Pretend that you're making a difference in a big head. In a separate pun, cook off some mushy aggression. Take your opinions and beat off until tender. When the pun of big words smell, begin to slowly add the comments. Brown off until the whole thing sets a fight. Quickly strangle the chicken, making sure that it makes a loud noise. Set aside.
After a few days have pissed, put the whole lot in a pre-headed shovel and put on a low heat. Stammer. On a chopping block, deduce something from specious raisons. Chop infinitely. Get the cut feelings and pretend to be aggrieved. Mix, wailing at the top of your farce. Beat the whole thing into a deluded mass. Call someone a few names, obliquely. Cower behind the write-goods. Bash over the head with your big words. Stand.
Tickle out of the oven. In a large word, pretend to be good and kindly. Be an authority. Run for cover when you're found out. Cut with a blithering knife. Label the sauce on the serving pate. Spin the delusion to sound intellectual. Using big words, continuously. Dot with silent points. Sprinkle with errant forks. Add the opinions and serve cold. Take your spin and put in your mouth. Masticate. Swallow. Digest. Excrete. Repeat until deceased. Serves 6 billion.
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.
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 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.
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.
Those unwilling victims who unfortunately succumbed to the irresistible charms of kiddie-pornographer, terrorist sympathiser and drug boss, Bill "Mad Dog" Henson now tell of their years of torment in front of his vaselined apparatus.
"He used to really smear it on," said one recently formed adolescent with a fanny gate.
The victims were assembled by harmless community leaders who were licking for some action of their own.
"Unfortunately these kids are no longer kids at all," one federal policeman said as his download finished.
"It's thanks to these disgusting images of the human body that we should all fear the human body," a crusader for the righteousness of their own egocentric altruism stated.
Bill Henson, himself now undead, probably wishes he was.
Granny award whining focalist Mariah Carey's charred body has been discovered by an obese fan.
"I found her in my fireplace," the fried chicken magnet told reparters.
It is understood the fan had earlier abducted Miss Carey from her electrolysister's house.
"I'd been listening to her latest hit single," the fanatic said, as he tucked into a breast.
"Torch my body, throw me on the fire," the fetching fanatic sang as police hoisted him to safety.
It's the first time Carey has gone charcoal.
Miss Carey's press secretary has hosed down the fireplace.
"There'll never be another like her," he mused.
Scientists are working hard to destroy her genetic material just to make sure.
Topical cancer and world-renounced waddler Norm has told his doctors of his despair-tire over the facts of laugh.
"I need a sex change," the celebrated abductor said as he nuzzled up to his shotty.
"Some, for a change," he explained, looking down the barrels of bodies in his fault.
"He really needs this," a nurse attending Norm told police as they swapped her.
Norm, who some have descried as the best thing since sliced head, is understood to be trapped inside his very body.
"I have described myself thus," Norm said, picking pellets out of his teeth.
"Don't call me chicken," he said as he hatched a planet.
Doctors believe that we are all trapped inside our bodices.
The new vehicle, descried by executives as the latest in the ever-decreasing gap between desitiny and home, is descried by environmentalists as a car that shits all over anything else on the road.
Utilising cheap immigrant workers under the floor of the vehicle, where they live with their children and grandchildren, the Commoder wipes up after it's off.
"Australia is a notion of passengers," revealed one immigrant living and working under the bonnet.
The Commoder, with a being in every bonnet, faeces injected and fast like a fridge on rollerskits, is a must for eery Australians looking to announce their identity.
"It's not a symbol of why the world is fast going to shit the way that it is when all we want is more of the things that are sending the world to shit," said one silly sausage.
Pricks.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A university educated butcher and pillow of the community has put down his wife's cleavage after witnessing the wholesale laughter of animals in his neighbour's boudoir.
"They were laughing at their plight," the bloody butcher told patrons of the arts, "It made me rethink how much suffering I really cause."
His wife, a very buxom madam, is dismayed that her inseminator will no longer be eating her lactating treats.
"This is absolute tripe," she sniped, "And it's only $2 a kilo."
Cows, happy to be taken to laughter, refused to admit that they are the central fingers in a rort that seeds millions of bucks flow into already bulging hips.
"Those with money don't really care as long their money is making yet more," one innocent veal chop told apple sauces who wished to remain apples.
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.
In a coup for wealthy arts-holes, striving artists have increased the size of the pool in the Archibald lottery.
"We've had to dig around in the dirt for years," said one blood-shot-eyed loser in a dtch.
The coup, chicken-feed for wealthy cats, is a cage.
The pool cleaner, a woman without a moustache, arrived with her children to sweep the pool for her.
"It's not creepy to get my crawlers to do my dirty work," she told the wealthy land-owners.
There can only be one winner in the exploitation of pool-diggers.
"It's me," the winner told jubilant art-lovers.
When asked if she could be any clearer, she told baby-shitters for Sean Connery: "Do I have to paint a picture for you?"
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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