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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

There's no I in KGB: FBI

August 4th 2008 01:07
The Bachelor reads you his rights

The FBI, a benevolent organisation run by vacuum-cleaning magnate Ed Hoover, is furious that it has been likened to the KGB, a malevolent organisation run by bereft-leaning idealogues.

"When we want to get rid of someone," a spokesperson for the burning-cross-dressing clan told the free and the brave, "we just kill them."

It is understood that the KGB, a secret harm of the now dismantled Columnist's block, was happier to see its revolters sent to prison.

"We're not against that as such," the spokesperson said, putting a pillow-case on a pensioner's head.

"If we find someone revolting we usually just close our eyes," they said, chaining freedom to poor people and throwing away the key.

"The key is acquiring property and wealth," they said, putting a few paupers behind bars as white killer criminals escape our conceit of justice.

Ed Hoover, a mouth like an unctious cup, frigger-head for the wheels of the just, the poppy-master for millions of addicts, homo for the free and the manlady of the craven, is wearing pretty thin.

"I look like an emancipated Negro," his corpse moaned from deep below the surface, frying chicken.

"I was always way ahead of my time," the obese, secretly serviced, Mephisto told Liberace, praying with his keys.




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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.

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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.

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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


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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


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Norm: sorry for sorry sorry

May 8th 2008 23:53
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


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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


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