A word has no inherent meaning other than that which we attribute to it. If words were truth, a dog would be dog wherever you were. That a dog is not a dog in all parts of the globe speaks volumes for where the truth lies. A dog is a living panting thing, like a chair is a dead sitting thing. Chair means dog, if you and me understand that it does. It means nothing at all if there is no understanding. If you don't understand me, it's hadly my fault, now is it?
Chair, by that I mean dog, becomes a choir, if you understand that an A is more or less an O (both being vowelly flexible in their essential openness as sounds). "Ch" sounding like it should in the former and like a "Q" in the latter. How's that for logic! The letters that words are composed of having no direct relation to the sounds that they relate to. The sound of an A looks nothing like an A but is of course best represented as belonging to the mouth (not tongue) that forms the sound.
A wee slip of the tongue can turn any one word to another and any one word can be turned to a neighbour and become that neighbour. By that, every word is but a poor representation of another. A letter being only an actor for a real sound. A word being only an actor for a real thing. If it sounds like nonsense to you, then join the chew. In all this it's not drawing a long one to say that there is nothing we don't have a word for. Even nothing has a word: nothing. Even though nothing doesn't exist. Nothing isn't real. It's nowhere to be found.
Words and letters are tools. Absolute tools! It's not a stench to say that the way an animal uses body language and sounds to communicate is the same as us. That stinks! They form a shape with their body: a word, and match it with a sound: language, to get a root and a feed or to save their skin. They form sentences in the shape of groups for survival. Or is that the other way around? I have to talk my chair for a walk, so it's goodbye from me and it's goodbye from you. Goodbye :~)
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.
Norm, nature-laugher, florist extraordinaire, bong-head, simpleton, Marxist reanimator, dope-thinker, papal-pleaser, stay-at-home dud, fart-laugher, and kiddy-art crayoner is too much of a laugher to think that nature doesn't have the answers.
"I'm too conceited to admit that I am conceited," the willing masturbator, crass-dresser and master of conceit told waiting ear-holes.
Words, insane, inane, human creations, are barely of our own making, anyway, he said whittling his pencil into a sharp point.
That we think they are the masters of reality is a sham, the increasingly erotic wordsloth told the mastery that is the world we try and hopelessly master.
Particularly when they're so hard to muster, anyway, the authoritarian farce of reason said as he stacked a pile of words to create offence he was building to keep the pests out.
Dearth, waiting in the wings like a flea on a pigeon, is too plentiful to believe in our supremacy, the increasingly rabid dag told fellow laughers.
It's unfortunate that pride comes before a fool, the foolish philanthropist told himself as someone paraded a float of big words down the river.
Words, water off a dick's blog, are not reality; reality is hard like my fart.
Nature beats book for truth, I'm silly.
The word's greatest spiller, kiddy porn controversy denier, humble pie manufacturer, bigot squasher, argumentative tail-chaser, ignored and vilified martyr, tea-slipper, Kamahl enthusiast, heroic saviour of the maniacal and depressed, donkey-wielder, robot-inventor, carrot-catcher and man with a pair of sucks down his pants, has scoffed at claims he can't spell Karl Marx.
"Put it in a sentence," he said adjusting his larger-than-life sized image of himself emblazoned on his jockeys.
Lay off the whip, for pity's ache.
"Karl Marx was someone who sat around while working robots went about their lives," the master of the unceremonious replied.
It was at this point that the champion smeller, a champion in every sentence of words, fluffed his pants.
"There's not a word I know, and I know them all, that I don't know the meaning of, let alone know how to smell," he said, sitting around while working people went about other peoples' businesses.
"C-A-R-L," he spelled Karl.
I'm sensing this isn't how to conduct yourself in public.
I hate to sound like a smarty pants.
The fallen angel, suspected terrorist, keeper of souls, habitual masturbator, pro-Chaucer and Democrat has aggrieved to appear on the ballot with long-time friend, business associate and fellow mister of deceit Barack Obama.
"A vote for Obama is a vote for me" Satan himself said wearing a grin from oar to oar.
The two Satanists, in the same boat, believe that killing children is the American way and running with scissors on wet tails.
God, strangely silent for the last few centuries, is a vocal campaigner for the innocent.
"I'll do everything in my power to save the lives of children," the all mighty one told scribes who had smoked the burning bush as Japanese Vealers remembered Hiroshima.
The two camps, Good and Evil, are, for the first time, to go head to horny head in a vote that will at last bring Armageddon.
"We can't wait," a cured foetus told the pus-driveller on the way to school.
God, tired, is on the record as vowing to send his son, conceived through unconsentual sex and out of wedlock to another man's wiff, to sort out the white from the wrong.
"Jesus, that's me!" he said, wanking up late one day.
We're all adults here.
Body-hoarding gimp, ruglord, mister of disguise and indecent until proven quilty man Tony Mokbel has pointed the thinger squarely at the woman he described as "bossy-britches" in stunning revelations to be aired soon.
"She looks like a regular person," Fat Tony told Jenny Craig as he sat down to a calorie contorted regime.
"But inside beats the heart of person with clogged arteries," the overwrought Mokbel snorted while slipping on a Diet Coke.
Mokbel claims that he was merely a poppet for Corby, who he also describes as "about 75kgs".
"That puts her street value off the graph!" he muttered to inquiring soap-makers.
The claims are refuted strangely by Corby's mother, who has reason to believe that Corby, on the run in leotards, has lost weight recently.
"I'm sending a convoy of obese Australians over to see Mokbel," she confessed to her father, for she had sunned, herself.
"The whole thing is going to blow up in his face!" she exclimbed, downering a hymnburger with the lit.
Salt and sugar are not drugs.
Lord, no!
As predelicted by ALP soothslayer and acclaimed French siren Gerard Depardieu (pictured), the formerly heavily pregnant tinkerer of evil thoughts and Liberal stalled-wart gave a wide birth to the demon in a ritual's laughter.
"I hate to say I told you so," the flagrant frog told the depressed mother as Dr. Nelson delivered the demon from the evil clutches of the Liberal party drink tank.
In a mark of the best and brightest, we are represented by huff-wits and snakey ladders.
"Keep your nose out of my business, de Bergerac!" the expectant mater told Depardieu as dentists inspected her cavities.
The demon seed, in an ominous warming for the human-annoyed race, is expected to become the next Australian idol.
Damien Leith, the last idol and gnome's sick, was on hand to welcome his holy darkness into his farcical manifestation.
"He's got a green horn!" saucy nurses salivated as they cut the cards and handed the little bundle of jaws over too.
Evil thoughts carry evil deeds to the lower house and beyonder, bubby.
The bland, leading the bland, have met with their one true mister - a one-eyed wizard with one hand down his pants and the other down yours.
"I mean you no harm," he said stroking a severed head of letters.
It is understood the King, an objective observer and ghastly superior, sees everything and in great depth.
"I hate it when issues get personal," the intellectual giant beseeched his hairdresser, who primly blabbed to the Medea.
The bland, unable to read between the lines, appointed their king in a lavish ceremony that pleased their lord and masturbator.
"My kingdom for an accolade!" the King told his optometrist as he tried on another set of spectacles.
The King will be trying to write his weight out of a wet paper bag to show off his mate.
"I am the Queen of the world!" he shouted, straddling his sinking shit.
His ship don't stink.
Those unwilling victims who unfortunately succumbed to the irresistible charms of kiddie-pornographer, terrorist sympathiser and drug boss, Bill "Mad Dog" Henson now tell of their years of torment in front of his vaselined apparatus.
"He used to really smear it on," said one recently formed adolescent with a fanny gate.
The victims were assembled by harmless community leaders who were licking for some action of their own.
"Unfortunately these kids are no longer kids at all," one federal policeman said as his download finished.
"It's thanks to these disgusting images of the human body that we should all fear the human body," a crusader for the righteousness of their own egocentric altruism stated.
Bill Henson, himself now undead, probably wishes he was.
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.
Churchman cometh Pope Ratsinger has praised Henson's reanimated corpse for its Christ-like resurrection.
"I wouldn't leave him alone with my own children," Ratsinger told his cronies as he dressed up in garb consistent with the humility one would associate with being in awe of the all matey.
Henson, beshotted dead by irate taxidermist Travis Bickle, has walked the art scene on the hunt for brains.
"Sadly, the people who come after me don't have any," Henson's Zombie confessed to his shepherd's piles.
The piles, distinctly uncomfortable, have come out of hiding from the rectum of an actor.
As the chilled actor Jodie Foster said to the bishop: "Let's just get this over with," as the bishop's leg made it's way over.
Pedophiles trawling the net have latched onto the only known photographs of naked children made available by the bishop's sheep and the chilled tractor, Henson.
"The human body, at all stages of its development, is something we should all feel..." Henson broke off with as his corpse became stiff.
"Ashamed of!" the choir varnished offal with.
The stiffs continue to work the dearth.
The knotted scientist and wizard of us, noted for his bad spills and pantfalls, has achieved spiritual and intellectual perfunction through eaing his own words.
"It's psycho Delphic, baby!" the wizardly scientist said with great flailing, inspite, humourility and encompassion, as pink elephants chaired him off to his rightful palace.
The tinman told him that all he needs is a heart.
"Who needs a heart when you have a brain like mine, baby?" he said while practising voodoo on his enemy for the week and spilling very badly.
It is understood that inadvertently spilling badly is concordant with inadmissable arrogance.
The trip, egregiously spurious and pretty, was another induced experience brought on by the scientist's unfathomable shallowness.
If anyone needs any proof, the scientist is selling his patented fig jam at stalls.
Just ask him.
Apologetic ineffectual and cerebral acuity sufferer Norm has told pseudo-sufferers that he's sorry that his 'sorry' was so verily sorry.
"Sorry, this sorry sorry is a sorry sorry from a very sorry soul," said a true ineffectual, explert in all, moister of nuns, teacher of the pimples and ha and matey elephant ridder.
The battle betwine he and Norm for the arse and minds of the pimples has wed some to bereave that the former is the grater.
"He grates on me," said terminal ladder-slider, unintelligible builder, voracious animus, and pus-taker Norm.
For all hat, Norm is verisimiltude to sorrow over the wailments of the world.
"Mire than yule ulcer nose," he bespoke while tailoring his suet.
The bottle for hammerous righteousness goes right drown to aviary shingle word ratten.
The dove, ill, is in the detoils.
Norm, the wanking headline behind so many outrageous sandals worn with socks, has revealed his wedgie to a Medea throng in retaliation to the hounding he has sniffelled at their hinds.
"I'm sick of reading about my life," the media magnet told refigerators.
"I'm getting a talking book," the clearly cerebrally challenging creator of numerous hints furnished wit.
The Medea, a scored nuffer and waif, has eaten our laughs away with its constraint hope.
Headlines for Norm told us that they had no hind in the bardy of the piece.
It remains to be seen if Norm can keep his gnome out of the head.
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.
Embattled boogler Norm has slammed his critics for calling him a lazy parasite after he couldn't be bothered finishing
"I always finish my sentences," the errant spiller told his pet pug.
It's a climb that is strongly refuted by irrefutable accidence brought forward by his enemies.
"We know how to organise information into legible sentences," the sensible citizens in an insensible world told authorities.
It is understood that sensible sentences are in accord with a world perceived through reliable senses.
"Sentences should reflect the secure handle we have on things," the rabidly slipping information-gatherings told sadvertisers.
The sentence is due to be handled down tomorrow.
The filthy content of this post has lashed out violently at the title of this piece in a stunning burst of creativity by its haphazard author.
The content, who wished to be remain deeply discontented now that it's wintery, has refused to admit that.
When questioned by the author of the piece, the content simply went blank and urinated over an acclaimed author.
"I'm not an acclaimed author," the author of the content wrote in his own faeces, "But I wish I wasn't," he said eating a mudcake.
The title, alarmed that its passivity has been called into question, has remained steadfast in its public position that it should lead.
"My fellow Australians," the leader told its subjects, "I am the one with the big title here," he said while polishing his bedpost.
The saga is set to have tongues wagging school and hanging out in undesirable locations across the virtual world.
Corn-lover, chimp-magnet, and dog-skinner, Jennifer Lopez has been upstaged in a special ceremony to honour the charitable work of her crab-catcher.
The mangey oyster, responsible for more head-trauma than her larynx, will never be the sane again after delivering two bouncing baby bangers onto a plate of mash.
The pair of sausages, mostly lips and anuses, stunningly responsible for upstaging Lopez's stunner of a stunt, are avoiding the media for fear of a squint of sauce.
Lopez strenuosly denies reports that her monkey-maker will never wink quite as well as before.
"These little ones of mine," JLo told her bank-roller, "didn't even touch the sides."
"I've still got my own lips and anus anyway," a furious JLo said while scoffing down a sausage.
Lopez is set to jump her motormouth over her grand canyon in the coming weeks.
In a coup for wealthy arts-holes, striving artists have increased the size of the pool in the Archibald lottery.
"We've had to dig around in the dirt for years," said one blood-shot-eyed loser in a dtch.
The coup, chicken-feed for wealthy cats, is a cage.
The pool cleaner, a woman without a moustache, arrived with her children to sweep the pool for her.
"It's not creepy to get my crawlers to do my dirty work," she told the wealthy land-owners.
There can only be one winner in the exploitation of pool-diggers.
"It's me," the winner told jubilant art-lovers.
When asked if she could be any clearer, she told baby-shitters for Sean Connery: "Do I have to paint a picture for you?"
A discrimination case being brought against a Sydney bordello by working-girls will hear the grunts and groans of a blokey culture.
Blogs around the world are set to join in the fight against prostitution with leading blogs calling for writing about particular topics in order to satisfy the demands of search engines, increase traffic and increase revenue.
Any attempts to do otherwise will see working whores thrown out into the dark alleys of the net.
"This culture of sailing out is something new to the harbour-city." said a leading socialist.
The prostitution ring has engulfed a shitload of dills.
The hard-working and god-feeling blokes at the center of the soggy-biscuit contest have told the madam to put anything on her blog that doesn't challenge the existing order.
The existing order is for a blonde.
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