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!
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.
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.
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.
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."
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