In a big head, cut off your noose to spit on your farce.
Flay in a steaming heap your opinions.
Pash your bible.
Wrap in a flag.
Preheat the slaves.
In a small mirror, have a lick at yourself.
Make sour your heir licks niece.
Comb your public heir for lace.
Smack crack.
Invade despotic notions with your farces.
Implement oily democracy.
Get the oil.
Add the opinions.
Spittle chips.
In a separate head, plant your ribbed ideals.
Take two straps back.
In a large prism facilty, house your slaves.
Hook on drugs and keep them cracking their hairs.
On a soppy box, stand.
Shout, pout and wiggle.
Straighten your tie.
When the word comes crashing down, run to the rack.
Balding.
Plug with arty facts.
In the preheaded slaves, place the mess.
Fly off the handle.
Spoil the starched cripples.
Waive the bible.
Place the preheaded slaves in your frying chair.
Cook until fried.
Stand.
Play to God.
Laugh your notion.
Serve on a bed of wowsers.
Drizzle with oil.
Good appetite!
The word's greatest spiller, kiddy porn controversy denier, humble pie manufacturer, bigot squasher, argumentative tail-chaser, ignored and vilified martyr, tea-slipper, Kamahl enthusiast, heroic saviour of the maniacal and depressed, donkey-wielder, robot-inventor, carrot-catcher and man with a pair of sucks down his pants, has scoffed at claims he can't spell Karl Marx.
"Put it in a sentence," he said adjusting his larger-than-life sized image of himself emblazoned on his jockeys.
Lay off the whip, for pity's ache.
"Karl Marx was someone who sat around while working robots went about their lives," the master of the unceremonious replied.
It was at this point that the champion smeller, a champion in every sentence of words, fluffed his pants.
"There's not a word I know, and I know them all, that I don't know the meaning of, let alone know how to smell," he said, sitting around while working people went about other peoples' businesses.
"C-A-R-L," he spelled Karl.
I'm sensing this isn't how to conduct yourself in public.
I hate to sound like a smarty pants.
Laws, the inky thinks written on white paper, are, and always will be, the best means of protecting people, say leading psychics.
"Society has always been shot," said one, hand on her crystal heart.
"These band-aids should stop the bleeding," she went on, as someone from the other side got on her wicker basket.
Laws, things pissed by men and, equally, women in suits, written on bits of paper mache and enfarced by men and, thankfully, women in uniforms, carrying guns, welding sticks, wearing hats, taking brides, and questioning everythink, have always healed the hurt.
I feel.
Society, a bullet-riddled riddle, is always looking out for the little guy and, equally, girl.
"Especially when they have no clothes on," said one leading downloader.
"Some," kids one, "are so poor they can't afford clothes."
I feel sick in the cuts.
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.
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.
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.
Apologetic ineffectual and cerebral acuity sufferer Norm has told pseudo-sufferers that he's sorry that his 'sorry' was so verily sorry.
"Sorry, this sorry sorry is a sorry sorry from a very sorry soul," said a true ineffectual, explert in all, moister of nuns, teacher of the pimples and ha and matey elephant ridder.
The battle betwine he and Norm for the arse and minds of the pimples has wed some to bereave that the former is the grater.
"He grates on me," said terminal ladder-slider, unintelligible builder, voracious animus, and pus-taker Norm.
For all hat, Norm is verisimiltude to sorrow over the wailments of the world.
"Mire than yule ulcer nose," he bespoke while tailoring his suet.
The bottle for hammerous righteousness goes right drown to aviary shingle word ratten.
The dove, ill, is in the detoils.
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.
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.
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.
Embittered boggler Norm has spoken up about the looming crisis farcing the anklish languages in the wake of the dearth of indecent waiters.
"I'm a real nut-picker when it comes to waiters dotting their toes and crossing their eyes," the cross-eyed madman told his anal cyst.
Sporting pink-painted toenails and noticeably looking at the pong of his nose, Norm insists he's not a crass-drosser.
"Writhing should be fun," he noted as he removed a pencil from his pancreas.
"Not something that causes pride in simpering correctness," he scolded as he dropped a kettle over his head.
The battle for the right to righteousness is set to snail on.
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."
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