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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

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 :~)

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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.

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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.

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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


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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


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Norm hits back at critics

April 8th 2008 04:04
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


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Blank title angers filthy content

March 26th 2008 12:13
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


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Twins Ruin JLo's Cunning Stunt

March 21st 2008 22:15
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


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