American singer and actress Jennifer Lopez has won a cybersquatting case against a U.S. web operator who registered two Internet addresses that used her name for commercial profit, a U.N. agency said on Thursday.
"I put my name in my name some years back," Ms Lopez told a host of cybersquatters shitting in for the aforementioned, while taking home the revenue from the former's intellectual property: a name.
"It's a classic case of intellectuals having their domains taken over by a bunch of squatters," the esteemed proprietor of intellectually enriching name-calling told a host of followers.
"There may not be much in a name," Ms Lopez mused, "But it has to be a few million dollars," the charitable soul said, musing on some difficult conundrum.
"For a few dollars more, I'd do anything," the linguine-western actress told the judge, putting an act on to hide what's really going on underneath.
"Wipers!" the intellectual giant ordered of people, human, looking for their calling in life as cybersquatters finished their business.
"I'm not just going to sit here and let these cybersquatters do this kind of shit in my name," Lopez said as she screamed around the house, screaming at the top of her rungs.
"How many intellectuals does it take to change a light bulb?" Lopez asked, near enough the top of the ladder, which is the place to be if your good name means anything to you.
How should I know.
Urine Artists and Bullshit Artists are battling out a smelly civil war that threatens to besmirch the intellectual reputation of Orble once and for all.
For Orble historian Norm, it's brought back memories of the battles between our earlier pioneers and squatters.
"It's brought back a lot of memories for me," Norm said, "I remember once when I did poos with wees on top," he said, calling for a tissue, as his eye showed signs of moisture.
"Squatters have rights too. We believe that these cables that those in power wish to lay will only spread a terrible form of dysentery," a Urine Artist said, in reference to high-speed broadband.
"Squatters have rights too," Norm said, "They believe that there is no substance to what the Bullshit Artists are doing," he said, "From where I sit, all I can see is a pair of business shoes, but the smell is unbelievable. The shoes really mean business."
The Bullshit Artists, solid citizens, believe their argument has a weight and a presece that the Urine Artists' doesn't which the latter believes only adds to the shitful content of the formers' attempts to saturate the media with their turgid aroma when they curl out their weighty ones.
"We believe there is no substance to what the Squatters are doing," a Bullshitter said, "Except when they accidentally do some shit that we don't find distasteful," he said, going on.
"I'll be fucked if I'm going to shit here and be told that I'm not," a Bullshitter told the man in the next stall. "There should be a big sign on the door that reads "No Squatters", gentleman," the Bullshitter went on.
For their part, the Urine Artists, have called for the Bullshit Artists to follow-through on their noisy protests, which means that fart jokes are off the menu.
Saint Brendon Goddard has made an emotional tribute to his half-brother Beau, saying the jailed heroin trafficker inspired his AFL career.
"I decided that I'd break into a car in the carpark and steal the radio before exchanging it for an easy kick," the Saint said.
"If I had a car radio for every easy kick I've had, I'd be able to trade on for some good gear," the bedraggled Saint said.
"I took my booty to the umpires and asked them what I could get for such a fine lot," the male prostitute and Saint said.
"As I lay on the bottom of a pack, all I could do was stare at the sky and think about England," Saint Brendon said.
"In the end, it was worth it. It's always worth it, in the end," he said, rubbing his punctures.
"People just want to use me getting a kick as an excuse to get a kick of their own. It's a small price to pay," the can-can dancing Saint said, before getting a pass out for a smoke.
"They say football is opium for the masses. Well I say, how much can I get for this?" the Saint said, tucking his booty under his arm and streaking down the flank.
BRITNEY Spears is a "prisoner" in her own life, according to the star's former manager Sam Lufti, who was testifying in court against a restraining order.
"She gets fed awful, awful meals. Is subjected to daily rapes and other forms of abuse. And has to smuggle drugs in her rectum," the star's former manager testifies.
"I don't know what happens when I'm not around. But frankly it scares me what sort of things a young lady would aspire to other than money and media," he testifies.
"It's uncomfortable for me to talk about having drugs smuggled in her rectum because I know how hard it has been for me," the self-pitying manager says.
"The fact is, she got a life sentence when she bought in to selling herself for the sake of money rather than being true to her talents. In truth, not many," he says.
"The truth is, the truth is manifold. In other words, there are ways to state what is true in other words. The fact is, facts are made of numbers. And in that there is only ever one true fact," the court documents show.
"In that regard, it's true that Britney Spears has had Number One Singles, has had many Number One Singles, has had Singles spend time at Number One, has recorded singles that have gone to Number One, and being Number One is the single thing we should aspire to," let the record show.
"Her decline is what all public figures who visit Bangkok experience. A short time on a slippery slope," the racist ideologue, Lofti, testified.
"And that never leads to a sentence worthy of the crime. The crime is having passion. It's punishable with a sentence of life, or death. It's akin to having foreign objects in your rectum," Lofti professes.
For God and Country's sake, buy Australian.
British police are investigating a mysterious crime after the discovery of several parts from the same body in different parts of the country in what has been described as a "macabre jigsaw puzzle".
"We thinks it's a murder, but once we get the corner pieces we'll know more," a senior officer told his family as they engaged in an activity that brings family members closer.
"It's been described as a macabre jigsaw puzzle and we think that's accurate but until we find a box we won't be able to determine the sex," the senior officer's young son said, playing with himself.
"We believe that it is very un-Australian to do anything that is remotely British. For the most part part they define themselves in relation to their mother-country. Is that right?" the dog asked of the cat.
"This body died so that we could spend our lives trying to put it back together. Obviously there will be disagreement as to what goes where. Unquestionably we should put our time into reconstructing the remains of this puzzle," the whole family agrees.
"Hello, hello, hello. What's all this then?" the senior officer asked of his son after discovering him eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the deceased puzzle, and, shockingly, reading from a book, translated from the original.
Norm, a card carrying communist, comrades, has expressed relief that you are here.
"I am relieved you are here," the card-carrying communist is telling you, I tell you.
"Now that you're here, all I need is for you to be right here," the maniacal despot tells.
"I think that a revolution is just the passing of another day," the communist leader told the missus.
"Make yourself at home in my humble abode. Stretch your legs. Lie down. Be my guest. Be my hostess," I tells you, opening up doors, falling apart at the seams.
"You can have my bed. I haven't made it yet, so you can lie in it," I say, I say.
"My connection to you grows stronger with each revolution. Even if I haven't always been plugged in and do have faulty wiring, it's true," Norm told his provider, rolling out the red one.
"Please, sit," the statesman said, looking through his old domain with a mixture of pride and disgust.
"I clothed my self-pity in anger," the skinny-dipper said, limping around the old house.
"With you at my side, I finally have a leg to stand on. I'll never walk," I tells you.
"I didn't see this on the cards," the joker said, as you shuffled the deck and sat forward in my chair.
"That's the deal with you: I never know what kind of hand you're holding. Mine, in the end, I hope," Norm, giving it away, said.
Paint the place red, if it suits you, the card-carrying communist said.
From this day forward, I'll never go angry, again, perhaps.
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