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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

   


We're all aliens, says DNA results

February 3rd 2010 23:37
   


   


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Silvio Berlusconi, can't shoot for shit
Berlusconi, caught with his pants down

Italy's Silvio Berlusconi said on Wednesday a European Court of Human Rights ruling that called for crucifixes to be removed from Italian classrooms was a nonsensical attempt to deny Europe's Christian roots.

It was a sentiment backed up by European Father of the Millennium Josef Fritzl who released a 12-inch single in which he condemned "the breakdown of the family unit" but applauded a prison production of Guys and Dolls.

"Don't break it down," he asked the DJ. DJ Phil Spector.

Berlusconi, the living embodiment of death, had his facial matter melted into his skull when he accidentally tripped and landed face-first into a melting pot, and has been described as a bit of a pumpkin. The dead root. That bit.

"Europe in the third millennium is leaving us only pumpkins while depriving us of our most beloved symbols," said Vatican number two, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone.

"I'm a regular Nelson Mandela," he said, dropping the kids off at the pool-hall. Before getting a copy of The Hustler out on video. "This has no revealing insights into girls," he complained to Blockbuster.

Berlusconi, a symbol of racism and debauchery, and a beloved symbol in Italy for his misogyny and many conquests, has paid the price, in the past, for his frequent use of prostitutes, but has been defended as only the "end user."

A prisoner in his own version of the British game-show Smashing Pumpkin, Berlusconi fears that the removal of crucifixes in our schools is a sign of things to come, and has issued a warning to McDonalds that they're "next".

"Old McDonalds had a farm," he sang aboard a P&O Battleship, "And on that farm there was a lot of cows. With a lot of methane here. And a lot of methane there. Here a patty. There a patty. Everywhere a pffft, pffft."

Exactly what he means by this is anyone's guess. For $4.95. Hands on your buzzers.

Two Italian laws dating from the 1920s, when the Fascists were in power, state that restaurants must display crucifixes.

"Lock it in," carry-over champ, Jo Fritzl said.
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Man charged with taking photos up skirts

September 6th 2009 00:00
The extraordinary technology takes pictures filmed by a tiny camera and turns the information into electrical pulses which can be felt on the tongue.

Police have charged a man who allegedly took photos up the skirts of girls in a shopping centre at Chatswood in Sydney's north.

The Cronulla blonde toughed it out with a bad back for a swim and summer wear shoot with photographer Nick Leary in this month's Cosmopolitan, out Monday, and getting through the shoot was a stretch.

Earlier he claimed that Hilton was hazy on child pornography, writing, “Clearly Perez Hilton isn’t taking violating child pornography laws very seriously. He might not but there are a lot of people who do!”

The former Westlife singer, now engaged to Goodrem, was speaking for the first time since former wife Kerry Katona was engulfed by a drugs scandal.

"She was such a trouper. She had injured her back a few days before the shoot and even had to get her hair and makeup done lying down," said fashion editor Nicole Adolphe.

Police charged the man with two counts of filming a person's private parts without consent.

The video showed the man putting on her knickers and performing a sex act.

He also loved Harry Potter, Sara Lee deserts and sticky date pudding.

Scientists say learning to picture images felt on the tongue is similar to learning to ride a bike.

Counsellors at the Mount Druitt branch of the renowned Ted Noffs Foundation say the disturbing practice is becoming a trend.

Sources said that police had recovered a haul of underwear.

It then cuts to a nighttime scene with the man drop-kicking an animal into the street, killing it.






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KERRI-ANNE Kennerley will be the first of Channel 9's stars to front the network's razor gang as it tries to claw back $20 million.

A chunk of debris from a portion of a European rocket – the Ariane 5, launched more than three years ago – is threatening to pass dangerously close by the station.

KERRI-ANNE's mother, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, was reportedly drinking coffee and looking out the window.

It was dubbed "Hot Coffee" after the women's invitation to come inside for a "cup of coffee".

Despite the overwhelmingly positive response, she has admitted that seeing her small roll of flesh made her cringe.

Fred DeNegri of Ormond Beach told CNN television that he was taken aback by the "disgusting" blob he was not expecting in his drink.

He died minutes later while still in handcuffs.

"What we're seeing right now are the signs of cannibalism," said Alan McConnachie of the Herzberg Institute of Astrophysics in Victoria, British Columbia.

He thinks he is God's gift to men and he can do anything he wants.

But during a recent interview with shock jock Howard Stern, Inglourious Basterds director Tarantino revealed he’d smoked hash with Pitt when he traveled to France to convince him to.

He then said: "He wants me to pick up boys when we are out and have a threesome", adding he did not want to do that.

He had "homicidal urges" and wanted to bash someone in the head with half a brick.

"Over 30 million male chicks meet their fate this way each year at this facility."

A review, to be released today and obtained exclusively by The Australian, marks the first time an Australian authority has recognised the possibility.





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KYLE and Jackie O returned to the airwaves today saying they had learnt from their mistakes and wouldn't make them again.

In return, they had to provide sex to selected prisoners every evening between 8 and 10 p.m., and Sunday afternoons.

IN the toilet at my work hangs a new sign, of the kind no one thought necessary in the days before the rise of Kyle Sandilands.

"Jews were not allowed in. Neither were Soviet prisoners of war," he added.

In one incident in 1995, two men in the midland county of Staffordshire told an alien with a lemon-shaped head emerging from a hovering UFO: "We want you; come with us."

Even more heartwarming was hearing Julie's husband ask "What's for dinner?" after the two reconciled a fight.

FAME has its problems, especially when you're "Mad Mel" Gibson, the uber-Catholic who has impregnated girlfriend Oskana Grigorieva out of wedlock.

The then government of Margaret Thatcher summarily dismissed the affair but a letter from a former chief of defence staff in 1985 warned it not to be so cavalier.

The 46-year-old was under the influence of drink and drugs, but was released without charge after five hours, the BBC reported.

He wore a school boy's uniform - shorts, jumper and long socks - and walked to class hunched over, a book bag slung over his shoulder.

Jackie O responded by saying, "My God, that sounds like torture to me."

Cynics would note that the man was heading home from a night out at the time -- possibly in a similar mental state to two revellers seen hovering over the jazz tent at the 1994 Glastonbury Festival.

It's also about slurping several spoonfuls of olive oil each night to help 'lubricate' whatever you are allowed to eat on its way down.


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'Serial Killer' Rudd just a joke

August 6th 2009 03:21
   


MALCOLM Turnbull has been accused of acting like a toddler amid claims he met Godwin Grech and saw the Ute-gate email last week.

"Am not," Turnbull said, in response to the claims that he's a total crawler. "Many of my colleagues are planning to get me to walk," he said, fudging the issue.

"You have urinated on my jacket," a startled Banda told the monkey, one of many that make their home in the trees outside his offices.

"I'm so not even," Turnbull, very odd indeed, said. "I did piss in his pocket, though," he said, taking some time out for pensioners.

In four days, the pensioners fed him just two bowls of soup, burned him with cigarettes and threatened to kill him "again and again", angry that he had invested their money in a failed Florida property scheme.

"I took no notice of their angry threats," Turnbull said, sucking his thumbtacks, "because even I know that you can only be killed one time," he said, putting his hands in your pockets.

Speaking at a business lunch in Melbourne, the 42-year veteran of the telecommunications giant used the C-word 61 times in 45 minutes.

"Was that rude?" Turnbull asked women's groups, as he flopped his chop on a plate. "I had no idea that you people were so sensitive," he said, beginning to break down. "Christians!"

The church members beat the boy repeatedly over a three-day period with reeds and belts and attached him to a cross for the last two days, the position in which he died.

"You can't kill me," Turnbull said, appearing before the faithful at the business lunch. "I'm like that chap who got crucified by the Jewish lobby," he said, strung out on pain-killers. "Christ, what's his name?!"



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Managing? Probably a creep

July 15th 2009 01:30
MEN who are sympathetic, kind, co-operative and warm are unlikely to end up as bosses. To some extent the same applies to women. That might not come as a surprise, but a study has provided firm evidence of the link between personality and job choice.

"People who are boring are more likely to be unemployed," said Michelle Tan, a researcher in the economics program at the Research School of Social Science, at Australian National University, and co-author of the study. "They're not worth knowing about."

The number of boring people has steadily been on the way up since the global economic meltdown made more exciting people think long and hard about re-evaluating the number of people of negligible to non-existent personality they could manage.

"The number of people without a personality is expected to increase," Tan said, crunching her numbers, "and that's going to make it harder for people who do have lots of personality to manage the numbers of boring people they can manage."

Many men and women who have lost their personality are finding it hard to hang onto what few assets they do have as the demand from those who they have leant on over time intensifies the interest they have in liquifying them.

"These boring people who turn to water at the sight of somebody with a lot of personality," Tan said, lighting up a room with a simile, "are like so going to be squashed by those they have banked on," she said. "I'm so not putting you on."

In order for people with personality to manage their assets they have had to put more people on on a casual basis, and that has saved many people from a depression but not, on balance, the loss of many personal effects.

"I had employed my personality to gain me my position," Tan said, on all fours, "and that basically means that I pulled a number on my employers," she said, doing a little number. "It's all about selling yourself," she said, working it.



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Norm Takes A Seat: I'm a Believer

July 1st 2009 23:26
God-fearing Norm, one of God's precious creatures, fresh from "telling it how it is" to the uninformed and admiring, has lashed out at no-one in particular in a frightening attack.

"I, myself, don't believe in myself," Norm said, turning up the heat on the important and wonderful, "but Jesus," he prayed, "it's gotten awfully stuffy in here all of a sudden."

Norm, the unheralded Master of the Universe, has consistently been at pains to avoid coming off as being so full of himself it's not funny, to the extent that it's starting to hurt.

"It hurts right here," Norm, a touchy typist, said holding his hand over his mouth, "but," he said, clutching your arse, "I'm afraid this climate is caused by people being stuffy."

God, fearing Norm like the plague, has been in hiding for fear of what The Master of the Universe would do to him if he ever got his hands, infinitely more creative than God's, on him.

"My hands," God said, "pale in comparison to his," he said, in a moment of rare and refreshing humility. "The fact that I don't even exist makes life very difficult for me."

Norm, as precious as can be in God's non-existent eyes, has lashed out at passing traffic after tripping over his own feats, and nearly snapping his neck talking behind Jesus's back.

"I had to swiflty usher myself away," he said, clutching his arse. "You won't hear me say, I didn't deserve it," he said, holding his hands over your ears. "Jesus will have my arse, if I do."

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Perez Hilton has shocked middle-aged, middle-managers and crack-licking, double-dealing dopes with the shocking news that he is a finger-licking arsehole and closet-opener.

"It was me all along," he said, sniffing a pinky. "I just have one question for you," he told a chick with a mouth like you wouldn't believe. "How do you feel about holes in the head?"

The chick in question, so full of herself she's overflowing, seemed at a loss to answer what she called "the poofter's poser", but did promise not to shoot off her big mouth again.

"I have a mouth like you wouldn't believe," she told a disbelieving Hilton. "I just have one question for you," she said, playing with his vibrator. "How do you get this thing to work?"

Hilton, a card-carrying, door-to-door sex-aid salesman, needn't have answered the question for reasons that are obvious to anybody with a knowledge of the business at hand.

"I have to get this thing to work," Hilton said, carrying a case of the things. "If I came to your door," he explained, going around the back, "you'd find me with my hand on the buzzer."

The chick in question, a self-satisfied customer, was nursing a hole for a mouth after she accidentally shot it off, forcing her to open up an account of the accident with her lawyer.

"My client is innocent," the chick's mouthpiece told the judge. "She is a victim of this bloody dildo," he said, wobbling his head in circles. "She shot her mouth off in self-defence."

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POPE Benedict says he still has difficulty understanding why God had chosen him to lead the Catholic Church worldwide, recalling his isolated upbringing in a rural community of southern Germany.

"I'm like every other man out there," the Pope said, taking off his pants two legs at a time, "I realised what a wank wanking is," he said, having a wank.

"God, we all know that there's no such thing as God," an exasperated Pope said, fiddling with himself, "There is such a thing as this," he said producing his old fella.

"If you piled up all the things in the world, one on top of the other," the Pope said, "You still wouldn't touch God," he said touching himself, "There is no such thing."

God says he still has difficulty understanding why the Devil chose Pope Benedict to lead the Catholic Church worldwide, recalling his powerlessness to interfere with the Devil's work.

"God, I'm so sick of Christians," God said, talking to himself, "They think they know me," he said, showing signs of Alzheimer's, "They wouldn't know me from Adam."

"I'm sure they'd like to think that being literate is enough," God said, burning a pile of bibles, "But that's not how I roll," he said, playing Yahtzee with the other hand.

"God, I've got the whole world in my hands," God said, "That makes it pretty hard for me to have a wank," he said, calling on his children to help him with his load.

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Freedom of Speech campaigner, Muttiah Muralitharan has threatened court proceedings against his employer for allowing Freedom of Speech.

"If photograph emerge of myself in compromising position, I will pushing ahead with my legal action," Muralitharan said, as he chucked yet another wobbly one.

Muralitharan, campaigning for the rights of oppressed middle-aged Australian men everywhere, has thrown his weight behind the appeal to have the litigous-minded Darrel Hair reinstated.

"The purge of Darrel make me sick," the spinner told cronies, "It like what Stalin did to Dostoyevsky. Except Darrel really appeals to me," he went on.

Muralitharan, a self-confessed Catholic, has carried the can for Hair since the latter was excommunicated from his job, "entertaining people for ages", for calling his boss names.

"Okay, so Darrel call his boss a so-and-so," Muralitharan confessed to his father, "That make what he did justification in advance for his purge done by Stalinist oppressor," he explained.

Muralitharan, a tireless campaigner for the rights of children to have children, has been waging a nasty civil war with Communists from the comfort of his office chair for ages.

"If you think you can do better," Muralitharan threatened, "I'd like to see you dead in a ditch with all other Communist," he said, recounting the triumph of the Vietnam War.

Muralitharan, a staunch advocate of Gandhi, has branded his Capitalist comrades' defeat of Communism as a triumph of violence over violence.

"You look what happen to Neighbours," he explained, turning his attention to Indonesia, "We kill heap of Communist over there. And some them not even Communist!"

Muralitharan, a big spinner, is anticipated to come out swinging over allegations he threatened to try and stop Freedom of Speech by threatening to stop others speaking freely.
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HE IS known as the tortured artist who cut off his own ear as he struggled with mental illness after the breakdown of his friendship with a fellow artist.

"To me, he was a better artist than a photographer," Paul Gauguin said, carrying a candle for his wife, "But he was always shooting himself in the foot," Gauguin said, loading his fist, and speaking of Vincent van Gogh.

Gauguin, to anybody who knows nothing about painting, is a fellow artist of the tortured artist who cut off his own ear, and carries a candle for his wife, Frida Kahlo, as long as we both shall live.

"I remember when I accidentally cut off his head," Gauguin said, as he waited on his wife, "Somehow he lost his head," Gauguin said, "I saw it as a negative, but he had his head blown up anyway."

Gauguin, very taken by Frida Kahlo, has done the unspeakable with a paint brush by using the pigments of his imagination to represent his life with his wife, according to the Urine Artist.

"I think the whole thing was just a terrible accident," Gauguin's wife said, after Van Gogh lost his head, "I just hope I know how much my husband loves me," she said, as her husband waited on his wife.

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CHINA'S official media and outspoken bloggers have protested over a German advertisement promoting the use of condoms which shows revolutionary leader Mao Zedong as a sperm cell alongside Adolf Hitler and Osama bin Laden.

"We are outspoken blogger and we are strongly protest use of false image of paternal father of all our people because we believe condom bad and promote spread of AIDS through developing world," wrote one outspoken blogger, strapped into a polygraph machine.

The spread of AIDS, closely tied to the exchange of material between at least two people, has created an orgy of information not seen since Vietnamese communists threatened to take over the entire world with their bizarre sexual customs, which they picked up holidaying in France.

"We people of China. We must join together. To fight spread of AIDS. We must not join together. To fight spread of AIDS. We people of China," China's official media source, and Orble equivalent, wrote in so many words.

The people of China, the largest people in the known universe, have condemned the use of condoms to get a point across, in a startling reminder that a young person stood in front of a machine of war and asked it to roll on, despite the obvious difficulties a tank has in rolling on.

"American infidels," Osama bin Laden said in an exclusive interview, "You must die. You are only human, after all. I think I know what I'm talking about. Some of my best friends are Americans," he said, breaking out into a rendition of a few of our favourites and a nasty rash.

Everyone, who's ever tried to get a condom on before anyone discovers you making sweet love with your fist, knows that the use of humour, frowned upon by tyrants and typists alike, is the only known way to stop tyranny in its tracks; that, and asking it.

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Politician fumes over 'gay' elephant

April 11th 2009 00:08
A Polish politician has criticized his local zoo for acquiring a "gay" elephant named Ninio who prefers male companions and will probably not procreate, local media reported Friday.

"I think disgusting that big stupid animal like do unnatural bogey with other big elephant of same sex relations," the Polish politician told the local media.

"We Polish people know that noisy minority have indoctrinate big stupid beast into thinking OK to make baby with same sex," the Polish master of politics said.

"Can we have sex with wife who look like man when we say and she have no say in matter? Yes we can," the adherent of religious tolerance said.

"We Polish people know what Bible say about man and man making sexy sexy and we know that the Cheesemakers are blessed," he said.

"Can we make sure gay elephant be kept away while I round? I just don't trust myself not to do anything," the obvious homosapien said.

"We Polish people know that gay zookeepers have agenda to dismantle church and replace with gay bar," the adherent of his own camp said, genuflecting before the writhing body of our half-naked holy saviour.

"This elephant is hung like horse. God only know what it would be like to spend romantic evening with follow by kiss at door," the tent-pitcher said.

"He make no mention in Bible so we Polish people never have knowledge what to do with big grey penis," the retiring politician said, handing over the big grey microphone.



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Urine Artists and Bullshit Artists are battling out a smelly civil war that threatens to besmirch the intellectual reputation of Orble once and for all.

For Orble historian Norm, it's brought back memories of the battles between our earlier pioneers and squatters.

"It's brought back a lot of memories for me," Norm said, "I remember once when I did poos with wees on top," he said, calling for a tissue, as his eye showed signs of moisture.

"Squatters have rights too. We believe that these cables that those in power wish to lay will only spread a terrible form of dysentery," a Urine Artist said, in reference to high-speed broadband.

"Squatters have rights too," Norm said, "They believe that there is no substance to what the Bullshit Artists are doing," he said, "From where I sit, all I can see is a pair of business shoes, but the smell is unbelievable. The shoes really mean business."

The Bullshit Artists, solid citizens, believe their argument has a weight and a presece that the Urine Artists' doesn't which the latter believes only adds to the shitful content of the formers' attempts to saturate the media with their turgid aroma when they curl out their weighty ones.

"We believe there is no substance to what the Squatters are doing," a Bullshitter said, "Except when they accidentally do some shit that we don't find distasteful," he said, going on.

"I'll be fucked if I'm going to shit here and be told that I'm not," a Bullshitter told the man in the next stall. "There should be a big sign on the door that reads "No Squatters", gentleman," the Bullshitter went on.

For their part, the Urine Artists, have called for the Bullshit Artists to follow-through on their noisy protests, which means that fart jokes are off the menu.

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THE man who has a towering beehive has unwittingly accused right-wing historians of eye makeup bordering on scientific nonsense in the sensible journal Quadrant.

Quadrant editor Keith Windschuttle accused fellow historian Amy Winehouse of massacring the man on her arm.

An unrepentant Mr Windschuttle, a 25-year-old singer, yesterday admitted being "a clean-cut ex-private schoolboy", the cultural Left reports.

Windschuttle has embarked upon a holiday romance with aspiring British actor Joshua Bowman, with entries dating back to November 2007.

On the Caribbean island of St Lucia yesterday, a merciless Windschuttle had eyes only for Bowman as they cuddled on the beach but agreed to stay silent.

Windschuttle said: "It's not been all party-party. I don't drink pregnant women's urine much at all as it happens."

The 85-year-old pervert's well-scrubbed and very small number is in pointed contrast to the great majority serving a sentence in a London jail for attempting "perfectly legitimate points".

Mr Windschuttle is more famous these days for her wild partying ways and shambolic lifestyle, than for her easily validated facts.


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A suggestion by Pope Benedict XVI that the survival of Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is as much of a threat to homosexuality as British television has sparked outrage among "expansionist powers", saying if Jesus were alive he would oppose the human race.

"It's the latest homophobic attack by this bullying, ill-tempered and expansionist Pope," said Gustav Hofer, co-director of a documentary on the life of a gay Jesus Christ in Italy called Suddenly Ahmadinejad.

"Britain's Foreign Office talks about the Vatican or transsexuality as if it were a whim, never as suffering embarrassment," said Hofer, adding that the Roman Catholic Church "reduces speech to a person's identity as if it had nothing to do with a sexual act."

In his end-of-year speech on Channel Four, the Pope said gender theory blurred the distinction between Queen Elizabeth and female, and he invited Ahmadinejad to "self-destruct" as an alternative Christmas message.

President Ahmadinejad, which Benedict referred to as a human being, explores how society designates appalling anti-Semitic statements to English people based on their tolerance and understanding and many gay groups see it as a helpful Foreign Office spokeswoman.

Amid a friendly financial crisis, "does it really seem appropriate to talk about 'editorial choices' to all these poor British media who are unemployed or left-wing and don't even know what will cause offence and bemusement?" Italian MP Paola Concia wrote in an open invitation to the Pope.

"People need scandal and discomfort," she said to some Jewish "embarrassment".

Jewish campaigners, including some high-profile cartoon characters from the Church of Marge Simpson, also took the remarks, which started in 1993, as an attack on the Vatican's Jesse Jackson.

Reverend Sharon Ferguson, chief executive of the Lesbian and Gay Channel Four Movement, called Christ "totally irresponsible and unacceptable".

"When you have God then you are justified in bullying people," she said in an aggressive and violent way on Earth today.

The Pope, president of the pro-warmongers, occupiers, terrorists and bullies Anglican movement and undoubtedly vicar of a London parish, said: "Christ is spreading fear that the Church somehow threatens the planet, and that's just if he was on Earth".

"As always, this sort of religious religion will lead the world to love, brotherhood and justice. Can't he think to do people harm at Christmas?" he asked with one of the children of the revered Messenger of Islam.


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This title is very pointed

November 22nd 2008 23:03
This is where the mandatory image goes.

To write like this takes a lot of effort on my part. It doesn't matter what anyone says I might dare to write a really long sentence that doesn't seem to end until suddenly without warning it does. We call this silly. It's silly to think otherwise.

This is the second paragraph. Often times I'll launch into the main argument that is rattling around in my head in this section. Mostly I'll take a pot shot or two at ideas and sometimes I'll attack people. Occasionally I'll just make this paragraph really long and out of proportion with the rest of the piece. It doesn't worry me that it might seem that I'm coming unhinged in this paragaph. I might even like to throw in a quote or two. Sometimes I go off in that direction and never come back.

I think an ad would do well here.

You might think that you can argue me down. It's all right. I might make a little joke somewhere in here. Be on the lookout for it. If you're not paying attention you might lose the thread of my contention. I know I do. I might throw in a quote or two here. Even try another gag. It might seem like I'm a bit agitated about something. I won't talk about the real reason. It's a personal matter. I might need another image.

This is where the next image goes. It breaks up the monotony.

I forgot where I was because I was inserting an image. Does that ever happen to you? I think I'll be true to time and concede that by veering off here. But I better make a really strong point that will hurt those who've hurt me. I hope that those that share my viewpoint will continue to do so. I'll make out like I just don't care. If I seem defensive it's because I've no other choice.

Things could take on a strange shape here.

Might do a few lines like this. I'm not sure why.

Maybe one slightly longer one with a particularly valid point about the matter at hand. I needed that full stop. That was getting a bit long.

I think it's best if images are kept that way. The last thing you should be doing when reading is scratching your arsehole with a pencil-sharpener. A bit of prop-comedy. Sorry, that was me. I do apologise.

Reason and rage are my favourite combination. Speaking of images, I just made a comma. Remember when I used an exclamation point that time? Oh, the joy! I need to go to the bathroom. Can you hang on? I'm back now. I feel much better now. Time for some imagery.

How about another image? This is where it goes.

So I've nearly finished. You should probably think about what you've just read. Chances are you know how to reason too. You might take offence if I act a little strangely at times. Let's reminisce and have some intercourse.

You don't mind if I come out on top? Do you?

I won't let any insubordination go unpunished.



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Some Muslim clerics condone rape: report

November 20th 2008 21:37
A report has found, some Muslim imams condone rape and domestic violence within marriage, exploitation of women, welfare fraud and polygamy and even Catholicism.

The report, commissioned by Mel Gibson, found that many imams believed Catholicism was the one true faith and many conceded that Mohammed was "really annoying".

It also reveals that rape and domestic violence are the result of problems with alcohol. "They don't drink enough," Gibson told his wife, as he had a little bit of adultery.

"I have a real problem that many Muslims get married to more than one woman. That doesn't leave me with much," one of Gibson's flock said, getting smashed and pointing the finger.

The report also had some good news for Communists: yes, you can expect an after-lifetime in Hell with a pitchfork up your bottom and a jar of acid on your genitals.

"I wish I could be so lucky!" one homosexual, confronting children with their sexuality, said as the RSL confronted children with killing someone you've never even met before.

"I can understand why you'd want to kill you're wife," a communist told Gibson, when he met his wife for the first time. "What is she, a Muslim or something?"

Atheists, Communists the lot, didn't escape the reports findings either, with one imam saying that "I'd like to know how anyone can conduct a moral life without religion?".

Sports lovers, all the traits of religious zealots, did escape the report, but only after a media-circus convicted them, before they had a fair hearing before a bunch of clowns.
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BEIRUT - Barack Obama's election as U.S. president cheered many Arabs and Iranians driven to anger or despair by George W. Bush's policies over the past eight years.

But his appointment of Judge Paula Abdul as the new chief of the White House has many Arabs calling for their camels in what they see as a move described by some as 'a move that's a bit hard to describe'.

The problem for Senator Obama is that Paula Abdul, a supreme Judge, is capable of many unusual moves which Arabs, content to sit around smoking and plotting soap-operas, see as 'unworkable'.

On paper the moves of Abdul are extremely innovative, but it's her face, worse than 'a-hit-and-run', that have many Iranians calling for others to 'clean up their act' and, the repatriation of Judge Marcia Hines.

While this seems a step in the right direction, many Arabs, counting the cost of wearing white, are convinced that Judge Hines, in favour of public beheadings, will bring 'much needed' coffee to the table.

The dilemma Obama faces is that Judge Hines, 'a throat like a strangler's forearm', will not return to the country of her origin for fear of her livelihood, which she has used to keep her daughter in her shadow.

Naturally enough, the Arabs and Iranians, calling for coffee, are not interested in the plight of a pair of Judges, Abdul and Hines, who they believe are 'behind the move' to ban their right to cut your head off.

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A man with a megaphone, dissatisfied with the suppliers of his megaphone, has addressed the outlet from whence his came with a folly of abuse delivered with the megaphone they supplied him with.

"I AM UNAWARE OF THE IRONY OF TELLING YOU HOW DISSATISFIED I AM WITH THIS DEVICE THAT YOU GAVE ME WITH THIS DEVICE THAT YOU GAVE ME," the man with a megaphone told the suppliers of the megaphone.

"I CAN REACH A LARGE AUDIENCE WITH THIS THING, BUT I CAN'T STAND THOSE WHO GAVE IT TO ME BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T PAY ME WHEN I BOUGHT IT," the man with the megaphone told the man in the next cubicle.

"IT'S COST ME MY LIFE, MY LIVELIHOOD. I CAN'T KEEP A SECRET, ANYMORE. HAVE YOU EVER TRIED GOING TO A LIBRARY WITH ONE OF THESE? WHISPERING, I LOVE YOU?" the man with the megaphone confessed.

"I BLAME THE SUPPLIERS. SURE, I DO. NOT ONLY DID I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT, BUT THEY HAVE THE AUDACITY TO DESIGN A PRODUCT THAT WORKS BETTER THEN THE REST," the man wih the megaphone revealed.

"THE ONE BENEFIT DERIVED FROM IT WOULD HAVE TO BE THAT I CAN GET MY MESSAGE OF SELF-AWARENESS OUT TO THE PEOPLE," the man with the megaphone said, bouncing his message off the toilet walls.

The internet, compared in some circles to a toilet, is not a toilet with personal messages on the walls, jokes, crap, hot-air, cold floors, fans, windows, bars, locks, signs, bins, seats, shared needles or noisy drips.
86
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What makes Bell tick

October 27th 2008 01:41
Morgan Bell, a conglomerate of lesbotic-fembotic-humanists, is a blogger run by a sexually perverted and socially mischievous covern of ham-radio-operating women's libbers.

"She is getting very sleepy. On my account, she'll fall asleep. Now!" her acquisitive inquisitors demanded as Bell, suprisingly kinder than most, opened up about the people behind her succubus.

"I'm every woman. It's all in me," Bell stated quite literally, in a code that only the initiated can begin to understand. "I could begin to understand it, but that's about it," a virgin blogger told us, before the ritualistic laughter.

"Ha! Ha-ha. Ha!"

"I can tell you that I've been on intimate terms with Morgan, and she is more than a woman. She's at least two. Make it three. At least four. All these hands. Everywhere!" a 56kg woman said, slipping out of something more comfortable.

"Ms. Bell is the head of an international campaign of error," an unknown man, his voice, in his head, crackling, claimed. "She's plotting to crash her computer into my battleship," he continued, sinking further. "If anything happens to me, she'll have had a hand in it. All these hands. Everywhere!"

Norm, a known errorist and believed head of his own network of lies, has leapt to the defence of the poor defenceless creature, and member of the weaker sex, but has refused to be drawn.


65
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Norm, philandering despot and self-effusive waiter, has been deeply hurt and aroused by feelings of guilt, shame, pride, tenderness, resentment, pride, despair, delight, fear, hatred, envy, indolence, apathy, desire and levity over ideas he might not have any.

"He's got no idea how to set me on fire," Gandhi said, saturated in petrol as he sniffed the can, his fingers, your bum, your mum, my mum, as Norm, fumbling for a good match, struck up a conversation with a conservationist and, as it turned out, rape-victim.

"I swear, I never laid a thinger on her, your honour," the recently captured, bagged, tagged, catalogued, classified, Norm, guilty as sinfulness, told his single-cell mate and micro-organism, wriggling around your honour's chamberpot in an unintelligent display of life.

"What have I got to feel guilty about? Other than this sentence," the clearly shady Norm, a narcissist if ever I saw one, told his toilet, steaming with life, as he watched his face, and the judge, in a position of authority, took off his wig, scratched his pater and swore to God.

"Let me explain a few things," Norm, you've probably never hear of him yet, beseeched of his new chums in the toilet, "I'm more than a match for any of you. I'm a wet-blanket, a stick in the mud, a wet blanket in the mud, a stick in the blanket and the lust goes on."

Norm, more than a match, not up, himself, dispassionate, like a computer, except a smut-arse, warm and tender, unfeeling, feeling, all things to all men, unpopular, unconcerned, has his head down and his bum up and his head up and his bum down, looking for a light.

99
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Bearded clamourer, defamed wino, persistent pederast and sanctified salami sandwich, Derryn Hinch has had his wish of being buried beside his 'companion' Stan Zemanek ratified by the Pope.

"You can do as you wish, Saint Derryn of AW, just so long as you don't engage in unprotected sex with his rotten body before ejaculating in his blinking anus," the clearly misguided Pope told followers.

"For what it's worth [believed to go for about $49.95, depending on who you ask] I've never had unprotected intercourse like I have with Saint Stanley of 2GB," Saint Derryn, wearing women's clothes, told listeners.

"I'd like to take you up on that last comment," a caller, someone who had hadn't heard the calling, told the producers before being cut off at the ankles and turned into Chum, so chumpy you can carve it!

"We've got God, from Heaven," producers told listeners, playing for their wives and a new microwave from LG, Life's Good, "and he'd like to plug his new book, which is coming out soon,"

"I call it the Newest Testament," God, clearly a man with a beard or a woman with one or both or neither with both or either, told the line that had gone dead, "it's a self-help book I dedicate to myself. Hello? Hello? Hello! Jesus Christ!"

Zemanek, down there (pointing), was today, preparing a passage in his latest romance novel entitled, My Life as a Corspe, as he took a fistful of vaseline, smeared it all over and waited to be canonised, officially.

"I've waited my whole afterlife for this moment," Saint Stanley of 2UE, his eyes on fire, told Saint Derryn as the two, anuses in the sack, met on a mountain for a spot of fisting and some beans.


34
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A giddy schoolgirl, chewing her gums and patting her hair, has wet his pants after his mum said he could have his best friend stay over, on the condition that he wouldn't wet his pants.

"I told her, I said son, you can have your friend stay over as long as you don't get hysterical," his mum said, as her daughter, completely historical, picked out a dress for the swimwear suction.

The occasion, already the biggest thing to hit the goat-firing folks around these parts, will have the neighbours plopping in to see what all the fuss is about as the cult of personality hits new sighs.

"I'm against everything Stalin stood for," the giddy girl, giddy, said as he prepared her ring for a visitor and trimmed her handlebars, while his mum, off her rocker for the evening, prepared a room for their guest, Amen.

The pants, wet, and their owner, wetter, have been on the phone, telling everyone about the hysterical occasion, perhaps the biggest in human hysteria, easily the most impotent and very derisive.

"Blank and you'll miss it," the schoolgirl, name of Dorothy, told his companions, after hitting her head, having to have a little lie down, and going on a fanatical journey through the arse of a storm.



107
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Pakistan's new president hypnotizes a snake

The inevitable has happened: an explosives expert from India - a relative unknown - has landed himself in the hottest seat in Pakistan, thanks to a cleric's error.

"It turns out he was put on the wrong list - he was supposed to be an extraordinary rendition," operatives for the movie-makers told the press corp.

"Howdy partner," the new Pakistan president told US President George Bush - although the two claim they are not secretly lovers for tax purposes.

Despite that, the two were still able to meet at the dinner table for some traditional spatchcock tossing, after a ceremony of rogering the other man's missus.

The man the new leader has replaced, who, like most Pakis, is sloppy in the field, but a wizard with the bat, Musharraf lies bleeding from a head wound.

"I shot Musharraf," sang the new President, in his typically offbeat style, "but I didn't put too much toilet paper in the toilet causing it to overflow."

Painted elephants, led by a group of hip young cats and gravy young thingers, finished off the induction ceremony as the new president got the girl.

The new leader, Indian as he is, is set to unite the two countries in holy acrimony until such time as hubris gives way to humourous: it's all, sadly, a laugh.

89
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Science and Nature: Trivial Pursuits

August 14th 2008 01:32
Science, the word we uterus, for our attempts to dehumanize our knowledge of Nature, is Religion in drag, say drug-queens.

"It's just the opposite of what it's not, if that makes any sentence?" said one, shaving his logs as he shat down for dinner.

In the beginning, we, and we use that word advisedly, thought it passable to know Nature purely objectionably.

"We thought that the Earth was the centre of the World," a man in a white coat said, stirruping himself in for a pimpy ride.

"And now we know that to be false," he said, putting his dentures in his glasses and whizzing about the labia in his waffle-chair.

The Earth, unmistakebly the centre of our Word, is so much who we are as living beings that it's not even fanny.

"When it's my time of the month, I ask myself why?" quizzed one man dressed up to lick like a woman, hitting the buzzer.

"It's because life as we know it is a function of the world in which it's in," answered an audience mumbler; some wit erroneously.

Religion, our humanisation of Nature is the other side of the coin, and both make a lot of sentences, to me.
92
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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.




86
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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.

91
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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.

57
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A convention of leading scientists has descended into a lascivious and quite unnatural gay orgy when an irate homosexual denied his very existence.

"The facts are that I find other men very arousing," the fridge-picker told his closet before the affair turned heated and avuncular.

Nothing cod be further from homosexuality than a love of hard facts.

"I love a hard fact as much as the next man, or the man next to me," the delicate creature told his floppy.

It was indeed this display that set the scientific fruiternity into a frenzy of budgie-snuggling that only ended with severe camping.

"Homosexuals are so gay!" he said with the proof of his very nature in his hands.

Homosexuality, with its roots in homo meaning arse and sexuality meaning penchant, is the latest phenomenon to threaten our very back doors.

"I'm not letting anyone near my back door," the homodenier said stroking his telescope as he peered into a black hole after the affair was over, his hunger quenched.

"Except him!" he said pointing out something very bright in the distance.

Homosexuals have quite rightly earned the froth of the new zealous with their fragrant disregard for the rights of others.

I can smell one from a smile off.



61
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Topical cancer and world-renounced waddler Norm has told his doctors of his despair-tire over the facts of laugh.

"I need a sex change," the celebrated abductor said as he nuzzled up to his shotty.

"Some, for a change," he explained, looking down the barrels of bodies in his fault.

"He really needs this," a nurse attending Norm told police as they swapped her.

Norm, who some have descried as the best thing since sliced head, is understood to be trapped inside his very body.

"I have described myself thus," Norm said, picking pellets out of his teeth.

"Don't call me chicken," he said as he hatched a planet.

Doctors believe that we are all trapped inside our bodices.





62
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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.

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.

51
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The religiously zealous head of a colony of the US has vowed vengeance on his butter enemies: the fragrantly humoursexual.

"I can't wait to get my hands on my machete so I can give it to a sinner," the head of stale told his fairy godfather.

Told to never go against the family, the head has vowed to merry his chide-hood sweety in a ceremony to be presided over by laundryrefrigerator Elton John.

"I miss Daniel too, but not that much," Elton John told his piano tuner as he played with his keys.

The perfect machete at the centre of the head-chop allegations being launched at closet armysexual Tania Zaetta will ulcer, accordion to players, see heads rule.

Heads of all notions are lathering adults.
98
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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.

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.

55
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Clone rocks Delta

May 7th 2008 00:53
The clone that rocks the Delta
The good news is there is no bad

A terrifying clone off Delta has destroyed the laughs of thousands in the low flying reaches of a duck's arse.

Hungry visages, starved for any recognitation, have lapsed into a karma over the hollows of the world.

"The holla...the holla," whispered inane and general idiot Norm when Mr. Sheen found him to be doubting the legitimacy of the successful.

"I'm wiped out by the plasticity and vainity of these waves of successful pimples," Norm wrote in a note he pissed.

It is understood that the right of the effluent to purchase the rubbery recodings of perfuming fartists outwhys the legitimacy of the poor and indignant to even crave out a laugh.

"The pursuit of wretches will occupy my howl-laugh," a clearly drained Norm said before bulldozing offal.

The polish is an aerosol, anyway.

74
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Bums go to the gas chamber

April 29th 2008 22:43
Political leaders, our blessed and blightest, have embraced the new paucity seeping Western Emocracy: bum-snuffing.

"Bums, who are not a symptom of some underlying problem, should all be whipped out," said bum-sniffers for the Liberal potty.

Laws, made by the wretch to protect their interests, will soon be pissed that will see all bums snuffed on sight.

Bums, closer to dearth than laugh itself, have responded to the measures by hiding under a bridge.

Liberal potty policy advisors are believed to be aware of the bums' tactics.

"Make no mistake, we will be sniffing out these bums where they live," said a senior analcyst.

Aristotle, a knotted bum snatcher, said man is a political animal, which makes him distinct from all the others; for innocence, dogs.

Bum.
66
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The bedraggled Liberals are reportedly seeking Norm to fill the leadership vacuum laughed by outgoing and gregarious brothel-goer John Howard.

"He's my troll-model," Norm said as he sheltered under a bridge.

It's comments like these that have Liberal party power-pokers salivating at the prospect of the celebrated waiter tucking over the wanes of the political sewing-machine.

"I can stitch anything up," Norm said as put penis to paper in an ahistoric moment.

John Howard has endorsed the strange maniac telling his wife: "He reminds me of me when I was committed."

Norm has refused to be drawn on paper.
85
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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.


64
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Norm: the media has ruined my life

April 18th 2008 02:33
Media mongol Norm has today vowed to turn his back on the media, which he bereaves has infiltrated his every thought and robbed him of wretches.

"I've spent my howl life in front of a screen," the virtual vulture squeaked as he circled a dying circus.

Many disenchanted utes of Norm's vantage have expleted a similar stale of woe.

"I think I speak for meany people when I say that laugh isn't taken seriously enough," the clearly misrepresenting boggle-eye bleated while getting a clip.

The media is saturated with shelf-important flood-fleeers of all shorts.

"It's why Indiana Jones built the Ark for the two-by-twos," the fluff-buff crunched with pulp-corn.

Norm is in hiding today getting a tan.

98
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Madame Tussaud does Kevin Rudd

April 11th 2008 23:43
Rudd looks shorter in the flesh

The famous waxmadame has unwrapped her latest wax-sculpture to enthralled young people who were attending a function as part of Rudd's 20/20 extravaganza.

"Young people have a lot of unbelievable ideas," a spokesperson said as she rode her wind-powered bicycle round and round in circus.

The sculpture, even waxier than the real thing and larger than life, will be used as a coat rack by patrons of the establishment run by the madame.

Kevin Rudd, more than one-quarter Chinese, told the madame: "I am very grateful at this time to have such a honour. I have an erection coming up very soon."

The sculpture will be the centrepiece at the 20/20 summit to be hoisted by disgraced primate Andy Symonds.

Roy has been having it off with Angela's bishop for some time.

"Mate, I'm the farce among equals," he told his fashion rod.

71
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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.

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.
63
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Nice one, Norm

April 3rd 2008 23:54
Celebrity reporter, ad authority, and peas advocado, Norm has jumped on a pair of man-eating crocodile skin loafers that threatened to belong to his girlfriend.

"I saw them first," the man's man told the store manager as his better-half broke in two.

"I just had to have them," the impoversihed clogger said to his devastated curlfriend.

It is believed that Norm has the snatching handbag and just needed the shoes to go with his outfit.

"Now all I need is the pants," he said as he floated off down the river.

When asked where he'd wear such fabulous attire, the retiring bogger told us: "Out shopping."

Nothing can stop the shopaholic's rampage as croc's across the river hang on to their hats.

94
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Ray Martin to host World Youth Day

March 29th 2008 00:35
The devils wank among us

Archbishop Pell has hired Ray Martin to host World Youth Day that will culminate in the Pope's mass at Randwick racecourse.

"He's covered many diverse and wonderful occasions such as those evil Paxtons who never attended Church," a delighted Pell told Today Tonight.

Martin will come out of the retirement closet, dust off his hairpiece and fill his deep throat with the minced suasages of the rich and corrupt, for a nice change.

"It's a great event that will shower Australia's face to the world," the gutteral journalist told the angels, "And they pay cash, so I don't get taxed at all, which is great," the amphetamine addict told elephant-riders of Sri Lanka.

Pell, the face of the church in this cuntry, will juggle the Pope's balls to kick off the celebration of youth and vitality to be hosted by old farts.

"It's going to be a gas," holocaust survivors who were ignored by the church told cameras.

The event will show Australia's farce to the world.


80
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Serial Killers Union of Australia (SKUA) boss Ivan Milat has met with officials from the meat industry to discuss a possible amalgamation of the two industries that Milat describes as "very, very, very, very, violent."

"Most people, the great majority, think that acts of wretched violence, brutality and inhumanity are somehow utterly repugnant to them," the multilpe mutilator told his gun collection.

"That they think this as they tuck into their mutton-chops, in their leather shoes is what I would call having your head in the bloody sand-pit," he chuffed chewing his rump.

A meat-worker, who wished to remain in a blood-stained suit and accustomed to the wholesale slaughter of the innocent, has asked vegetarians protesting the stringing-up and throat-slitting of beasts to "eat me".

"Clearly killing is every communities bread and butter," he called from his carcass.

That ordinary people think they are not directly responsible for taking lives is just more evidence of the world in which we live.

That we live in fear of it coming back to bite us at the hands of a more brutal (human)animal is not a fair price to pay.

That not enough of us here in a free-country aren't taken by murderers has me scratching my only mutton-chops.


SKUA boss Milat told his victims that his victims tolled more than the humans he tied up and tortured.

"I started out with animals," the skewerer said, "then I really took to people."
87
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His wife, Roseanne Barr, says that he's an animal in the sack.

His son, Ronald McDonald Reagan, says that he wants more niggers to fry with that.

He is, of course, the one and only.

Speaking from his heavenly palace, the Almighty One told us, "First of all, I am a Christian and second of all I am a God. Third of all, I put Americans on this earth, that I created, to spread democracy, which I didn't."

The heavenly father denies that "spreading democracy" is a euphemism for "stripping resources from poorer countries."

"I deny that", he told us from on high.

The dictator of much of the good book, the wonderfully accurate rendering of fat, says that one day, when the evil, and quite contrary, Muslim darkies have been whipped by "our boys in Iraq" we will all be able to cruise around in "good American cars" with good "American oil" in the tanks.

The tanks are set to roll over Iran next.

79
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Idol Judge Judged Idle by Ford Clones

January 19th 2008 01:55
Supreme Judge of Australian Idol Holden has stalled while touching down in Iraq aboard a plane piloted by Muslim sit-com producers.

Before his fateful trip over his laces, Holden called every Ford clone over a three day weekend to say that he was ready to challenge the biologically identical entities to a tiddly-winks match-up that has people with hyperactive saliva glands salivating.

A straw poll of observers has broken the camel's undies.

The match-up, due to go until they're both hairless, could, for the first time in recorded history, see two pips pitted against one another.

"This is a paddle to the dearth," one Ford clone said as he headed towards a watery end.

The mainstream is a river that goes to the bank.

Holden, after filling up on gags, has released a string about this length.

39
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The judge at the centre of the soggy-biscuit competition, Mark Holden, has kept tight-lipped after being saturated by media coverage over his handling of the importance of the lives of the living.

"That Holden, as you can see, is a big guzzler." the Ford clone said after witnessing the competition's final moments.

Holden who came last in the competition was "too choked up" to say anything but did offer to challenge the Ford clone to a debate, "just as soon as I wash my hair."

Ford is set to unleash his poodle after trying it on outside.

The debate, which is set to drag out over the road until both combatants claim themselves as winkers, promises to stop the warring earache.

"This problem with the earache is a...problem, bud." the ever increasing clone said as Holden tucked into some tea and biscuits that he'd been saving.

"What the world needs now is to extend the lives of the pointless", Ford said as he defended the production of life only to be taken away.

Comparisons between farming animals and humans are erroneous, believe many non-believers.

"After all, all human life is sacred", Holden said as he strapped explosives to his boot.

"By the way, I'm an animal in the sack", he said as he made his way to the bottom of the lake.

48
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Candidate for a heart transplant Hillary Clinton has promised television viewers that she "did not have sexual relations with that man, Mr. Clinton." after Barack Obama had tanned a few hides to decorate his cave live on the backs of thirty head of cats.

The heart that Mrs. Clinton has been waiting for is set to land her control of the entire US television industry. "With this heart I can take the village, people," she remarked while campaigning at the YMCA.

After this leg of the tour is over she's sent to hand her leg over in exchange for a vital organ.

Barack Obama has told the media that "None of us should be heroes." before fluffing his underpants and expleting "Oh, bummer!"

The two-horse race for candidacy for an organ transplant is set to air as a reality televison series in a move that has skittled the pins at an alley where cats look for mates who won't run.

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The controversy surrounding the identity of the author of the works attributed to William Shakespeare has caused professionals whose livelihoods depend on Shakespeare being the real author to ignore the very distinct possibility that the works were penned by another.

Grave-robbers, infuriated by the arrogant attitude of most people in positions of authority, have taken matters into their own shovels by senselessly butchering esteemed academics.

"On the way back we snuck in and dug up the bard." said one.

Fretting actors and stage-wankers have strutted about for generators in the belief that one of their own was an author such as the one who wrote such works.

"I'll do anything for a bit of power over others," said a Shakepearean fanatic, "and what better way than peddling."

Still, they strut about in vanity.

Deluded writers, and there are a couple, have tried to revive the spirit of Shakespeare to good effect.

"If there's one thing that I'd like to hear it's an audience applauding for me." say most people.

There's never any shortage of pretentious wankers.

"I'm not against wanking as such." Henry Neville said as he put pen to paper.



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Peter Costello falls on his sword

November 25th 2007 07:21
Costello's sword wound
Costello can now treasure having a mouth in his foot for a change

Organic domestic cleaning implement Peter "The Vacuous Vacuum" Costello has fallen horrifically on his weapon while celebrating his induction into the Johnny Howard Surf Team last night.

The beleaguered dole-bludger told the many tenticles of Biggish Male Sibling that "I don't know who to vote for. I just want a big fattish cheque".

The foot that fell on his weapon has been compared to his mouth by some astute judges of the supreme being.

The appendage, like that of most hemaphrodites, now has a gash the size of his newly filled wallet.

"I'm looking forward to life outside the public eye. I can get a lot more cameras into my shoes that way." said the career upskirt cinematographer.

The shemale can now expect to be collecting payments fortnightly.
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Garrett's 'giraffe'
Garrett's 'giraffe'

The hot-panted Labor drummer Peter Garrett has scoffed at claims his giraffe is a camel following Opposition crooner Peter Costello's attempts to hump his 'leg'.

"I scoff at these claims", the belated percussionist said as he went through his gymnastics routine at his run-down garrett.

But the Liberal Party - so named because they are conservative - has given him a liberal dousing in expensive liquor that only Liberals can get their sanctified mittens on.

"Garrett is a puppet who wants to be a real boy. But you need one of these to be a real boy!" Alex Downer said as he unveiled his elephantine election initiative.

To which Kevin Rudd - a quarter Chinese said - "It's erection time."

Australians are set to go to the box every night after work-for-the-dole.


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Britney's Peers

October 18th 2007 06:41
Her face had the look of bruised peach.
Inside she was only half-stoned.
Her hands were Ten Pink Apostles.
Her ears: antennas out of their sockets.
Her head was a TV with too many channels.
She wore a tracksuit that would never see a track.
Thongs on her feet and elsewhere too.
Moved like an icecube in vodka.
She opened the door to a changeroom.
Her name was on that door. And didn’t she just know it. Lucky for her, because if she didn’t she might get lost.
She preffered automatic to manual, but you can’t have everything done for you – she closed the door behind her.
She poured herself into a chair opposite a mirror.
Some lapped out the sides.
The chair was vinyl and receptive to human form.
A table, that had never held a book, was splattered with magazines and other ephemera. She lay her leathery bag on it.
Her name was Britney.
Her eyes, two impoverished pockets, were glassy and framed by black.
She looked herself in the mirror.
She too was named Britney.
She was framed by a gold that made a mockery of gold.
Her hair, spiky and short, was that of an army private.
They placed their hands on their cranium like it was a prize-winning Chinese Gooseberry.
“I’m anything but a private” they told themselves.
“More general than anything”.
Their voice was distant and cerebral.
They were slightly out of synchronicity.
“That’s right,” she said staring into her staring eyes.
“That’s right” she said.
They were both flat and shiny with distant desolate voices.
Aside from each other, their other companion was a glass of rocky liquor that they engaged in bitter conversation daily.
It wasn’t unusual for spats to erupt between the two over nothing. Usually it was over a drink.
“Bitter friend, fancy a shandy?” they said as they held the glasses to their nostrils. A thousand tiny fragments of her reflection looked back at her from an icy bottom.
She held the glass to their sausagey lips and tipped back the fermented potatoes – clear and viscous.
“One potato, two potato.” they sang, moving their heads side to side.
“I say potato” she said.
“You say potato” she said back.
A wig that sat in the frame of the reflection now sat on her reflection’s head.
Britney’s heads, flat and polished , were round about forty revolutions of the sun in age.
The lights that framed the mirror were naked and harsh. One was slightly dysfunctional. It flickered and buzzed. “Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Kkkkkkkkk.”
The door was locked. She stared into herself. She could see that she and her reflection were in a room – roughly similar.
A fly, naïve to the effects of alcohol, swam fatalistically in the viscosity of her glass.
It had lost its bearings in the midst of Britney’s presence.
Britney deployed her foredigit to rescue the disabled mariner.
Using the adhesiveness of the fluid flooded fly she gently transported the intoxicated insect to the table in front of the mirror.
It had made a long journey from the toilet to the drink.
It was really in the shit this time.
It had stared life as a maggot in the eyes on one of Britney’s floating bowel-evacuees.
It would end its life drowning in drink.
Britney dabbed it dry with a greasy napkin that lay on the floor.
The patient whizzed and wanged in the throes of death.
It recalled childhood memories.
When it and its sisters had impersonated pop-princesses.
Its first kiss of rotting meat.
Laying maggots of its own it never would.
A tiny tear fell from its multi-lensed eye.
More fits and spurts – frantic flaps of the flying instruments.
Its fitfully grounded flying attempts stopped.

It started up its single cylinder motor again.But it couldn’t get the old girl off the ground.The intervals between fitfull spurts grew longer.
Until finally it passed away.
It’s lifeless body had drawn its last steaming breath of steaming anything.
Never again would it know the joy of bathing in a puddle of vomit.

It was given a quiet ceremony.

Britney flicked its body off the table with a once caring forefinger that was now dismissive of such fallibilities as mortality.
It wasn’t the first time she’d given something the flick.
She stared off to it’s resting place and placed the finger gently up her nose.
A particularly obstinate obstacle was obstructing her nose-trumpet.
She lent back into her chair.
They lent back into their chairs.

They lent forward and began applying copious amounts of cosmetics.
“Can’t build without a solid foundation”, she said out the side of her yet to be redded bangers-and-mash-lips.
“No you can’t” she retorted from inside the flatness.
“It’s like a prison in here” she continued.
She carried on with the laying of the first coats of weather resistant product.
“One day just seeps into the next. You don’t understand. Whenever you go, I’m lost. Whenever you’re here. I’m misplaced”. her voice was drowning in resignation.
“I wish we could just leave all this and go and live on an island” she snarled.
The face in the mirror grew angry and the brow took on a terrible aspect.
Britney studied it like a child with a spider.
She lay a hand over her sinking cheeks and felt the skull beneath her skin.
She paused as the reflection grew wild in the eyes.
Britney daring not to take her eye of the wild-eyed woman in the window fumbled blindly for her glass.
Like a blindfolded convict she patted the table for that which she sought.
She took the glass to her lips and sucked a solid mouthful of liquid sanctuary to her blood stream.
Her circulation system, boosted by the intoxicating intake, soothed her flailing mind.
The reflection’s eyes became glassy again, and dimmed to a low setting.
Her ten angry apostles, that had become a white fist, were once again placid and amiable.
Normal transmission had resumed.
She was proud to present this program. Sorry for the break.
Britney, now blinking freely, raised the glass to her reflection.
The reflection met Britney’s buoyancy with despondency.
She spilled back into her chair.

Her face framed by gold and encased in glass, she toasted.

“To us”.
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Britney Spears Herself In The Flesh

October 2nd 2007 23:54
What was it that has made Britney a basket case in a handbag? Her skirts that came up to her armpits? A head screwed to her ankles? What behaviours could any meteorologist have forearmed, had she been in season?

Her first hit shingle, Hit Me Baby, one more time, had self-respect ingrained all over it like a pair of thongs up the backfrontbottom. It was in the germination that the first single of an insensible life was heading towards a watery fall.

Her paddling backside has done nothing to relive the inherent illness inherent in every voyeur: none. Her life, so full of obesity of the mind, is a microrganism for a greater and much greater me-cha(ni)sm.

It is unfortunate in this day and adage that a young fellatio-bound chica-dica should advocate a good bashing of her very own selfishness. Look for the songs in your own life after you've judged dear bash-victim Britters, and sign from the top of a mold-hill.

Poor little Britney. Spearing her: does that count as a hit? How would you bash her if you could bash yourself first? Just talk amongst yourselves, incessantly.
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