Resort manager, and infidel tangent, Castro is a silly old bugger with a dodgy knee-jerk reaction and feathery trigger thinger, according to resort-goers.
"We used to treat Cuba like a holiday spot," said wretched businessmen in a chorus.
"Now they have sovereignty, it's as if they've never even heard of the word Liberty," a disgruntled liberator told fleeting pleasants.
Liberty, the right to impose yourself on others, has never been a stranger danger to the weak and mild.
Gastro, who'll go through you like a knife through batter, never shat himself over all these ears.
"You have to hand it to him," proponents of capitalism told call-girls when the subject of head came up.
The electric chair is a testament to thou shalt not kill.
Old people are resorting to a quicker end though.
The Jews are poised to attack sinful city of sunny Sydney as the Pope takes off to launch attacks on World Youth Day.
"These measures are our preferred course of action," said one money-grubber as he awaits a messiah who has already left.
The train doesn't carry anyone, unhardly.
The Pope, chosen by God to represent his interests - financial and strategic - here on Earth, has asked God forgiveness for "not whipping them out when I had the chance."
We underpantstand he was stalking about a very naughty boy.
Sydney, a citadel on the rocks, is hoisting the unction - World Youth Day, to spread the weird.
The massage is the medium.
Hated in the UK for his fondlingness of Her Mingesty but loved in Great Britain for his treatment at the hinds of Phil the Greek, former Australian Prime Monster Paul Keating has revealed all to no one.
"Yes, she loved me. Yes, she adored me." the one time lover of Princess Diana told Elton Johnians.
The revelations come as no surprise to the maniac himself as he, Elton himself, told hairdressers: "There's going to be hell's toupee!" as he watched Keating's hairline.
The Greek Phil, former fish and chopperer to the stars, has told Keating to keep his grubby hands of my wife.
I'm not even married.
"Only I can be her tampon," Phil told Keating in a heated car driven through Dianas's tunnel by the one-time buttlover.
Keating is staying in a cell as the whole thong combs over.
"This isn't quite what we meant by padded," Phil told consumers of his fish sticks.
Watch this spice.
“Is it safe?”
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”
“Is it safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“Is what safe?”
“Is it safe?”
“What?”
“Is it safe?”
“Like a house.”
“So it is safe then, that’s a relief. I was very worried there for a moment.”
“Me too, but now I know it’s safe, I can relax.”
“Frankly, is it safe?”
“I don’t give a damn!”
“Is it safe?”
“Exceedingly!”
“Very well.”
“Very!”
“Well, I don’t even know any more.”
“It is safe.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, yes. Very safe. Very, very safe.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“If it wasn’t, would I say it was?”
“I don’t know you that well.”
“Well, I do.”
“Knowing you, I’d say not.”
“Yes, but you don’t.”
“All I want to know is if it’s safe.”
“I keep telling you that it is.”
“What?”
“It!”
“It’s safe to say it’s not safe then.”
“It is safe.”
“Is it safe, is it? Is it really?”
“Really, really safe!”
Held in the labyrinthial dungeons of the Whitehouse, US Presidenture George W. Bush married his daughter of twenty or so ears in a lavish musical conducted by the reanimated corpse of Nazi synthesizer Herbert Von Karajan.
"I was very happy to give away my daughter," Bush said under his breathmint.
"She's no oil painting. I couldn't give her away," he revealed, giving himself away.
His other daughter, no less of a thing unlike an oil painting than the other who's not one either, is up for auction on Ebay.
"The highest bid so far is $2.78, but I'm not going to give her away," Bush told bargain haunters.
Condoleeza Rice, clearly inflatulated with Georgey, heartbroken at losing the olive of her martini is still holding out hopelessly for another shot at the title.
"I'm not going to throw myself at him," Rice said as she threw herself over the hippy couple.
Marriage is a holy unction between a man and woe.
Overwhelmingly, Australian market economists are expecting the Reserve Bank of Australia to wear frilly undies while taking a wooden spoon on the buttocks this week. The impending rate rise is in response to severe tropical weather figures for the fifth quarter. And so, with another interesting rake hike to deal with, here are ten ways you can scrounge up some extra cash each month to meet your mortgage repayments and keep that smiling face on your head you've grown so very accustomed to over the eons:
1. Go troppo in the queue at the supermarket. Analysts believe that psychotic individuals are 5 times more likely to have free meals than ordinary nuerotics.
2. Sell your body for a few quick bucks. 3 out of 17 marriages are arranged by a pasta-eating magnet-salesman with a dodgy leg twitch and two manic mittens of disproportionate dimensional aspect.
3. Yodel. People with tense chords are unlikely to be understood by your average wallet whacker. Being understood is a profitable mistake you can easily make.
4. See 5.
5. See 4.
6. Erupt at the bank like you was a volcano with a sawn off shotty and a baklava. Greek pastries go well up top and less well down the back.
7. Review the contents of your knickerbockers.
8. Fit in with society. It's what everyone is supposed to do. You are no different to everyone. Everyone is composed of anyone. Anyone: that could be you.
9. Die without fuss or ticker-tape parades. No open coffin ticker-tape worms for you. Not in this life.
10. Become a celebrity. Don't be afraid to have your image plastered all over your visage.
In a shock to many floorgrowers of computer keyboards, top expats have discovered that we'd be safer if we ate dinner in the dunny and wrote and read wiping up afterwords.
"This is a slap in the face to the computer literati," said one well-gnome internet ulcer as he took to his missus with a rolling pin.
The study, conducted by unemployed ticket-inspectors, took over three ears to complete and caustic over an onion dullards to furnish.
"We suspected that computer keyboards were home to dangerous microdes," said a leading expat, "and now I have to go to the buffet-room."
Computer keyboards, home to dangerous macrorganisations, will now be fitted out with sanitary journal cakes to protect us from bad spells and the like.
An angry mop, high on the intoxicating velour of war, has hurled rocks at sheep who thought that fighting for God and Country really meant that.
War, believed by many to be fertile, has to be seen to be bereaved.
"Cerebrating war does my head in," terminal head-case Norm said while getting stoned.
"We abhor those who sacrifice their lives," except when they're one of us.
There is a fundamentalist difference between sacrificing your life and the antics of a suicide bumbler.
The stoned diggers, we're sour well-meaning and good-fearing, are in no way advocates of peas.
Not the ones you get in a can, anyway.
"We don't advocate the blank-armband view of history," former kettle-prodders told the abhorred.
Except on this verily specious occasion.
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.
Award-winning pastry chef and absolute 'mother' Delta Goodrem has given fans a glimpse of the petulant flower that lurks under the surface of her shiny verneer.
"I do" the song-basher said, before continuing with "believe that I am greater than sliced bread. Can sliced bread do this?" she asked, before subjecting an infant to the torture that is her latest single.
Many observers believe that, unlike the rest of reality, vision is a form of dualism.
"I just have such a passion for music" the wedding-crash said "I hope one day to play in front of a crowd of cashed-up idiots."
As for wedding bells, well, let's just say that.
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