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Consumption Malfunction - reader's indigestion

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FISHERMEN couldn't believe their eyes when LADY GaGa reduced a pregnant homeless woman to giggles when she turned up to meet her where some 60 kg of marijuana was found, which required her to get her hair and makeup done again at the home of one of them.

Initially, Spielberg had wanted Tom Hanks to hit a friend with part of a broken wooden stool after a woman complained that they had stolen her marijuana, but I don't think I've ever walked into the home of one of them with anything but a bikini, let alone a wedding dress worth about 60,000 rand (4,865 pounds),

Playing a piano suspended on giant stilts, making it ideal for space agriculture, Spielberg then sought to persuade a foul smell emanating from the sewerage or grease trap to develop a dialogue between their child and adult selves just days after the teenager spurned his romantic advances in a huge red PVC outfit complete with Elizabethan style frills.

Hurling abuse at her work colleagues and stripping naked before a shock discovery of pornographic images on a website called "sex games", he planned to distribute ecstasy tablets as part of a limited education and she sometimes locked the sobbing, hungry boy outside, but he has a dark side and can get very moody.

The man aged in his 30s, seen by men as abnormal while suffering broken fingers and deep cuts, ditched her usual skimpy attire for one drug to anesthetise, another to paralyse and a third to stop a homeless pregnant woman, notorious for having a laugh, suffering an "allergic reaction to medication taken for a cold" and stuffed his little body in a suitcase, saying he can't believe his luck.

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Whistle your eggs in a bile with your bleaters into wide pokes.
In a flying pun, meld a tamponspanner of buttocks.
Add your opinions.
Fly until goaded.
Remove from the pun and quietly dud the eggs.
Stare contemptuosly, making sure not to spurn your laughers.
Take one crass of read-whinge. Drunk.
In a simpering pun clock up some spoiled spades.
Boil until mad with rouge. Drink some more whinge.
When the opinions are as you lick them, smash your head against a prickwall.
Toast to your goaded heart. Muddle.
Place in a large monitor and bake for 2 yards.
Dash the opinions, head, eggs, ogles into your toast.
Sneezing to taste.
Garnish with harps.
Good appetite!


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The whacky quack, who wrote prescriptions, novels, on a blog, who wore clothes supplied by pharmacuetical companies, a beard, a logo, who bumped off a few Muslims, who thanked God, who used to love Elvis, who ate Jesus-burgers buttered with peanuts, who dug mass graves, who dug Jazz, who craved immortality, who ran from the Lord, who raised many for his charity, who swore in public, whose hands were tried, who worked in a football clinic for over-privileged children, who fought the law and the Lord won, who drove a Chrysler, who loved his country house, who washed up after dinner like a gentryman, who washed up before dinner like a hygienist, a boner, a grief-digger, who cleaned his hands after finishing the race, the enemy, who went nuts and drank flat beer, secondhand smack, has been found ruling an army in the guise of a General.

Stylists for the Doctor are pleased with his new look, his new smell, his new ardour, his new apparel, his new gunsmith, his new shovel, his new sallow crave, his tickling time bum, his sense of stale, and have praised his manners, his ettiquette, his practice, his posture, his hymning voice, his advice, his orders, and have laughed off calls he was ever a doctor, a medicinal practitioner, an educated manager of disease.

"Hahaha," they said, smiling, waving, bending over backwards, trying on a new hat, new undies, new Coke, new car, new stereo, new microwave, new TV, new baby.

"We're not happy about our bodies," the dysmorphic dead have whispered in the rear of the perceptive, the recepticals, the holier-than-hell, the morbidly obtuse, the trendy and inwardly mobile.

"Do I look like a New Age guy?" the brutal SNAG mused, wondered, pondered, all the while brushing his bushy beard, fiddling, playing, with his celloist, his conductor, his nurse, his assistant, losing his patience, his virtue, his vice, his hammer, his suckle.

You be the judge.

I'll just be trying.


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God, our farter who art a heathen, dinosaur-denier, man with a beer, clouded-thinker, holocaust-enabler and vociferous karaoke singer, has let me in on a little secret.

"I actually look more like a triceretops," the all matey one told me last evening while I shat down to mourn my lost love.

If you're reading this, you are far away from me my eternal laugher.

I am praying for the day when I can hold you in my eyes.

The revelations, in a biblical sense, also included a trenchant approval of the rights of his followers to make choices about other people's bodies.

"I only kicked Eve out of Eden because she started claiming to know my mind better than me," our Lord said as my heart broke off aboard a plane headed for the Continent.

"I am God, after all," the stillbirth activist told me as he reached in to pluck out my brain from a puncture he had made in my art.

The award-whingeing novellist also told me that he hasn't read any good books lately.

"Jurassic Park, now that's a good book," God said as you flew.

Off.
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Corby's brothers on A Downer

June 23rd 2008 01:20
The elder brother (left) claims to be able to hear your thoughts while the younger one (rightly), claiming to be older, is thinking of a number between 19 and 21 years

The high-flying fraternal dribblings of committed drug muelse Schapelle Corby have giggled off claims by A Downer that they were behind their half-fister's spell in the joint.

"I can't be bothered," they said as they said as they said.

"They're trying to bring us down, man!" said the one with the scissors.

A Downer, an upper-crass slob and putty mouth, told detractors that he told the two swarthy men in private: "No funny business or I'll have you departed."

The departed, the fatally deceased, have been seen by potty-heads in the screams of smack eliminating from the clamber of their smacking impediments.

It's funny how sisters bear the guillotine of their brothers.

"It's a lot of buggage to handle," said one of the banana fratters as he lounged.

About the house -




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Richard Pratt facing the Clink

June 21st 2008 03:03
The upstanding businessman

The millionaire businessmaniac, philanderer, and grovel threated frontman for iconoclastic cardboard band Cold Cheezel has sung for the first time about his date with bumbling officers.

"I'll be going in for the soft-cell," the blues sinker told adoring fanatics.

It is understood he is basing his prediction on the harsh treatment planted out to other high-floundering rorters like Glenn Wheatley.

"By the time they charge me, I'll already be dead!" the laughing Pratt told worried infestors.

The charges stem from planted evidence found in the cardboard hoarders blank pockets.

Good friends have sullied around the ageing sinker as he prepares for beddy-byes.

Good night, nerves.

I know.

Nothing.

Nothing!
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Australia is ready to blow

June 20th 2008 00:18
Australia, a ticking time bomb planted by the British cistern of justice, and full of the moribundly obtuse, is ready to explode, say starving Africans.

The striving Africans, also planted by the British sister of justice: prudence, have been dying to say something on this issue.

Their spokesman, Chilean duct-taper Robert Mugabe - responsible for the deaths of people, says that he's a machete for any man.

Westerly windy duck-tappers are Emocryptically elocuted.

"I'm more than a match for you fews," Mugabe said as he got a Brazilian under his nostril and waved his staffer in the hair.

Africans, no longer Slavs, their hands on the snips, are set to cut the cord with their colonial mothers, winch and four walls.

Colonialism is a mother of a thing at the beast of tames.

Yours says hi.

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Pregnant transmanian devil in the sack, distinct, specious, and reasonable spokesperson for all crumbers, wiff to a buttonless pot and tractor, Angelina Jolie has forgotten where she was after such an intro.

"All I can say is that making your own is more fun," she said after pressing the buzzer to the question while her dildo was awry on holiday.

It is understood that when a man and a woman or a man and a woman or a man and a woman or a tube love each other very much, the man puts his penis in the woman's vagina, then doesn't know what to do when it slips out, as it invariably does, but is rescued from acute embarrassment when the woman does, then with a little effort, or great deal, or none at all, the man finishes, wakes the woman up and says: "Wake up!".

I think there's someone downstairs.

Jolie denies that such things haven't transpired between her and her hubcap.

"Now that I'm preggers," the bogan chic daughter of Jobe told milk-bar proprietors, "I'm having a baby."

Her husband Tom and Nicole said in repose: "We're just slipping out for a bit."

Impossible.


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The heavily pregnant father of his wife and gun wielding wrestling maniac told the disbelieving Pollack, before he pimped him full of lead, that he was one of his chosen people.

"I am not saying I'm God, or that I'm a know-it-all. I'm just saying I'm a woman trapped inside the body of a man," the transgendered man told customs officials.

Police politely apprehended the suspicious sort swiftly as s/he tried on swimsuits in a stall at the delicatessan.

"There's nothing delicate about this salami," the suspect said swinging a sausage from his skirt.

Shoppers had become alarmed after waking up to a loud ringing in their rears later identified as shorts being fried from the assailant's scone.

"Have you ever seen a Jew earing shorts?", a white-wing croupier told gambollers as he chased after the trannie.

It was then that Police swooned on the shemale with a mating ritual that onlookers have described as a cancer.

Pollack, lying dying in the street, could only watch on as his wife pissed before his eyes.

Thus ended the worst day of shooting in the detractor's career.
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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.
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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.

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Josef Fritzl scrutinizes his daughter's profile

Captain Von Trapp, the father of his seven grandchildren, believes that the Holocaust is a conspiracy cocked up by the Jews.

"The hills are alive," the Captain said as he put the moves on his developing daughter.

The Captain, vehemently appeased to Hitler's regime, has seen his wife and daughter ruled into one.

"How do you salve a problem like the Jews?" Von Trapp mused.

"Let's just say that threats of gas will do the trucks of Jews," the Captain said addressing his offcuts.

The Captain, a stern dispisclanarian, is, deep-down, in laugh with the idea of bedding a sister.

"I like them like that," he said stroking a kitten tied up with string in his worn wooden muttons.

The Captain, unbelievably, is fancying a 15 year bit.

15 is too old for me.
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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.
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Sex tape of Norm surfaces

April 17th 2008 02:10
Despectacled clogger Norm has refused to admit that sex-tapes circulating through the internet have damaged his reputation as he prepares for bed.

"I know it's early," the madmaniac told worms, "but I'm fearing tiredness."

The maniac, ungnome for his dearth of witches, has span increasingly out of bed recently.

"This tape only runs for a couple of minutes anyway," the weirdy-looking Norm yawned as he flopped out of head.

"When I get my hands on it," he fumed, "I just don't know what not to do."

It is believed the tapes are to feature in advertisements for Solo, a maniac's drunk.

I'm not rarely that bad.
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Angry title hits back at content

March 31st 2008 05:18
The title of this short, very short, piece has hit back at the clams of the content that there is nothing in it.

"I strongly deny that I have ever had anything to do with the actual content," the title told reporters waiting on their hands and feet.

It's a clam that the content has rejected in the strongest possible times.

"The title and I both know who's been leading who," the continent told shifting plates of peas.

In these heady times, the battle between head and body has never been more farce.

"I could go on all day," the body of peas told the head of a fork and spoon.

A speedy resolution is expected to be brought by a screen in process.
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Acquisitional artist to the stores, Ken Done has been arrested by police at his palatial abode after an investigation discovered he was the head of a child-pornography rink.

"He's been skating on thin ice," said the detective in charge of the arresting ice-ballet.

The artist, businessman, designer, child-molester, pedophile, poofter-pasher, scrabble-player, monopoly-exponent, tea-toweller, t-shirter, back-scratcher, mind-bender, moustache-wearer and short-lifter released a statement to the media that was too bright and colourful to be anything other than the work of a bucket-waver.

"I am innocent of the charges," he stated, "but I wouldn't mind if I wasn't."

The skirt-licker is believed to have a penchant for people in pre-pubescence.

"What's done is done," Done told his bank-manager while frittering away his banana-lounge.

The case continues.


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The buxom beauty behind so many of our favourite ballads has gone ballistic at the break in her bony beaver-burrower.

"It smells fishy to me," undies-nostrillers told themselves while whacking their walnuts.

Britney's publicist, a part-time publican and bookie, told passing carps that Spears went to the doctor complaining of pains all over her money-maker but upon feeling herself up and down was informed of a fractured finger.

The devastated bird-giver will have the digit in traction for up to one metre while the injury heals.

Her beaver, busier than a St. Kilda beaver working towards a lodging, will have to make do with a steady diet of synthetic fingers until then.

Logs for Ms. Spears beaver have made quite a splash in recent weeks.

"She loves that shit," lovers for the lady laid bare today and tomorrow and yesterday and next week.
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Posh Spice Gets a New Rack

March 6th 2008 23:33
Posh Spice's New Rack
Carpenters had a hand in it

The seasoned snob graciously accepted a meat-tray after winning a lottery at her local boozer before downing another pint of piss and chucking up in the lavatory.

"I'm nothing like a Carpenter," she said while standing on the scales and playing with her new rack made from the offcuts of her liposculpture.

It is understood that the seasoned snob was looking so hot a queue of punters had lined up waiting for a chance to grind her.

Her husband, caught playing with his balls on the bus, couldn't stop sneezing.

It is understood he had a spice in his nostril.

"After all the salty delicacies I've given her fiends over the ears, this is how she repays me," he snorted while fiddling with his salt-shaker.

Hunks of meat in boob-tubes on the omnibus responded by offering to get maggotted at the boozer with the spatchcocked spouse.

The seasoned snob, no real oil-painting, has been labelled a fraud by art-dealers.

The art-dealers had tickets on themselves and had to get off.
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Prime Minister Kelvin Rudd has outbid stroking Bollywood writers to claim the services of the most advanced knuckle-drag queen in Australia.

"He both plays for my team," said Rudd, "and he doesn't."

Symonds refused to let the media see his tutu because he "wouldn't wear it."

The media remain upbeat that they can get an idea or two to float for the upcoming celebrations to be held in the streets of Sydney.

The arching tutu went red when Steve Waugh put his hanky in the wash.

"If an Indian isn't doing his rag," Symonds, an avid fetishist, explained, "they're doing their rug."

Bollywood waiters have had to rush to the bathroom to wash their hands of the Australians.



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lara bingle's raunchy pic
Lara tells sinners where to go

The luscious lady of Lucifer, Lara Bingle has asked the damned, "So where the bloody hell are you?" today as they filed in their nails one by one.

Sinners, the entire human racing industry, are appalled that Lucifer's leading lady should lead such a lascivious (after)life.

"Christ almighty, when they said she had a great rack, this isn't quite what I had in mind," said one recently deceased Anglican minister when he saw Bingle's instruments of torture.

It is understood by pilgrims that Lucifer, fallen star John Wayne, is Satan's "partner".

"It'll be a cold day in hell when we get air con," Lucifer told Bingle's havenly nipples.

Soap stars have told tabloids of their desires to sing songs for Satan's saucy slut.

Many residents of hell can't wait for the soap-stars to be dropped by God.



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Moderated by Norm
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