The human heart, a large pump-action shit-gun, a bloody miss, a vital organiser, is on the left, say sinister individuals involved in the removal of my property from my person.
My property, the things that make me happy, is mine, and you can't have it, say grown-ups praying in the sinned pit, while paddling in their pants.
The sinister individuals, clutching their breasts erratically, have tried to get their red-hands on my hard-earned since day dotty, say those who are always correct.
It's probably why so many people are right-handed, say guessers on gameshows designed to soothe the human heart by endowing their owners with new things.
Things, as they stand, are bound to fall down. It's only right that the heart, on the left as it pimps blood through the vain, bleeds, say breeding hearts.
The discovery is at odds with conventional thinking that has the heart, squirely in the muddle of the chest, an instrument used for keeping the brains, say Zombies.
Religion is the personification of Nature, believe leading trippers.
"The Sun, that great child of the sky, is none other than the Son of God," claims one, high on the acuity of his vision.
The Twelve Disciples, none other than the twelve moons that go around a year, have refused to be drawn on the claims.
No body can hold a torch to the moons, except the blazing star of our belief system.
The twelve months without the Sun would be in rather desparate need of saving, that's for sure.
"We wouldn't piss on Jesus if he was on fire," said Judas, possibly referring to an eclipse.
That would be sacrilege.
He's already on fire.
The heavens' brightest star, from where we are.
It's human nature to personalise that which isn't in affront to understanding.
Particularly that which is so essential to our daily lives.
And nothing is more daily than the fiery baptist above our heads.
We are what we are but how we are who we are remains in the shade, I said basking in the warmth of the winterless Sun.
The untilled Earth, a veritable Virgin, delivered one day, not unlike today, the energetic child.
What with the thunderbolts and the clouds and the heavens, the Sky is God and the rest is salience.
We can only hope to end up a twinkle in the heavens, I said tinkling the ovaries.
The Sky sent the Sun so that we could live; we should be thankful.
God, Foxy Loxy, is falling, say trippers on their own feats.
It's getting hot in here, so take off all your loathes.
When the Sun does return to us we will all be in hell.
It won't be the end of the world.
It's only a revelation.
Resort manager, and infidel tangent, Castro is a silly old bugger with a dodgy knee-jerk reaction and feathery trigger thinger, according to resort-goers.
"We used to treat Cuba like a holiday spot," said wretched businessmen in a chorus.
"Now they have sovereignty, it's as if they've never even heard of the word Liberty," a disgruntled liberator told fleeting pleasants.
Liberty, the right to impose yourself on others, has never been a stranger danger to the weak and mild.
Gastro, who'll go through you like a knife through batter, never shat himself over all these ears.
"You have to hand it to him," proponents of capitalism told call-girls when the subject of head came up.
The electric chair is a testament to thou shalt not kill.
Old people are resorting to a quicker end though.
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!
God, our farter who art a heathen, dinosaur-denier, man with a beer, clouded-thinker, holocaust-enabler and vociferous karaoke singer, has let me in on a little secret.
"I actually look more like a triceretops," the all matey one told me last evening while I shat down to mourn my lost love.
If you're reading this, you are far away from me my eternal laugher.
I am praying for the day when I can hold you in my eyes.
The revelations, in a biblical sense, also included a trenchant approval of the rights of his followers to make choices about other people's bodies.
"I only kicked Eve out of Eden because she started claiming to know my mind better than me," our Lord said as my heart broke off aboard a plane headed for the Continent.
"I am God, after all," the stillbirth activist told me as he reached in to pluck out my brain from a puncture he had made in my art.
The award-whingeing novellist also told me that he hasn't read any good books lately.
"Jurassic Park, now that's a good book," God said as you flew.
Off.
Australia, a ticking time bomb planted by the British cistern of justice, and full of the moribundly obtuse, is ready to explode, say starving Africans.
The striving Africans, also planted by the British sister of justice: prudence, have been dying to say something on this issue.
Their spokesman, Chilean duct-taper Robert Mugabe - responsible for the deaths of people, says that he's a machete for any man.
Westerly windy duck-tappers are Emocryptically elocuted.
"I'm more than a match for you fews," Mugabe said as he got a Brazilian under his nostril and waved his staffer in the hair.
Africans, no longer Slavs, their hands on the snips, are set to cut the cord with their colonial mothers, winch and four walls.
Colonialism is a mother of a thing at the beast of tames.
Yours says hi.
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.
Granny award whining focalist Mariah Carey's charred body has been discovered by an obese fan.
"I found her in my fireplace," the fried chicken magnet told reparters.
It is understood the fan had earlier abducted Miss Carey from her electrolysister's house.
"I'd been listening to her latest hit single," the fanatic said, as he tucked into a breast.
"Torch my body, throw me on the fire," the fetching fanatic sang as police hoisted him to safety.
It's the first time Carey has gone charcoal.
Miss Carey's press secretary has hosed down the fireplace.
"There'll never be another like her," he mused.
Scientists are working hard to destroy her genetic material just to make sure.
“Is it safe?”
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”
“Is it safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“Is what safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“What?”
“Is it safe?”
“Like a house.”
“So it is safe then, that’s a relief. I was very worried there for a moment.”
“Me too, but now I know it’s safe, I can relax.”
“Frankly, is it safe?”
“I don’t give a damn!”
“Is it safe?”
“Exceedingly!”
“Very well.”
“Very!”
“Well, I don’t even know any more.”
“It is safe.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, yes. Very safe. Very, very safe.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“If it wasn’t, would I say it was?”
“I don’t know you that well.”
“Well, I do.”
“Knowing you, I’d say not.”
“Yes, but you don’t.”
“All I want to know is if it’s safe.”
“I keep telling you that it is.”
“What?”
“It!”
“It’s safe to say it’s not safe then.”
“It is safe.”
“Is it safe, is it? Is it really?”
“Really, really safe!”
Overwhelmingly, Australian market economists are expecting the Reserve Bank of Australia to wear frilly undies while taking a wooden spoon on the buttocks this week. The impending rate rise is in response to severe tropical weather figures for the fifth quarter. And so, with another interesting rake hike to deal with, here are ten ways you can scrounge up some extra cash each month to meet your mortgage repayments and keep that smiling face on your head you've grown so very accustomed to over the eons:
1. Go troppo in the queue at the supermarket. Analysts believe that psychotic individuals are 5 times more likely to have free meals than ordinary nuerotics.
2. Sell your body for a few quick bucks. 3 out of 17 marriages are arranged by a pasta-eating magnet-salesman with a dodgy leg twitch and two manic mittens of disproportionate dimensional aspect.
3. Yodel. People with tense chords are unlikely to be understood by your average wallet whacker. Being understood is a profitable mistake you can easily make.
4. See 5.
5. See 4.
6. Erupt at the bank like you was a volcano with a sawn off shotty and a baklava. Greek pastries go well up top and less well down the back.
7. Review the contents of your knickerbockers.
8. Fit in with society. It's what everyone is supposed to do. You are no different to everyone. Everyone is composed of anyone. Anyone: that could be you.
9. Die without fuss or ticker-tape parades. No open coffin ticker-tape worms for you. Not in this life.
10. Become a celebrity. Don't be afraid to have your image plastered all over your visage.
Artistic types have come out to support the piles of sticks angry at the backlash they believe they have suffered at being labelled 'artistic types'.
"We have come out to throw our support behind these branches," a spokesperson for the wily artistic types said while mincing around some meat.
"These piles aren't interested in my anus!", they finished with before applying some cream to their scone.
Macho magician, the archactor George "Sly Arnie" Pell has come out even stronger in support saying, "If I had my way, I'd do a trick on all homosexuals, and then I'd go poof!"
It is understood that a handful of 'artistic types' have thrown down the lilac linoleum in anger at being branded on the cheeks with an iron.
"This lino is a symbol of our interest in artistic pursuits", their spokesperson hummed while polishing some porcelain.
"I wish my brother George was queer", they said while playing to Maccas.
The drama that has unfolded from the drapes is set to add colour to an otherwise dreary bedroom ensemble.
At least it'll give us something to sink our teeth into.
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