and at the second sits a T, says Brown's moving lisp.

"A 'T' looks a lot like a cross to me and a 'G' looks like a snake," the clearly agnostic Brown revealed to his publisher's house-maid as she played for forgiveness to the largest thing in heaven: Jupiter.

Onlookerers contend that it's passable that the two separate supperers, things to saviour, represent two different shades of humane nature: the martyr and the snake, say onlookerers on the ugly mass.

"This idea that there are only 26 sounds the human mouth can alter," said speech therapists, "is false and what's more, I'll have the soup," they said as they examined a still beating brain.

The human brain, an organ used to boat blood around the rest, can hardly compute all the infirmation required to transcribe the sounds of nature into a finite code of characters, as others content that its hemispheres are a refraction.

"There is no question that English, for instance, is a Christian's luggage. I mean, its mission is to save people from themselves, and by that I mean line the pickets of a few," said stick-market crushers.



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