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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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