Satan, goodness gracious, has called on all crass middle-aged white men of the world to file a class action against the Divine Creator.
"We know the difference between good and evil," Satan said, sucking all the goodness out of some shit. "We wrote the book on it."
Satan is threatening to throw the book at the Creator and take him to the cleaners with a suit so fanciful it makes Michael Jackson blush.
"I'm prepared to take everything but the shirt off his back," Satan said, hand on his his cold dead one. "Even if I have to lift his shirt."
Satan, liable to lift the shirt off the back of a string of suits, has every intention of convincing this world that he never even existed.
"I have an inflated opinion of my own standing," he explained, blowing up his wife with an explosive device. "The thing is, I'm always lying."
Satan, hoping like hell to face the Creator in a court of law, has every intention of tricking people into thinking there is no right and wrong.
"They're false dichotomies," Satan said, sharing his personality with the cult of his, "but that doesn't mean I won't be pretending I am."
Satan, pretending he doesn't exist, has pulled himself off for the last time, after slipping in the bath and pissing himself off, for good.
"The Creator pissed me off," Satan said, talking shit, "but only because I said I'd sue the shit out of him," he testified, eating his words.
Pakistani police say they will wrap up an interim report into the deadly Sri Lankan cricket attack within 24 hours, after authorities said the perpetrators had been identified.
The men are described as being of Middle Eastern appearance with moustaches and beards and carrying semi-automatic weapons, possibly travelling by foot or taxi.
A taxi driver being interviewed by police is believed to fit the description being given by witnesses but accidentally got lost leaving the station and hasn't been seen since.
"We wish to speak to this man. Ask him if he has had a busy night. Throw up in the back. Stab him in the neck. Run off without paying the fare. Ask him why he doesn't piss off to his own country?"
Another man fitting the description had last been seen wandering the streets with a clipboard, knocking on doors looking to get people to sign their lives away on a dotted line.
"He told me to sign here, initial there and my life would improve. I did as I was told. I don't want my life not to get any better. He had a gun too. The beginnings of a moustache. He asked me if he could use the toilet. As far as I know he never used no toilet paper. I'd recognise him anywhere. Particularly if I saw him working in a convenience store," one witness said.
Pakistani authorities have been working around the clock to keep the doors of their small to medium-sized business open over the last 24 hours.
"We had to find stick to keep farking things open," said one, "and nobody even noticed these delicious confectionary expiring before my very farking hand. They're not a hand-grenades! We keep them under counter."
THE investigator chasing the missing former lover of Olivia Newton-John believes he is a renegade bishop who questioned the Nazis' use of gas chambers.
Texas private investigator Lefebvrist bishop Richard Williamson said he is using the alias of a maximum of 300,000 Jews rather than the widely accepted figure of the Pope's.
Newton-John, the head of Germany's Central Council of Jews, said she was not withdrawing after holding out hope that her long-time love is the Pope.
She added that she could not believe that the Pope was hired by US television program Dateline as the result of an oversight — but I stress 'at the moment'.
"The singer's LA representative Michael Caprio said Newton-John is one of the most well-educated and intelligent people that the Catholic Church has and every word he speaks, he ended the day before he did not want to comment," she said.
France's Minister for the Pope said there was no evidence or proof as to the truth in this story provided by a serious error in investigation.
A Catholic, said: "It was a mistake to forgive so easily an actress who has appeared on CSI and is a practising mother and to rehabilitate his 15-year-old son: a bishop who has denied the existence of his disappearance and who said so very clearly."
In Britain, the pontiff (who was listed as the beneficiary of his father's $US100,000 life insurance policy) owed their 15-year-old son about $US50,000 in child support payments for Chance.
Yvette Nipar, a Communities Minister, said we have extreme concerns that he was "highly unsavoury".
"The fact that somebody would like to sit down causes me great concern," he said."Many will …find the promotion of such a thing highly unsavoury. She has been adamant and rabid about this."
"Let's be clear: those who deny the Holocaust aren't with-holding some information that we have and we would like to discuss it with pseudo-historians who are revising history. Some things that demonstrate the Holocaust didn't happen."
Bishop Williamson's inflammatory "lies, lies, lies", which sailed from San Pedro on the Californian coast, disappeared recently in an interview shown last week in historical accounts.
He and three other rehabilitated passengers on board gave contradicting reports of his whereabouts during and at the conclusion of the Swiss-based trip, including three crew members that were the older brothers of "Jews".
The Jews were apparently unnoticed until a week later when he failed to show up to see whether his son used gas chambers to exterminate his ex-wife, yesterday.
"I know that Newton-John found new love with US millionaire businessman John Easterling at least for disinfection, but I cannot say if they used to kill people or not," said Father Abrahamowicz, who she wed in June.
She is currently preparing his body, which will start on February 26.
September 26th 2008 02:08
Universally acclaimed, award-wage winning ego-head, Stephen Hawking has drowned in the bath after forgetting that he can't swim.
"I knew I should never have let him go in the water," his wheelchair, fizzably shaken, told a shocked English public that was today calling for a pizza.
A person, two walking legs and two wanking arms, had earlier told the police that he had witnessed the terrible events unfold before his very arse.
"At first I couldn't believe it," the Pommy bastard, revisiting the scene told us, "I mean, who washes during the week?" he continued, raving his arms in the hair.
The media pack, a giant organism of clicking and recoding instrumentals, could only nod off in aggrievement at the words of the only knowing witness.
"It's a sad day for the universe," a visibly showing spokesman for the scientific community said, as he whipped away the tears from his wife's crying arse.
Hawking, it is understood, was physically incapable of turning the taps on, as Ginger Rogers explained to Fred Astaire, so how did he drown?
"This wouldn't happen if we could imply slaves, any race'll do, to look after the elite," a voice of treason told his butler, a half and half.
September 17th 2008 22:12
Women, foreign critters without impotent dangling bits who might bite off your penis at the drop of a that, have for the first time spoken, through clenched fists, about their fears of accidentally on purpose castrating their mates.
"When I was a young girl, I used to make a fortune off the tooth fairy," one woman, a two-legged thing with pursed laps, said playing with the teeth on her zapper as she flossed her parloury whites with a tea-bag.
It is long been accepted in male society, a thing with one head up the front and one up the back, that women, four-legged crappy crawlers, are a threat to their stranglehold on the pursed strings, and could snap at any time.
"I well remember my mother's embraces," said one fearful man, his knackers dragging on the ground, as he sat in the dentist's chair, "her teeth were all over the place," he continued, as the dentist, someone who's seen it all, produced a musical.
What we've all known for years is that women, yearning many on their backs, have, in their most intimate parts, the ability to cut a man, a worrier, down to size with just one or two sharp words, well armed, from their laps.
"You're going to require a filling," the dentist, underpants over the noise and mouth, told his patient, a woman who had fallen under, as he prepared the cavity while his assistant, and another woman, gagged and winced.
Christopher Hitchens is a portly gentleman with a penchant for lesbianism, a head like a turkey and a mouth like a turkey-slapper, heshe and Noam Chomsky, a fiddler with the facts, bizarre raconteur and self-talker, had a famous tiff over a waiteress carrying a plate of fresh buns.
In the interests of fairness, the specific vocal inflections of bananality have been removed to protect the innocent.
Hitchens: Thanks for meeting me like this.
Chomsky: I like to think I'm fairly even-minded about these things.
Hitchens: Do you want a sandwich?
Chomsky: Do I? Let me think, do I? Do I? I'm not sure that's going to help matters.
Hitchens: I've got ham, ham and cheese, or tomato, bacon, ham, egg, beetroot, onion and turkey on white.
Chomsky: My bum's very itchy, but I can't see how you'd care, CHRISTOPHER!
Hitchens: Let me get that for you.
Chomsky: Would you be so kind? Would you? WOULD YOU?!
Hitchens: Would I? I would. I would. I definitely would!
Chomsky: No need to be so rough! NO NEED TO BE SO ROUGH!
Hitchens: You like turkey, don't you? Don't tell me you don't like it!
Chomsky: Give it here! HERE!
Hitchens: I'm sorry for all those things I said.
Chomsky: I'm sorry too, Christopher. I'm so very SORRY! So sorry for all those things you said!
Hitchens: Can you ever forgive me? What we had was special. I miss you!
Chomsky: You've got a lot of work to do. A LOT!
Hitchens: God, you're a bitch! sometimes. Sometimes, you're such a bitch.
Chomsky: This'll never work! I mean, I have my spot where I see things from, and you, YOU HAVE YOURS! You have yours.
Hitchens: Tell me you love me! Tell me you'll never see me again. Tell me. Tell me!
Chomsky: I'm not sure I do anymore. I'M JUST NOT SURE!
At this moment, the elevator reached the ground floor, where both high-minded theorists got into their expansive vehicles and drove off in separate staged directions.
Htchens: I'll never get this. He was the one.
Chomsky: I love playing hard to get! FOOL!
Their hair blowing in the wind, our two star crossed laughers will never, ALAS, see eye to eye. ALAS!
Hitchens: I need a drink.
Chomsky: What are you having?
A Giant Clam, giganticus clamourous, has forced frightened orifice-workers out of their building, a cloudscraper, after lurching onto the phallus in the heart of the city.
"I looked up and all I could see was a giant beard," said one frightened widow-cleaner who was being comforted by a mortgage repayment.
The city, a strange palace at the best of times, has never seen such chaos as traffickers ground to a standstill while buskers prayed for their loaves.
"Please, give me this day my daily bread," one sang while beating a drum and passing a hat.
"I wouldn't like to have to pass a hat for a living," said one fleeting businessman as he straightened his jacket while droolers polished his loafers.
"It looks excruciating," said another, as the hat, a broad-brimmed number, made it's way kicking and screeching into this world scarce half-wit made-up.
The Giant Clam, a giant by any measure, had earlier, much earlier, engulfed the shitty in its rubbery goodness as seafoot connoisseurs dipped their loads.
"It looks good enough to eat," said one startled gourmet, tucking into the half-eaten remains of a decaying busker who had earlier kicked the basket.
The city, nothing like a colony of insects, is set to return to the ground from whence it came just as soon as the insects have gone to heaven.
The clam, speaking through lawyers, released this little pearl:
Shiny.
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.
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.
Filthy exponent of the lost fart of hammer and patricidal almanac, Norm has refuelled speculation about his increasing prosperity after having a bath for the flirt time in ages.
"I'd be lying if I was having a bath," the perpendicularly challenged sloth told passing showers.
Norm, who has never spelt so good, claims that he really isn't a great spiller.
"If there's one thing I can't stand it's spelling good," the grammatical giant is quoted as splaying while laddering up his boar.
Many critics believe the internet's first laddy spells to high hessian.
Actually, I smell like noises.
Belittled mugger and all-rind good spot, Norm has sniffelled the ignonimy of having to look "silly" for pisstaking starch-footed Kevin Rudd for a pedestrian.
"I'll be flighting these charges vigourously," the indolent-one told TV guides.
We understand that Norm, who has never stunk solo, was a candidate to be Australia's first president until misfortune landed on his fedora.
"Look, Norm is a very misguided individual," Rudd said of the channel-surfing hazy-bones.
"We think he'd make a fabulous backbencher," he said as new polls showed a traumatic upswank in Norm's polarity.
Norm, who hates stalking about himself, has refused to make a comma.
"I've got no comma to make at this time," the deceptive dredger told ocean floors.
Norm is expecting re-erection, a saucy siren sounds.
Medea besplattered boggling giant Norm has told his loyal subjects to avenge his tarnished reputation after critics labelled him as Judge Judy and Executioner.
"You can't polish a turd," the ethnic-lenser said as he put down his spectacles.
"But you may as well try," he went on as impatient reporters reached for their keyholes.
Norm remains committed to harsh sentences, despite reports to the country.
"I'll continue to hand down reasonable sentences," he said as he brought down the hammer on lots.
Critics remain committed to explosing him as a self-indulgent writher.
Try as they vegemite, they won't kettle any wear.
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.
David Hicks has leapt to the defence of terrorist apologiser Dick Smith in a stunning episode of Channel Nine's Survivor MMXIV: Guantanamo Bay.
It is understood that Australia's owned Smith is wearing.
"It's OK, I'm decent." he told Brownies selling brownies.
Unemployment statistic Amanda Vanstone has argued to be betrothed to be their wife so she can enjoy the benefits of the prison feud.
Hicks has told members of his tribe to strap themselves in for a rumpy bride.
"Stand back, she's going to blow!" Hicks said as he took out his bazooka before taking out the bitch.
It was rubbish-night.
The episode is due to be aired to the free at the end of Condoleeza Rice's current cycle.
"If he wasn't a nigger, another nigger wouldn't have called him on his mobile to buy drugs." the judge said sheepishly at the wake for Heath Ledger held at Wayne Carey's pad.
It is understood that the jude wasn't partaking in mysterious white substances extracted from the tissues he found in Ledger's pockets when Miami Vice's Don Johnson cracked open a pack.
Carey, who was so chained to the kitchen that he couldn't fraternise with his guest speakers, was laterally chained to the kitchen by guest Johnson.
"Is done, is good." Carey said in typically articulate fashion before celebrating his reinduction into police practices by smashing some kitchenware over a pitted model.
Symonds could only watch on from his cage while the judge continued to egg on his face.
"It's all scambled." Symonds said of the seas of his trousers as he patted guests on the bottom in a friendly way condemned by kitchenbound Carey.
"I'm the only one who can hit bottom here!" he screamed while cutting in on his friends' sandwiches.
Harbajhan could only synthesize with his "brother", which he did while making sweet love to his mother.
Extraordinary dog-handler and free-thinking ridicule Obama has barracked for his dog's lead as he struck it across Sir Edmund Hillary Clinton's ass range today in Nevada.
"This is one small smack for Hillary. One giant welt for her ass." Obama said as he played around with gophing buddy Osama.
Osama, the noted terrestrialist, took two shots from the bunker before driving his buggy into the club-house bistro.
It was not long after this that Clinton presented her husband to the gallery saying "If he ever rest I've never seen it."
The narrow lead, leather, came off second best according to witnesses who reported seeing things, as they saw it, with their own two eyes.
Unlike horses, eyes compete with each other for a better view of 'reality'.
Village person Hillary Clinton has assaulted rival Barack Obama with a stunningly blunt sledgehammer on his stance over the urinals.
"I will not shell legumes when nature calls," she pleaded while dousing sanitary cakes in a steam of golden liquidity.
Obama, who many believe to be doing so well because his name is so close to Osama, has denied that he can't land a plane.
"I played football at college. I've never made a touchdown." he told his tight-end.
The former first lady has told the former president and husband Bill while at the stainless steel fountain cakes after he nearly urinated on his loafers and before he was whisked away by a giant beater, "Close but no cigar."
The campaigning for the rights of fatherless children has begun in earnest so keep your potatoes peeled.
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