The Jews are poised to attack sinful city of sunny Sydney as the Pope takes off to launch attacks on World Youth Day.
"These measures are our preferred course of action," said one money-grubber as he awaits a messiah who has already left.
The train doesn't carry anyone, unhardly.
The Pope, chosen by God to represent his interests - financial and strategic - here on Earth, has asked God forgiveness for "not whipping them out when I had the chance."
We underpantstand he was stalking about a very naughty boy.
Sydney, a citadel on the rocks, is hoisting the unction - World Youth Day, to spread the weird.
The massage is the medium.
An angry mop, high on the intoxicating velour of war, has hurled rocks at sheep who thought that fighting for God and Country really meant that.
War, believed by many to be fertile, has to be seen to be bereaved.
"Cerebrating war does my head in," terminal head-case Norm said while getting stoned.
"We abhor those who sacrifice their lives," except when they're one of us.
There is a fundamentalist difference between sacrificing your life and the antics of a suicide bumbler.
The stoned diggers, we're sour well-meaning and good-fearing, are in no way advocates of peas.
Not the ones you get in a can, anyway.
"We don't advocate the blank-armband view of history," former kettle-prodders told the abhorred.
Except on this verily specious occasion.
Embittered boggler Norm has spoken up about the looming crisis farcing the anklish languages in the wake of the dearth of indecent waiters.
"I'm a real nut-picker when it comes to waiters dotting their toes and crossing their eyes," the cross-eyed madman told his anal cyst.
Sporting pink-painted toenails and noticeably looking at the pong of his nose, Norm insists he's not a crass-drosser.
"Writhing should be fun," he noted as he removed a pencil from his pancreas.
"Not something that causes pride in simpering correctness," he scolded as he dropped a kettle over his head.
The battle for the right to righteousness is set to snail on.
The title of this short, very short, piece has hit back at the clams of the content that there is nothing in it.
"I strongly deny that I have ever had anything to do with the actual content," the title told reporters waiting on their hands and feet.
It's a clam that the content has rejected in the strongest possible times.
"The title and I both know who's been leading who," the continent told shifting plates of peas.
In these heady times, the battle between head and body has never been more farce.
"I could go on all day," the body of peas told the head of a fork and spoon.
A speedy resolution is expected to be brought by a screen in process.
Prime Minister Kelvin Rudd has outbid stroking Bollywood writers to claim the services of the most advanced knuckle-drag queen in Australia.
"He both plays for my team," said Rudd, "and he doesn't."
Symonds refused to let the media see his tutu because he "wouldn't wear it."
The media remain upbeat that they can get an idea or two to float for the upcoming celebrations to be held in the streets of Sydney.
The arching tutu went red when Steve Waugh put his hanky in the wash.
"If an Indian isn't doing his rag," Symonds, an avid fetishist, explained, "they're doing their rug."
Bollywood waiters have had to rush to the bathroom to wash their hands of the Australians.
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