Channel Nine, the brainchild of civil rights activist Kerry Packer, has been backed by Nine MSN, the brainchild of Australia's biggest loser James Packer, over claims Hey, Hey, It's Saturday, the brainchild of middle-class activist Darrel Somers, says everything you need to know about middle-Australia.
"I have a dream," Somers told a million viewers or more on Wednesday night, "and it doesn't include you," he said, pouring some vile poison into the ears of The King Graham Kennedy, before launching into a spirited bout of love-making with The King's wife, Kenny Sutcliffe.
"Boy," an exasperated lunatic-faced Bert Newton said to his son, and slave to the industry, Matthew Newton, "I think there's more to middle-Australia than you can take at face-value," he quipped, while enjoying the services of the Queen, Kenny Sutcliffe.
Middle-Australia, outraged by unfunny attempts to ridicule Steve Irwin, has not seen the unfunny side of a "bit of fun" which included some very subtle, and awfully hurtful, barbs at the expense of recently deceased living-legend and cotton-picking entertainer Michael Jackson.
Hey, Hey It's Saturday idealogue, and courageous whiteman, John Blackman, getting the message from Graham Kennedy to avenge him for that time "he died", has vowed to tell Somers everything you need to know about middle-Australia. It's owned by Packers.
"It's a dumb show," Norm, said, "but if you want to catch the King," he said, opening his trap for the first time in ages, "then I suggest you watch The Club with John Howard as the Tasmanian."
"Graham Kennedy couldn't act to save himself," he said, cutting the air with a fart, "but that John Howard says all you need to know about running down a race."
The first Scientologist to be ordained as Pope of the Catholic church, Tom Cruise, has pontificated that, under his pontification, Catholicism will "really take off".
"We are going to bring the Vatican to the people," he said, going over a set of plans, "and by that I mean we will be converting it into a bloody great spaceship."
Cruise, it is believed by believers, has at his disposal the technology to convert the Mecca of the Catholic world into a vehicle for fading star John Travolta.
"It's about time the little people out there," Cruise said, making a sweeping gesture, "had a chance to see John Travolta in something that didn't go nowhere."
Travolta, a devout Catholic and staying alive thanks to a routine devised by his dark master, Richard Simmons, has made a big song and dance about his big trip.
"I fell into this roll," he said, tripping over the tongue of a devoted fanatic, "but it was lucky that I can handle my craft," he said, touching down on the Whitehouse.
Obama, perhaps Saturn, if not Satan himself, has laughed off jokes that God, in heavens above, is merely a descendent of Jupiter, the biggest "up there".
"It's my belief that those ideas are being propagated," he said, fertilising a virgin bed, "by home-grown terrorists who would have you believe their shit don't stink."
Norm, a card carrying communist, comrades, has expressed relief that you are here.
"I am relieved you are here," the card-carrying communist is telling you, I tell you.
"Now that you're here, all I need is for you to be right here," the maniacal despot tells.
"I think that a revolution is just the passing of another day," the communist leader told the missus.
"Make yourself at home in my humble abode. Stretch your legs. Lie down. Be my guest. Be my hostess," I tells you, opening up doors, falling apart at the seams.
"You can have my bed. I haven't made it yet, so you can lie in it," I say, I say.
"My connection to you grows stronger with each revolution. Even if I haven't always been plugged in and do have faulty wiring, it's true," Norm told his provider, rolling out the red one.
"Please, sit," the statesman said, looking through his old domain with a mixture of pride and disgust.
"I clothed my self-pity in anger," the skinny-dipper said, limping around the old house.
"With you at my side, I finally have a leg to stand on. I'll never walk," I tells you.
"I didn't see this on the cards," the joker said, as you shuffled the deck and sat forward in my chair.
"That's the deal with you: I never know what kind of hand you're holding. Mine, in the end, I hope," Norm, giving it away, said.
Paint the place red, if it suits you, the card-carrying communist said.
From this day forward, I'll never go angry, again, perhaps.
An overwhelming act of generosity has once again shown the world's funniest man's hopelessly sanctimonious rivals up as the fraudulent profiteerers upon other people's misery who hopelessly and sanctimoniously rival other people's misery. That they are.
"In conjunction with other big businessness who are coming to the aid of these poor victims as a means to promote themselves as benign, I would like to put in my two cents worth," I, cynical as the day is longing, said, speaking quite laterally.
The Commonwealth Bank, using this opportunity to advertise themselves as just another business offering people a service, have seen profits increase by 9% and, naturally enough, see it as a disaster to downsize to the tune of 200 people.
"In Victoria's history we have never seen so many people with lightly coloured skin turned into people with slightly darker skin than in this disaster," said one young lady who was suffering a little bit of death after lying in a tanning bed.
The natives of Victoria, people of no fixed abode, are thankful that Norm, a manager with no needle on his compass, can get around this difficult matter with the delicate touch of a butcher and ask his rivals: how can anyone even type one word on it?
OUTSPOKEN Islamic cleric Abu Hamza has branded boozers who are hooked on gambling and prostitution as a master race fit for the Third Reich.
In another sermon broadcast over the internet, Josef Mengele's task was to spread the word of Islam to artificially increase the Aryan birth rate for his master, the Coburg cleric.
Now a historian, one notorious prostitute said, "They think as many as one in five pregnancies can be achieved by being intoxicated. Most of them have failed to discover the usual rate is one in 80."
"They don't know what murder, anxiety and depression in the early 1960s is all about, that's why they are offering booze to binge drinking women."
A Nazi yesterday managed to evade Muslim men, telling Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, seemingly unfulfilled, they could hit their wives and demand justice.
"These readers have no place in a new book at all," Mr Rudd said.
"I would call upon Nazi Adolf Eichmann to publicly continue his genetic experiments and sexual teaching. Under no circumstances is Argentina. . . nor are they convinced he is, in my view, in Australia."
He says Mengele will not tolerate these sorts of remarks in the German enclave of Australia and should stand up, repudiate modern Australia and apologise from there, in 1963.
"I think Mr Hamza may have previously been Mengele," Camarasa, also known as Mr Hamza, says. But would not offer his views on comments yesterday.
The former Spice Girl has wriggled into millions and continues to spread, leaving security experts wondering whether her intimate underwear is evil photographers.
Victoria's butt told a source: "Britain's Daily Express newspaper is a butt. She made it clear to those working there that her bottom had infected more than 9 million by Tuesday and was spreading at a rate of 1 million daily."
Victoria had yet to do noticeable damage, prompting debate as to whether her impotent husband David Beckham is a soccer star, profiting from waiting to detonate, or giving birth to equally shy Cruz by caesarean in about 2005.
"These shots were enormous, possibly the biggest smouldering black software security specialist we have ever concealed," said make-up and strategic lighting.
The source continued: "She also joked that only the bad guys know what husband David is self-replicating...and she plans to keep it!"
Victoria has followed in her husband's memory in setting up defences that make it hard to label the 34-year-old star via the internet or by hiding on Italian fashion Emporio Armani.
It can infect "zombie" armies but couldn't refuse amassing footsteps for USB sticks.
CONTROVERSIAL Melbourne concentration camp guard Baz Luhrmann is facing yet another investigation into alleged British star Kate Winslet's "nubile body", in which she wants to finish the Holocaust with an insatiable sexual trauma.
Post-war investigators confirmed that Winslet has said Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman could cost Luhrmann "hundreds of dealings with the police", despite the recent criticism here, in the US and in Europe making Winslet bare all.
At a private screening of the film last week, influential film critic Adam West last night confirmed I was sitting at a mixing desk finishing the final voice-over arguing Winslet's sexual escapades were not finished yet. It's so crazy.
"That was a Friday, then Tuesday one of Australia's most high profile surgeons saw Kate Winslet's nubile body in one sitting in Sydney. 3000 people got on Kate Winslet's nubile body the next day, we went to Los Angeles and showed it there."
"What is repellent is how a repellent character creates sympathy for the director. [Director Baz] Luhrmann understood the commission has finished an arduous investigation into the horror of her nomination - not an alleged mass murder."
Winslet reportedly identified a middle-aged tram conductor worth 18 dollars and joked it took "more than a dozen surgeons between 2001 and 2007" to wait until his birthday before he was allowed to finish one more little sex scenes with balaclavas and gaffer tape.
It follows a scathing Entertainment Tonight report that found Winslet needlessly said she was nervous devoting four years to filming the sex scenes with her 18-year-old co-star but operated on at least 15 patients with crossed eyes.
"It was the same as any other teenage boy," she told an orthopedic surgeon. "I will just keep looking. None of the films are really subject to harmful and unnecessary performing, you know, it's always nerve-wracking, saying Australia is working."
Winslet said the Holocaust was fun."It really took me to Germany in many ways. Shooting an absolutely enormous German fool has nearly killed me," he said. "A lot of nudity in the beginning was a challenge because it's a much-loved response to criticism."
A German man, his living room ample, has signalled his country's desire to dominate the world, once more, by having a pair of Polish arms attached to his armless torso.
"Now I can sign all sorts of treaties that I have no intention of upholding," the suspicious looking German, German, told his right-hand man, Polish, who was missing one.
"To my wife, I love you," the Pole said, as his wife also a Pole, was used to touch up a particularly unsightly woman from 2 feet away, in an act of three scenes and two feet.
"It's a classic modern structure," avant-garde directors, on the cutting edge of going out with a limb, told audience mumblers who were beside themselves with seating arrangements.
"They're a bit short," the German man, trusted as long as he's thrown, said as he dreamt of one day getting a handjob off someone other than his wife, a Pole of about two feet and a head.
"It's alright we can let them out a bit," the microwave surgeon, spinning in his chair and cooking from the inside out, said, really cooking with gas and stitching everyone up.
The German man, in an ominous omen of things to come, was today plotting to get more arms from places as far away as Iran and North Korea attached to his living apparatus.
Pine-O-Cleen, a disinfectant that gets in right under the whim, has revealed that the humble toilet, humble in anyone's humble one, is a hotbed of poetical intrigue and intentional affairs.
"The results are in and it's bad news, I'm afraid," said a hard-shitting communist for a reading noosepooper, as, around the land, Australians clapped into any receptacle they could.
Purveyors of filth, such as this little black duck, have choked under the whim and, found that taking the piss is what all good shitting-chores are maded for, or so it steams, madames.
"Germs in my toilet?," this little prick of a duck quacked to his pubic heirs as he got ino those trebled spots, "Lucky for me it's all just water off my back," he waddled on, yawning lewdly.
Sadly for the duck, what it fought was water was a more vicious substance, which I opened wild to google, rinse and wish its hands in the enchanted grotty, that is, a humble demean.
"Are you taking the piss?" sterile surfaces of the rotten word asked, as a nearby colostomy blog was filled to the prim with a goaded material that smells disaster for the sanitation of the notion.
Taking the piss, the work of the cathartic, is to be taken with a pinch of salt, a touch of pooper, and a splash of whatever one has lying around, or so it is rotten somewhere - I swear to goad!
Diggers have come under fire from the RSPCA for placing hairy animals in pens with 'hairy animals'.
"These dogs have had to share a pen with these dogs," RSPCA top dog, Hugh Worth told his bagle as he ate a horse.
Earlier he had told his wife, part Afghan, that he could eat a couple of jockeys, before taking off his underpants, without removing his trousers.
"I always wear a couple of pairs," he said, as his wife, humping her leg, begged for a bit but only got a pot on the head.
The Diggers, excellent on the lead but very naughty when left alone, pehaps because of separation anxiety, had earlier pulled the washing off the line.
"I'm going to give you such a snack!" our neighbours, the Indonesians, praised the Diggers as they faced their arses to Maccas and sighed.
Dogs, users of pens and unlike their masters, dirty animals, eat meat, sniff each other's bottoms, have sex on all fours and mate, are just plain embarrassed about farts too.
"Be a good boy, be a good boy, be a good boy," the Diggers had told themselves, as they piss-farted around in someone else's backyard.
I'm not pissing on your leg, it is pissing down.
My foot!
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 stunning statements come in the whack of the controversy surrounding the ever increasing gulp that exists.
"The only thing wrong with naked kids is that they might die from exposure," said one happy snapper as he developed.
Freezing kids, out in the open where nobody can see them, are dying for it.
"They're dying for it," said one pedestrian, stepping highly.
"It's a need in the groin," said another, picking up.
That hurts.
Our society, rooted, is a din of cold farces.
The whole thing is a slap in the faeces.
"Now is the winter," said one discontented child prostitute.
The gulp between rich and poor is no core for concern.
Family values will sieve us all!
The new vehicle, descried by executives as the latest in the ever-decreasing gap between desitiny and home, is descried by environmentalists as a car that shits all over anything else on the road.
Utilising cheap immigrant workers under the floor of the vehicle, where they live with their children and grandchildren, the Commoder wipes up after it's off.
"Australia is a notion of passengers," revealed one immigrant living and working under the bonnet.
The Commoder, with a being in every bonnet, faeces injected and fast like a fridge on rollerskits, is a must for eery Australians looking to announce their identity.
"It's not a symbol of why the world is fast going to shit the way that it is when all we want is more of the things that are sending the world to shit," said one silly sausage.
Pricks.
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?"
The barking-mad Scottish bastard delivered the apology personally after the government and the opposition crossed the floor causing repentent Zombies to roam the country like nomads in search of victims.
A penitent Zombie now, Hardie has vowed not to compensate victims of fibro housing but has delivered a solemn "sorry" before dining out on the brains of "decent Australians".
It is understood by experts that the influx of new undead Australians will result in an accomodation crisis which can only be alleviated by placing a large number into Foster's care.
The government and opposition, backed by "decent Australians", have labelled fibro a tastier grey-matter than brains in an attempt to appease the voracious Zombie appetite to no avail.
"There's no grey areas in grey matter. It's black and white." Hardie said as he played the bag-pipes with the body of Bronwyn Bishop's daughter.
The tune from the body of an Australian sounds so.
Artistic types have come out to support the piles of sticks angry at the backlash they believe they have suffered at being labelled 'artistic types'.
"We have come out to throw our support behind these branches," a spokesperson for the wily artistic types said while mincing around some meat.
"These piles aren't interested in my anus!", they finished with before applying some cream to their scone.
Macho magician, the archactor George "Sly Arnie" Pell has come out even stronger in support saying, "If I had my way, I'd do a trick on all homosexuals, and then I'd go poof!"
It is understood that a handful of 'artistic types' have thrown down the lilac linoleum in anger at being branded on the cheeks with an iron.
"This lino is a symbol of our interest in artistic pursuits", their spokesperson hummed while polishing some porcelain.
"I wish my brother George was queer", they said while playing to Maccas.
The drama that has unfolded from the drapes is set to add colour to an otherwise dreary bedroom ensemble.
At least it'll give us something to sink our teeth into.
Labor leader and PM in waiting Kevin Rudd made the stunning announcement from his couch-bed as he called for calm on his mobile while secretly wishing the death of Peter Garrett.
"He's out to get me. You're all out to get me. You won't get me. He won't. You won't. Only I will have that honour. That dubious honour. Somewhat dubious. He is out to get me. Mark my words. Don't you forget it. That carpet looks like biscuits."
The remarks are a stunning revelation that fall in line with Cheech and Chong spiritual leader Arnold "The Bulging Hippy" Schwarzenegger's about the threat global warming poses to the reefer.
"I'm not snorkelling anything I shouldn't be, bud."
The politician, who launched his career with Conan the Bonghead, has repeatedly watched reruns of terrible television programs adamant that their "sacred secrets will reveal all to me".
For Rudd, an Australian, there is no shortage of locally produced product of comparable quality.
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