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!
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.
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.
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