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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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