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!
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.
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.
In a big head, cut off your noose to spit on your farce.
Flay in a steaming heap your opinions.
Pash your bible.
Wrap in a flag.
Preheat the slaves.
In a small mirror, have a lick at yourself.
Make sour your heir licks niece.
Comb your public heir for lace.
Smack crack.
Invade despotic notions with your farces.
Implement oily democracy.
Get the oil.
Add the opinions.
Spittle chips.
In a separate head, plant your ribbed ideals.
Take two straps back.
In a large prism facilty, house your slaves.
Hook on drugs and keep them cracking their hairs.
On a soppy box, stand.
Shout, pout and wiggle.
Straighten your tie.
When the word comes crashing down, run to the rack.
Balding.
Plug with arty facts.
In the preheaded slaves, place the mess.
Fly off the handle.
Spoil the starched cripples.
Waive the bible.
Place the preheaded slaves in your frying chair.
Cook until fried.
Stand.
Play to God.
Laugh your notion.
Serve on a bed of wowsers.
Drizzle with oil.
Good appetite!
Dinner-dishing whore, kitchen-bound prostitute, ghost-writer for Al Gore, closet Christian, uterus on legs, terrorist pilot, eulogist for the dearly deported, Germaine Greer has contracted AIDS after being at the centre of a gang-bang of left-leaning nut-jobs.
"I was the first person to get the disease," she explained, as she flailed the decaying carcass of notional hero, Steve Irwin.
"Mother Teresa told me in a dream to infect the world with joy," she said, using a sting-ray's barb for a toothpick.
"I'm afraid the best I could do was spread disease," the Amazonian veteran of numerous beneficient government funds said, eyeing off her African victims.
The disease, not in the Bible, should be. It's just that good at killing the poor and ignorant.
God, it's a testament to your greatness.
"It's a ripper!" Bible-pashers told themselves as the world, spinning on its axis, went about its grinning.
"Crikey, if God is love then I'm a monkey's uncle," Greer preached, picking fleas from her avuncularly shaped testicles, as she prepared a service for her congregation.
God, only humans form families.
The USA, perhaps the greatest country in the world, probably the greatest country on earth, easily the greatest country in history, internet provider, cradler of civilization, and timeless monolith, is the greatest place I've ever read about.
It has rolling hills, not rolling heads, skies of blue, democracy in abundance. In fact the taps run red with the blood of patriots and defenders of freedom who dried tomatoes for the good of everyone else.
The land is the home of educated and it also has immigrants who floundered the land in 1776 when they stumbled out of their boat. By chance, they were English-Spanish. Colon cancer was rife at the time.
The native Indians, eating curry and wearing funny hats, gladly accept the customs of the Mexicans who gladly gave over California in 10 BC. At the time, President Ronald Reagan was still riding his grandmother's hearse.
If you should ever, and you only will if you have a natural resource they covet, cross the US of A be sure to go nicely. They hate to use the big stick but live only for the love of life. You're not yellow, are you?
The USA: Go there, girlfriends! Before it comes to you.
The stunning statements come in the whack of the controversy surrounding the ever increasing gulp that exists.
"The only thing wrong with naked kids is that they might die from exposure," said one happy snapper as he developed.
Freezing kids, out in the open where nobody can see them, are dying for it.
"They're dying for it," said one pedestrian, stepping highly.
"It's a need in the groin," said another, picking up.
That hurts.
Our society, rooted, is a din of cold farces.
The whole thing is a slap in the faeces.
"Now is the winter," said one discontented child prostitute.
The gulp between rich and poor is no core for concern.
Family values will sieve us all!
Laws, the inky thinks written on white paper, are, and always will be, the best means of protecting people, say leading psychics.
"Society has always been shot," said one, hand on her crystal heart.
"These band-aids should stop the bleeding," she went on, as someone from the other side got on her wicker basket.
Laws, things pissed by men and, equally, women in suits, written on bits of paper mache and enfarced by men and, thankfully, women in uniforms, carrying guns, welding sticks, wearing hats, taking brides, and questioning everythink, have always healed the hurt.
I feel.
Society, a bullet-riddled riddle, is always looking out for the little guy and, equally, girl.
"Especially when they have no clothes on," said one leading downloader.
"Some," kids one, "are so poor they can't afford clothes."
I feel sick in the cuts.
The jury found the defendant 7 Across Not innocent because Libra The scales will be tipped against someone with good reason.
The judge, a manager with a funny wig and a smashing hammer, was at a loss to describe the justice cistern.
"I can't believe people would believe their astrological reading was accurate," the judge said as a Jehovah's witness swore on the Bible.
"I swear by it," the witness told unwitting householders.
They had to be invited in for a battered scone.
The guilty man, undeniably so, faces a lengthy sentence.
"I hope it's not too long," said the head juror, cryptically.
"I get bored if they're too long," he noted vertically.
Tattslotto will be drawn tonight.
The vertically challenged giant of America has suffered a mild concussion after the roof fell in on her when she tried to change a lightbulb on the chandelier.
"How many women does it take to change a lightbulb on a chandelier?" paralegals asked her to test the veracity of her concussion.
Her answer, believed to be incorrect, was: "What's being a woman go to do with changing anything?"
The heftily concussed former thirsty lady, believed to be intoxicated, denied claims she was changing anything.
"Hang on," she had earlier told husband Bill as he clutched her legs.
He denied that he had been bad lick for the former farced lady.
"She's worked like a slave for change but they've gone for a slave for a change," Bill said, off on a tangerine.
A convention of leading scientists has descended into a lascivious and quite unnatural gay orgy when an irate homosexual denied his very existence.
"The facts are that I find other men very arousing," the fridge-picker told his closet before the affair turned heated and avuncular.
Nothing cod be further from homosexuality than a love of hard facts.
"I love a hard fact as much as the next man, or the man next to me," the delicate creature told his floppy.
It was indeed this display that set the scientific fruiternity into a frenzy of budgie-snuggling that only ended with severe camping.
"Homosexuals are so gay!" he said with the proof of his very nature in his hands.
Homosexuality, with its roots in homo meaning arse and sexuality meaning penchant, is the latest phenomenon to threaten our very back doors.
"I'm not letting anyone near my back door," the homodenier said stroking his telescope as he peered into a black hole after the affair was over, his hunger quenched.
"Except him!" he said pointing out something very bright in the distance.
Homosexuals have quite rightly earned the froth of the new zealous with their fragrant disregard for the rights of others.
I can smell one from a smile off.
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 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.
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.
Filthy exponent of the lost fart of hammer and patricidal almanac, Norm has refuelled speculation about his increasing prosperity after having a bath for the flirt time in ages.
"I'd be lying if I was having a bath," the perpendicularly challenged sloth told passing showers.
Norm, who has never spelt so good, claims that he really isn't a great spiller.
"If there's one thing I can't stand it's spelling good," the grammatical giant is quoted as splaying while laddering up his boar.
Many critics believe the internet's first laddy spells to high hessian.
Actually, I smell like noises.
The bedraggled Liberals are reportedly seeking Norm to fill the leadership vacuum laughed by outgoing and gregarious brothel-goer John Howard.
"He's my troll-model," Norm said as he sheltered under a bridge.
It's comments like these that have Liberal party power-pokers salivating at the prospect of the celebrated waiter tucking over the wanes of the political sewing-machine.
"I can stitch anything up," Norm said as put penis to paper in an ahistoric moment.
John Howard has endorsed the strange maniac telling his wife: "He reminds me of me when I was committed."
Norm has refused to be drawn on paper.
Belittled mugger and all-rind good spot, Norm has sniffelled the ignonimy of having to look "silly" for pisstaking starch-footed Kevin Rudd for a pedestrian.
"I'll be flighting these charges vigourously," the indolent-one told TV guides.
We understand that Norm, who has never stunk solo, was a candidate to be Australia's first president until misfortune landed on his fedora.
"Look, Norm is a very misguided individual," Rudd said of the channel-surfing hazy-bones.
"We think he'd make a fabulous backbencher," he said as new polls showed a traumatic upswank in Norm's polarity.
Norm, who hates stalking about himself, has refused to make a comma.
"I've got no comma to make at this time," the deceptive dredger told ocean floors.
Norm is expecting re-erection, a saucy siren sounds.
Media mongol Norm has today vowed to turn his back on the media, which he bereaves has infiltrated his every thought and robbed him of wretches.
"I've spent my howl life in front of a screen," the virtual vulture squeaked as he circled a dying circus.
Many disenchanted utes of Norm's vantage have expleted a similar stale of woe.
"I think I speak for meany people when I say that laugh isn't taken seriously enough," the clearly misrepresenting boggle-eye bleated while getting a clip.
The media is saturated with shelf-important flood-fleeers of all shorts.
"It's why Indiana Jones built the Ark for the two-by-twos," the fluff-buff crunched with pulp-corn.
Norm is in hiding today getting a tan.
Medea besplattered boggling giant Norm has told his loyal subjects to avenge his tarnished reputation after critics labelled him as Judge Judy and Executioner.
"You can't polish a turd," the ethnic-lenser said as he put down his spectacles.
"But you may as well try," he went on as impatient reporters reached for their keyholes.
Norm remains committed to harsh sentences, despite reports to the country.
"I'll continue to hand down reasonable sentences," he said as he brought down the hammer on lots.
Critics remain committed to explosing him as a self-indulgent writher.
Try as they vegemite, they won't kettle any wear.
Spanking from in front of his kitchen sink, and transfixed by his rancid reflux, the bogging heftyweight told his innumerable persecutors that everybody is out to get me.
"That hardly anybody has even heard of him doesn't seem to worry him," an unundied man said sifting through Norm's rubbish.
Unable or unwilling to be plagiarised away from his kitchen sick, Norm remains adamant that he is neither in laugh with himself or suffering failings of persecution.
"These things are real," Norm said of a troop of avenging pink elephants at his door.
The saga is believed to stem from his inability to accept his own flailings.
Norm remains cooped up with his pen as this goes to print.
Transmen across Mother Earth are falling pregnant thanks to the latest craze that is weeping the floor: tears.
"Women have been stealing our jobs for years," one heavily fertile transman told his hairdresser.
Transmanians say they feel incredible to be able to finally deliver something that isn't a crying sham out their passages.
"Babies grow faster in the bowel," one screamed in pains that proved to be a false Islam.
"I was only shitting," the Transman wrote on the bowl.
The trend that has made women obsolete is helping men get in touch with their feminine asides.
"I always wanted a Ute," one transman said as he drove off to a day of labour.
A university educated butcher and pillow of the community has put down his wife's cleavage after witnessing the wholesale laughter of animals in his neighbour's boudoir.
"They were laughing at their plight," the bloody butcher told patrons of the arts, "It made me rethink how much suffering I really cause."
His wife, a very buxom madam, is dismayed that her inseminator will no longer be eating her lactating treats.
"This is absolute tripe," she sniped, "And it's only $2 a kilo."
Cows, happy to be taken to laughter, refused to admit that they are the central fingers in a rort that seeds millions of bucks flow into already bulging hips.
"Those with money don't really care as long their money is making yet more," one innocent veal chop told apple sauces who wished to remain apples.
Serial Killers Union of Australia (SKUA) boss Ivan Milat has met with officials from the meat industry to discuss a possible amalgamation of the two industries that Milat describes as "very, very, very, very, violent."
"Most people, the great majority, think that acts of wretched violence, brutality and inhumanity are somehow utterly repugnant to them," the multilpe mutilator told his gun collection.
"That they think this as they tuck into their mutton-chops, in their leather shoes is what I would call having your head in the bloody sand-pit," he chuffed chewing his rump.
A meat-worker, who wished to remain in a blood-stained suit and accustomed to the wholesale slaughter of the innocent, has asked vegetarians protesting the stringing-up and throat-slitting of beasts to "eat me".
"Clearly killing is every communities bread and butter," he called from his carcass.
That ordinary people think they are not directly responsible for taking lives is just more evidence of the world in which we live.
That we live in fear of it coming back to bite us at the hands of a more brutal (human)animal is not a fair price to pay.
That not enough of us here in a free-country aren't taken by murderers has me scratching my only mutton-chops.
SKUA boss Milat told his victims that his victims tolled more than the humans he tied up and tortured.
"I started out with animals," the skewerer said, "then I really took to people."
In a bonanza for the paparazzi, home and away the best racketeer in the electrical circus, Bec Cartwright has told her father: "Gee, Pa."
After pondering her predicament, hot and heavy with a horse, Hewitt (nee Cartwright) needed to sit down in an esky full of ice.
"The equine was enormously erotic," explained an erratic Eskimo.
The poor horse had to be taken away in a hearse.
When asked about the affair the horse could only say: "Pal, I'm knackered."
Bec's father, bewildered by his daughter's promiscuity, has comforted his son-in-law, Lleyton by electing to receive.
"For me, he serves custard," he told the fans while sweating professorially.
Hewitt denies he's thick and rich.
International campaigners for the rights of formulaic writing have devised a cunning stunt to fit between the British leg of Spears' world tour.
Striking writers have lauded the move that is set to open the floodgates to something... that should be... good.
"We aren't striking," an unnamed writer told sorcerers close to Spears, "we are just very, very blocked."
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to do something really hard?" the typer which said the other thingo said to complete a stranger.
The world tour that is set to take all countries by force will not involve coersion of minor celebrities.
Trapped minors seeking custody of the Inklish queen have foiled plots to take readers on a pathetic, escapist journeyman.
"OK. Fed up begins to sum it up", one terrible infant spluttered, mushily.
America's first baglady Britney Spears has surrendered to the undeniable charms of Presidential aspirin and father-figurine Clinton.
"I have showered her in my love." Clinton said aloft a wonky shopping trolley.
Spears has denied claims that she's a reflection of the undeniable talentlessness of music consumers with more money than sins.
"I am the undeniable product of the women's lip-operation movement."
Teenage girls grow into women.
The world is a better place now than it was in the past.
"I believe in prozac." Spears told herself before drifting off.
Clinton denied that she's ever played volleyball or served a spike.
"I did not have sexual relations with that man - Mr Clinton." Clinton said before the mirror as she shaved this morning.
On her way out, the door shut.
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