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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

There's no I in KGB: FBI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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Religion is the personification of Nature, believe leading trippers.

"The Sun, that great child of the sky, is none other than the Son of God," claims one, high on the acuity of his vision.

The Twelve Disciples, none other than the twelve moons that go around a year, have refused to be drawn on the claims.

No body can hold a torch to the moons, except the blazing star of our belief system.

The twelve months without the Sun would be in rather desparate need of saving, that's for sure.

"We wouldn't piss on Jesus if he was on fire," said Judas, possibly referring to an eclipse.

That would be sacrilege.

He's already on fire.

The heavens' brightest star, from where we are.

It's human nature to personalise that which isn't in affront to understanding.

Particularly that which is so essential to our daily lives.

And nothing is more daily than the fiery baptist above our heads.

We are what we are but how we are who we are remains in the shade, I said basking in the warmth of the winterless Sun.

The untilled Earth, a veritable Virgin, delivered one day, not unlike today, the energetic child.

What with the thunderbolts and the clouds and the heavens, the Sky is God and the rest is salience.

We can only hope to end up a twinkle in the heavens, I said tinkling the ovaries.

The Sky sent the Sun so that we could live; we should be thankful.

God, Foxy Loxy, is falling, say trippers on their own feats.

It's getting hot in here, so take off all your loathes.

When the Sun does return to us we will all be in hell.

It won't be the end of the world.

It's only a revelation.

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The bland, leading the bland, have met with their one true mister - a one-eyed wizard with one hand down his pants and the other down yours.

"I mean you no harm," he said stroking a severed head of letters.

It is understood the King, an objective observer and ghastly superior, sees everything and in great depth.

"I hate it when issues get personal," the intellectual giant beseeched his hairdresser, who primly blabbed to the Medea.

The bland, unable to read between the lines, appointed their king in a lavish ceremony that pleased their lord and masturbator.

"My kingdom for an accolade!" the King told his optometrist as he tried on another set of spectacles.

The King will be trying to write his weight out of a wet paper bag to show off his mate.

"I am the Queen of the world!" he shouted, straddling his sinking shit.

His ship don't stink.

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Churchman cometh Pope Ratsinger has praised Henson's reanimated corpse for its Christ-like resurrection.

"I wouldn't leave him alone with my own children," Ratsinger told his cronies as he dressed up in garb consistent with the humility one would associate with being in awe of the all matey


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The knotted scientist and wizard of us, noted for his bad spills and pantfalls, has achieved spiritual and intellectual perfunction through eaing his own words.

"It's psycho Delphic, baby!" the wizardly scientist said with great flailing, inspite, humourility and encompassion, as pink elephants chaired him off to his rightful palace


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Norm, 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


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Norm hits back at critics

April 8th 2008 04:04
Embattled boogler Norm has slammed his critics for calling him a lazy parasite after he couldn't be bothered finishing

"I always finish my sentences," the errant spiller told his pet pug


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