Grin from chin to chin and sin in thin skin, effetes deletes expletes replete with pith and filth, until the shrill fill the still with ill-will. Claims of aims not maims don’t hold cold gold, nor gold mould. Swiss cheese please, Miss; less holes than your old sold fold. Pretense lends bends to ends, offends. The smarmy army of a barmy marmy can't calm me. Brewery-fury before a jury sent excellent intent to descent, and leant meant vent propellent. It’s mammory on a bull that your utility amounts to. The futility of your humility is gratuity in perpetuity. You're Mammon as a Madam! A scant rant can’t halt the bolt keeping this colt from tumult. Twist a list and fanned land on flame came to lame the same dame. The limp made a simp a gimp, and mope in hope for cope. The hop of the mad and bad had some come undone; come to wonder at their blunder under thunder. A nap to the pap! Hap to the madcap and the friend of upending sending ending bending. Thank the [blank] who dealt the spank; thank the bank, you dank, for hits and misses, or do the dishes. Rank and Bank: wank.
Range Roving rejects rejoice! Home here houses habitual whores who hate homophobes; healing house-husbands (hacks who hardly herald halcyon hijinx) have hastily hurt hysterical high-horse handlers. Of course the Indigenous Echidna is a prickly species; things that have spines are prickly. Like a moving uniped madman, they are unique; but they are no match for The Range Rover. The Range Rover has spineless pricks behind the weal. Fighting the power for years, The Range Rover honed their skills in a paper bag. “Lucky to get out of there alive”, it’s a pity it was one of those weak pathetic recycled paper bags. Wealers turn green at the merest mention of anything inorganic as they squash the land beneath their wheel. They turn tyrannical on their turf too; that territorial terrain tempered by a traversing, twat-tweaking twee-hugger, too tabloid to take to task. Pricks on the inside: The Range Rover, and pricks on the outside: The Echidna. The Range Rover and The Echidna: different.
Two score and ten years ago, The Slave would be strung up and have farmyard tools inserted in their posteriors. Nothing worse than that and not without good reason; clearly, caucasian-castrating coons couldn’t continue collecting cods. Mystery disappearances are no longer part of the picture, and it is unlikely that such a thing could happen today, even under the cover of darkness. You can wake up every morning and expect to be just where you left yourself. Vast numbers of heirs to Slave fortunes now reside contentedly in prisons, where they enjoy the benefits of the Bill of Rights and the Constitution. Upholding the rights of people everywhere is how America has acquired so much wealth. It's wealth not built on the back of the Slave. It was built on the back of The Free. They are the moral backbone of the greatest country of them all, ever. And if it’s proof you’re after, there is no point asking The Free, they are far too modest to sing their own praises. The Slave, to it’s chagrin, is no longer employed to carry out necessary duties, which at one time gave their life meaning. It’s the main reason for so much social unrest in America; the country's justice system is nothing like a rusty farmyard tool. Tobacco companies should not compensate the families of The Slave. If anything, The Slave should be grateful for living in a country where all people live happily under pieces of paper held in walls of white masonry or marble. Pulped documents with inky residue have always held humans in check. The Home of the Free and the Jail of the Slave: America.
Fun is fun, let’s face it.
We all like a little word beginning in “F”.
Fun starts with the letter F.
I have been described as a word beginning with "F".
What other “F” words are fun?
Computers can’t have fun.
Computers are boring.
Boring starts with the letter B.
What other words start with “B”?
Cows have male counterparts that defecate.
Nothing could be more inhuman than swear words.
Computers don’t have parts that have vulgar names.
To stick a floppy in a slit is a little bit suggestive.
I just close my eyes when I insert one in the slot.
Pushing buttons is something I never do without gloves.
What other parts of a computer are vulgar?
Let me know, so I can find something dirty to think about.
Fun and Boring: opposite.
End program.
Because they are female, murderous teenage girls think differently to their male counterparts. For instance, when skinning their victims alive, girls tend to use a knife from the kitchen or sewing scissors; while boys prefer hunting knives. Typically, girls perfume a skin before wearing it as a summery shawl; while boys tend to dry it out then eat it with beer as they mutilate the remains, and have intercourse with the epidermisless erotic entity; unconsenting sex with a dead, skinless minor is particularly filthy. When selecting a victim, girls tend to plump for skinny, attractive types; whereas boys really don’t care who they brutally murder before they have their way, their depraved way. Girls will almost certainly always dispose of the remaining body parts thoughtfully – a wheelie bin, for instance will suffice; but boys, having just murdered indiscriminately, try to hide the body in the bushes or in the backyard. Pollution is wrong. It's silly to suppose that a Sally would ever sully the soil with a smelly stiffy; unfortunately, boys just don’t give a shit about the sanitary disposal of a murder victim. Murderous girls and murderous boys: dissimilar.
The Blogging Hypocrite had an aversion to bad language, foul, uncouth profanity. She had no such aversion to bad painting, of which she was remarkably proficient and prolific. Her cold, mechanical campaign of violence against Art was well receieved; as was her crusade against PhidiasCezanne, The Honest Haranguer. The whole affair was really rather unsavoury in it's surreptitiousness. She knew this only too well as she hid behind a veneer of respectability, dignity. Nothing is more worthy of humiliation and debasement than false factitiousness. It was something she had in abundance. Little wonder that PC's retaliatory campaign was so poorly received; for the Honest Haranguer was all too human. The Hypocrite, she who abused words and images for not knowing either truly or humbly, knew nothing of humanity. Her oxygen pumping organ was as black as a dog's faeces, and twice as pungent(not poignant). The Honest's heart was more like a dried up one in its whiteness, albeit still faecal in character. The Hypocrite's fallacious fires of flippancy were, frankly, funny; she was like a foreskin pinched in a fly. 'Feeling' free to fog any relevent issue with a fallacy(not a dildo) and 'feeling' free to draw freely, it's a folly that The Hypocrite didn't afford others the same freedom with their own feelings, words. The much anticipated campaign against the misrepresentation of reality in her images, was duly received by her with a volley of blue air. The air was as blue as her hair and her volley was a trolley full of folly; her follicles were as faux as her falsity was fanatical. Hypocrisy is deeply offensive to people of sensitivity, as Honesty is admirable to those same. The Hypocrite and The Honest: opposed.
A female is intelligent because of her Pico as a male is because of his Kaco. Hermaphrodites have both a Pico and a Kaco. A Kaco goes in a Pico as a pencil goes in a case. Hermaphrodites can put their dirty Kaco in their Pico. Women have been known to suck Kaco and eat Pico. So have men. Women have been known to do both at one time while a Kaco is in their Pico. So have hermaphrodites been known to suck their Pico and eat their Kaco. Men have done worse things to Pico and Kaco. Like in wartime when soldiers put methylated rags in peasants' Picos and lit them. Women and men have been noticed with backbones. A Kaco doesn’t have a bone but Pico has been called meat on a bone. My spieling is going downhill farts and I cunt say I like profannity of any snatchure ether.
Dean “Big” Cox, The Iron Lung, is a footyer of perpendicular distinction. And his citizenship is apparently likewise. A beanpole with a rubbery constitution and feet of gold, “Big” can run a marathon in a pair of clogs, carrying a stuck pig in his armpit with the élan of a wolfhound. Disinclined to set himself for a shot, it's because he rarely gets in range or position to. You wouldn’t catch the nuggetty physique of Brendan “The Snatch” Fevola not setting himself for a shot; nor carrying a poor mammal anywhere. More content to be a Minotaur on a pushbike, The Snatch will meet any air-conveyance with the speed of a low flying duck and a pair of hands a writer would be proud of. Suitably unimpressed by human inadequacies, The Snatch doesn’t take any shit from any fucking potato-eaters. When you watch these two opposites strutting their stuff, you’ll note their opposition. Go the Minty Blues!
Thales “The Swimming Bird” had a date that protruded from his shorts that left people in no doubt as to the time of day. There are two traditions: one that he lived with a bag-lady and the other a vagrant. The time of his life was had by all. According to Hairy Armpits Herodotus (The Doting Hero), “The Swimming Chimp” predicted the winner of the quadie in race six - which has been determined by modern methods. Apple Patches was one of the greatest liars of the rebirth. He was a chicken catcher with running legs like trees and a pair of swimming trunks of purple elastic material. Amid his extensive responsibilities, he treated his blisters with Vaseline and fit through every door, likewise I’m sure. However, his baby formula was chunky and contained solids. It came to mark the starting point of the human race.
It was while driving with the The Flying Mattress on the roof, that the Happy Pasty swerved to miss a dog and hit a cat; the cat of the Pope, and after the cat had to be put on a specially designed high-chair, the Nasty Fatalist went troppo with a violin, carving up the choir with his insane riffs and outrageous stage-antics, it earned him the stage name Eugene Belt to Sternum. The look on his face was priceless. The Flying Mattress, in the incident, went sideways into a pole, and came out dancing like a piece of fruit in a letterbox. He ordered his underlings, a rag-tag bunch of misfits and hoons, to marry his daughter who lived on the second floor of his underground villa. His automaton army was a model for the careering cars that broke all landslide records and gramaphones. All this with unrestrained joy.
The Swindler, as Plutarch(Erasmus) named Phidias in an affidavit, loved apple-based desserts and afternoon pastries. It was breakfast, morning tea, early lunch, lunch itself, late lunch, afternoon tea, smoko, dinner, tea, supper, dessert, afters, all apple-based cakes, sweets, pies, sauces, tarts and the list goes on: pavlova, buns, croissants etc. Hardly a surprise that Little Fiddles soon became known to his Doctors as that fat cunt who won't stop eating apples and to the grocers as that magnificent boy with the orchard in his arse. Not only apples take in your arsehole. “Pepper in the Pooper” or “Ole Sneezy Bum” (Johnny “Salty Fists” Cimabue), was described best by Giorgio “The Diligent Wog” Vasari who said “That arsehole stole my pants again, I’m gonna cut him a new hole in his proverbial”. Debate has raged about what that proverbial was. Some say it was just a friendly aside by one jealous zealot to a man forever remembered in History as “Pepper in the Salter”, whilst others insist that a holiday is as good as a change of shorts.
The Penis is an instrument of love on the outside. There is no such thing as an internal penis. Like a love-thermometer, a penis contains a thick mercurial liquid. Mostly, it is men who play the instrument although in most cases privately. There have been recorded playings in public. One notable instance happened on the bus, and it had nothing to do with the author or the authorities. Back to the Penis(no thank you), like cricket stumps the Penis is made up of three columns. The Herald-Sun and The Age newspapers have more columns; The Australian still more. The Penis has faced many testing times but usually prevails, although victory is often hollow. Contrary to popular belief it has no Bone. So when you want to ask your teacher to suck your bone, you’ll be mistaken. She might do it anyway. She who has a Vagina. The Opposite of the Penis is not the Anus, as some people would have you believe, but The Vagina. Meaning scabby in some other tongue, The Vagina is nothing like an internal Penis. In the experience of the author, these “cunts” are found to be dry, inhospitable places to shelter from the cold. Others maintain that they are wet and wild. The Vagina is truly a mysterious thing. Referred to as the love canal, some have had more boats than others. Above all else, it is functional. They might even sell them in Hardware shops. During a pap smear one Doctor was noted as saying “This is what you like, isn’t it?!”. Truly a mystery that he went before the bar. The Vagina, dry and forbidding or wet and hospitable, is the opposite of the Penis.
Lee “The Equal of Fev” Freedman and Brendan “The Equal of Lee” Fevola can both eat like a horse, and in all cases not just horseflesh. It is well known in poetic circles, an ovoid, that a horse is a horse of course of course. If anyone dares to tell that to either of these two I will bar you from this blog. I will bar! Enough about me. Tell me about you and what you think of me. I am erotic. Erotic like a fish. Ladies, you’ll see me in a cloud of my own sprog walking past and you’ll say to your girlfriends: “I’m going to leave my eggs here and leave forever”. We all leave forever, eventually. Then again none of us never leave some trace of our magnificence. I for one am magnificent. Magnificent like a lawnmower. Did I say erotic? I meant erratic. Erratic like a bird that flies in water. Let no one say that The Equal of Fev or The Equal of Lee are erratic and walk out of the room without a couple of broken noses. Given life by their respective maternal parents, these two characters of the turf had fathers who put their penis in the woman’s vag. Look, I’m only guessing. Fev and Lee: equal.
Of all the men with tickets on themselves none had more than Sergei “Tickets” Eisenstein. Hospitalised for his early dementia that manifested itself in interior decorating, he smeared faeces on the walls with his hand. Shit spreads best with an open palm. Fisting shit is also effective. Criticised and apprehended for fucking a teen with a shitty hand-trowel, Tickets said “It was worth it!” and was promptly released. She was asking for it. Hardly is it worth a mention that he never worked again. Work was of no interest to Humphrey “Sneaking In” Bogart. He courted this wry female with apparently geometrical tits and a look on her face that said “There’s no apparently about it”. He found his way into her house, acquiring his nickname along the way, and then snuck in the back door. He just as easily could have been dubbed Backdoor Bogey. It wasn’t to be. Halfway through she woke up to find him coming in and out of her back door, “Wipe your dick on the front mat and then go” she yawned.
Eisenstein and Bogart: opposite.
Auguste “The Breastman” Rodin, the dirty Frenchman, had a fatal liking for cunted creatures, upright and bosomy. His particular predilection was, without the long shadow of doubt, for the ethereal circularity of such creatures upper torsos. “O aren’t breasts titillating!” he would mutter under the changing room doors. A swift kick in the face and he soon abated. There is no deterrent like a well delivered movement of the leg. As time went by, he would get his hands on the objects he called “reverse vaginas”. Breasts sit on the outside. This was hardly of any concern for David “The Legman” Smith. Inexplicable is the only way to describe his compunction for masturbating in his sandwich. Mayonnaise is also fine. Most excited by long, thin sticks that belonged to penisless wonders, The Legman never owned up to his own masturbatory proclivities. We’ve all had a wank. He never lost his passion for masturbating in his Christmas stocking. He also sought out women, eventually. “It’s less about the legs than what the legs lead to.” he surmised from a head that was supported, ultimately, by his own legs. There is nothing strange about legs. The Legman and The Breastman: opposite!
It is important when committing sedition to stay off the landline, a point never lost on the treacherous milk-bar proprietor Phidias, Fiddles or Cranky Phats. A notorious vandal of phone boxes, letter boxes, cardboard, power boxes and train stations, The Malevolent Fark was one evil Fornicator with quadraceps like anvils and a groin like the hands of a sculptor with a head that projected itself, from a solid base of neck and shoulders, upwards at the heavens above and a bottom that did the same to hell. Judging by the remains found in the Grave marked: Here lies Ole Saucy Poultry, lover of dismembering and loving family man of murdered parents. Rest in pieces you butcher, Chimmy Sweet Pants appears to have been a highly visible pedestrian in his own day, with a pair of walking sandals that were suitably fitted to a man with two feet of equal size, and ten toes that were the envy of all. It was a similar case for his hands that he usually adorned in hand-shoes that can be compared to the mittens of today, or the gloves of yesterday.
Francisco “The Dickhead” Goya had, at the end of the flailing upper-torso limbs(futl) that he carried about on his person, these two, one on each futl, things that were a bit like plates but more like meathooks. His personality looked good on a school report card.
Frank has two hands that are always under the table and he plays the drums at the same time. If he had a blog he’d have two or three,maybe four, he’s simply that good but he’d never tell you just how good he thinks he is.
He shared a relationship with his friend similar to that experienced by Ahmed and Brenton(two chaps who can definitely touch their toes and sing at the same time). Writing is all about friends. Fyodor "The Drying Floormat” Dostoyevsky knew this only too well. You’d never catch him swearing. Words like shit, fuck, shitfuck, dick, nose, dicknose and similar words and word combos were off-limits. Rightly so. There’s nothing remotely funny about shitfucking, just ask Brenton or Ahmed. They’ll tell you. Don’t worry they’ll do it. As for the words themselves, well what could be more damaging than a simple word? How about having your genitalia mutilated with a soupspoon. Tell me kiddies, what do you think?
By the way, Goya and Dostoyevsky: equal.
With his hands in deep pockets and kept there for all to see, Rick "The Squashed Fig" Wagner was an awkward man with the ability to scratch his nuts at all times. We all know the type. His uncomfortable way of talking with his teeth clenched, to prevent foreign bodies from penetrating, left his social victims totally at a loss. They would shake their miserable heads in disbelief and leave The Fig Squasher standing there growing redder and redder in the crotch. His victims were selected from the catalogues that found their way into his mailbox. It was a special box. It had a slit, a clock and a front door that opened out into a magnificent living quarters (albeit temporary) for envelopes, cards and other posts. Some posts are delivered by the most vaccuos, self-righteous, stupid, vapid, petty, racist people you would ever want to meet. Some, not all. So it wasn't for Arnie "Apple Catchers" Schoenberg, noted apple-eater and fly-squasher. Under his pillow he kept a glass jar full of teeth he had extracted from the dying corpes he had met online. While out catching apples one day he ran into a post that had just 'sprung up', as he recorded in his diary. He went on to say that "there are all sorts of posts out there and most of the ones I run into are simply fine". It was not what he meant to say. Wagner and Schoenberg: opposite.
Dr. Phil says that "You teach people how to treat you" is a life-law. It’s a law that John “The Baulking Bolshevik” Lennon proved definitively when a life-law enforcer dispensed justice out to him with the zeal of a Blogger(a 'man' with one thumb up his arse and the other in his mouth). The Baulker spent his life teaching people that he should be treated to high-speed projectiles directed at the skull. After all, men of action and people who want to 'change the world' project their opinions into cyberspace. Bob “Munchies” Marley grew up as a boy in a ghetto under the jurisdiction of the same life-law. We all get what we deserve. Young kids in ghettos everywhere teach rich people to treat them to poor health, education, shelter, food and clothing. The Bolshevik and Munchies did what the other didn’t to the letter of life-laws.
In the immortal words of Adolf "The Flatulent Fury" Hitler, “Did you fart?....it must have been me then.”. Before breaking up into a cacophony of guffaws and gas, The Fuhrer was noted for his rational, calm public speaking voice and polite demeanour. His smooth ‘radio voice’ was like treacle in your sound-holes, and his best-selling Mein Kampf (My Life in Song) is a taut political-thriller that is well worth a read. The blurb states: “...you won’t be able to put it down...it’ll have you marching off in uniform rows in uniforms...there’s nothing remotely gay about it...especially the bare-chested brutes...the greatest advocacy for a gay life!”. Amid a backlash against his publishers and supporters, The Fuhrer retreated to his sea-side bunker to ‘get away from it all’. That he did. Picking up from where he left off and going backwards, was Osama "The Crab Farmer" bin Laden. The Pasty Critic, as he now goes by, never let loose with any flatulent materials. Fond of ramming boats into other boats, stunt-flying, you tube, and taking holidays in his own sea-side bunker, The Critic is an aggressive blogger who once released a post about a man with no eyeballs(to the amusement of all). He claimed to be violently heterosexual but he’s never had a post up for a real woman. A bunker is just not the place to raise a family anyhow. Both these delightful characters have had ‘problems’, but have gone about coming up with ‘solutions’ in opposite ways.
Joseph “Binge and Purge” Stalin had this thing below his nose that resembled a leech and concealed that ever so disarming smile that curled up the sides of his cheeky mouth. His missus appreciated it in different ways. He was loving family man, alcoholic and wife-basher in the best traditions of lovable and mischievous potato-beverage drinkers. It was loving his wife that he acquired the nickname Arse Cracker. It stuck. Later he became Cracker Arse. Like his moustache overlapped his vodka-hole so too his life overlapped that of Marty Luther “Nigger” King. Nigger, or Boy, was an adulterous liar and tapped telephone conversation enthusiast in the best traditions. By golly his speech-writers could string his sentences together for him. Speeches which he delivered, by the grace of god, with a larynx like a whole bunch of strings that expand and contract, projected out by a diaphragm his wife would have been proud of. Marty Nigger Lips wasn’t a prominent basketballer, he preffered laying up to slamming, but he did spend time in jail. Thanks to his work African-Americans now have civil rights. Believe it or not, it’s possible that Cracker Arse and Nigger are equal.
There are two camps: beer drinkers and bong-heads. ublius_Vergilius_Maro.jpg" target="_blank">Virgil, a wog, was a mad choofer; so much so that friends accused him of being a bit paranoid. To Virgil, the author of the Aeneid, everyone was out to get him and accusations merely served to reinforce this belief. The Paranoid Paralytic, as he liked to call himself, never lived to see Dante. In the time of Danteante_alighieri.jpg" target="_blank"> “I’m all right Jack” Alighieri beer didn’t seem to cost fuck all at all. It was in this financially conducive climate to sink a lot of piss that he went through his body weight in piss every night. Waking up beer-goggled, he soon cracked open his first can before penning a few lines of what critics have decried as “a bit of light fluff”, and others “Divine, simply divine!”. The fact that he was possibly aware of the opposition his work represented to that of Virgil, speaks volumes for the man described as little more than a drunk, wog bastard. Wogs have contributed nothing to the world.
Giambattista“The Terry-towelling Battle-Axe”Vico or Johnny “Bony Legs” Vico, was born in a bookshelf with a daughter, a toy-train, a bucket of ice cream and a galah with a revolving wrist that hung at right angles to the ground. “The Bony Axe” attended a series of work-for-the-dole seminars but ill-health and a saggy groin led to home-schooling and smoking bong-pipes on the couch. Oswald “The Happy Hammock” Spengler was born on a mat with a dust pan and broom in his hands and a liking for hard work. With a foot like a mountain and the groins of a boy, the conservative and boyish “Saggy Hammock” came from a long fishing line and had the breath to match. His childhood was wrinkly and small and emotional, and the young “Hammock” turned to the wall where he would stare off into space; he developed complex personalities and a migraine.
Shortpants Squarepants was even at one time the fastest cyclist in the whole of Christendom, a fact duly noted in the paper boy history books of Antiquity(Inequity), an epic feat for a man with a posterior like a pomegranate. This is now believed to be improbable when the fact that Shorty had a sack like a bag of green potatoes left in the sun to ripen is considered, which it is if the matter of delivering reading material to the doorsteps of scholars(men with dead chickens hanging out of their back pockets) arises like a circular object rotating around the globe. Circular objects arose one day in the sky of one "Briney Balls" and he commissioned the first Latin translation, and found some snacks lurking in the folds of the undies he knew as The Illiad, which he duly consumed with a relish recipe known in the days of Cicero The Monkey Buggerer; a collection of delicacies with fancy titles like Canker Cake and Super Delicious Funny Pie. He remarked “Why can’t I be famous, when will I, will I be famous?” Fame is a trap set for the vain by the conceited, for it is truly the conceited who know the value of fame.
It's been said that shitting in your pants is an uncomfortable proposition for all but the most pampered. Shit Stains carried his package of crap dutifully, like all good sons who visit their severed heads collection. A collection refrigerated for the purposes of satisfying the needs of an ambitious necrophiliac. Heads are best fucked chilled. Why hide from the fact? It was hiding from the fact that led FlatfaceTendernose to discover that his arsehole led to his scrotum. It was a happy discovery. Revelations such as having the ability to plug your crapper with your testicles don't happen every day. There are many ways to lead a life and having your nuts up your arse is one. Devoting your life to Literature is another.
They say that to have two pockets and two hands is prudent - nobody told that to The Pallid Rodent. It was his style of trousers that the pockets outnumbered the hands and he had his fair share of those. The pants themselves were of an elusive material that Western Outlandish Gentleman often carried about on their person in the fashion of some highly fashionable gentleman that was always on the lookout for a quick buck. The Pallid Rat had a hat with a pocket and even his pockets had pockets and those pockets pockets. The hat was large and dirty like a rag you'd use to clean out your ear holes, needless to say the ladies went bananas over such a piece of headgear as this. It's a great shame that the ears of The Mouldy Mat knew no such garment. His nose came down from his brow like some sort of boneless smelling apparatus, lucky for him the ligaments were in place. The Mat ran a series of brothels with the ardour and dedication of a Protestant Minister. Like the one he knew well who strutted around the streets of his parish like a madam with a "headache" or a madman with a gift voucher for the same brothel. If any of this has failed to enlighten you it is because the lives of these characters is as not as important as dancing naked or scratching.
“Shirty Shirty Sweetcheeks” , also means blueballs in his home tongue(now extinct). An illegal immigrant, boat person, queue jumper, filthy foreigner and all around refugee, it’s little wonder that such an alien could produce such travesties as Achilles, the man with the runny sandals and Odyssey(a land adventure with celebrities). Shorty Shot Shorts first dreamt, in a night of dampness, of his wench(the one-limbed poley), before he ever met a woman of any standing. It’s little surprise that he became so infatuated with such a hopping, kicking and stumbling creature as her. At least he had one, the same couldn't be said for Brine Mouth.
“Brine Breath” (Petrarch) first thought of brutally murdering his father when he was dicing his mother into a thousand pieces, a fact not lost on his father who was busy begging for his own life. Happily, he relented and “Blood Breath” put the frustrations of working as a clerk behind him - as he sent his father(a penis with testicles) packing to the place of his origin: nothingness. The indignity of a bald pubic bone, some say, also was a leading cause for lung cancer in celebrities then known as “Brine Bollocks”.
Would you answer a stupid question?
Well, here’s your chance.
I am offering you the opportunity to answer as many stupid questions as you can take.
Leave a comment.
Say something mildly amusing.
Perhaps indicate to me the specialness of the little creation we call you.
The little artifice you have been carefully constructing is now ready.
You.
You are now ready.
Ready to answer all the questions?
Your answer:
make sure it has personality and specialness.
Deride a few lesser personalities.
Deride a few larger ones too.
Perhaps some who, through no fault of their own, are rich and famous
need derision or deification.
Defecate all over them.
Use your words.
They are yours.
You need to.
Why not, tell me what you think.
Why not tell me what you think?
Show me how informed you really are.
Show everyone.
Show those people who doubted you.
Those who ridiculed and humiliated you.
Show them.
Show them all, now.
Now.
Do it now.
Why not show how before you were born, the world was at a loss.
Until you arrived.
And now,
now you are here.
And are you ready to answer all the stupid questions?
Yes?
Good.
They’re
waiting for you.
Go to them.
Meet the stupidity with your brilliance;
and do your stuff.
Show them the specialness.
Your personality.
Now.
Are you opposed to something?
Why not tell me what it is you are so opposed to?
Do you equal something?
Tell me what you identify with?
Maybe you and greatness are synonymous?
Maybe you and wretchedness are diametrically opposite?
Tell me in so many words how special you are.
Tell me.
Tell me now.
A prolific impregnator, Shrewsbury, came to be regarded as “The Man of the Swimming Spermatozoa with Bare Knuckles and a Short Hat” or “Nuts” for short. An affectionate philanderer, practical joker, chicken tamer, rock collector and raconteur, “Knuckles”, was often heard to say: “Bring me a cup of tea at four o’clock, the paper at five, my dinner at six, another tea at seven, fellatio at eight, a tissue at nine, a pillow at ten and bed at eleven,” in the days before slavery was abolished. In later times, when recruiting workers from Africa was for some strange reason stopped , slavery was finally abolished to the detriment of many. A true Gentleman and proponent of slavery, “Hobbs” or “Ripped Crotch”, never a knew a day without that joy of life spirit that the French call “Joy de living”. A youthful man for the most part of his life the young “Crotch Ripper”, often dreamed of being an old man because he thought that seniors looked to be living without pain, a fact he knew to be true when he reached the ripe old age of old age as he came to do with the spirit of a youth dreaming of being a senior.
If ever a castrato had the balls of a trucking magnate it was Joseph "The Mighty Mandible" Haydn. The Mandible had two balls either side of his "nose", a common occurrence in living organisms on stilts. His stilts, short, stubby and stubbly due to excessive shaving, led the caressing digits of his lady friends to a groinal region they affectionately dubbed "Oh my god you do exist!", before setting to work. It would be hard. It would be hard to say the same for John "Bird Britches" Cage, Old Iron Bars, particularly if someone came along with a knife and gave you the oral cavity of a fish. For this reason, Bird Bum had two floppy flaps either side of his head he referred to as sound-snatchers. His ladies, females with flaps of leather, loved him like a cucumber, and often too.
What is it that makes the work of Gauguin, Stravinsky and Baudelaire equal? How can a work in one field be translated into the language of another? At the core of a work is a vein that connects it to others of equal value, richness. Seek this commodity, the core of the work, for personal wealth. It is a wealth that never fluctuates with market trends or popular tastes and connects you to people of different times and places as if they were all in one place at one time. See below and beyond, through and around with your eyes shut. Or not, whatever works for you.
Who was it whose works are opposite those of Samuel "The Magnificent Bastard" Beckett? Equal those of Durer and Haydn? None other than Big Ben Trouser Snake Jonson (The Iron Snake-wrangler). Trousers, for short, had two legs that went right up to his torso like some kind of double-sided erection with two flailing limbs and a sharp mind. A brickie's labourer for a good part of that day when he downed tools because his back packed it in, and he shot that dickhead in the pub and went before the court, and got off because his tongue rolled out like some sort of roman blind, and presented to the judiciary the finest assortment of delicacies ever witnessed in a grocers. "What's his caper?" the poor, troubled middle-class whiteboys said when he passed by with his head buried under the nape of his armpit like a duck at the waters edge, or some vandal hanging out the side of a train before being decapitated by a bag-swinging senior. Clearly, in Sam the Man's mind Big Ben represented the opposite body of work to his, as can be verified by his attempt to write a play called Ben Jonson, or something similar. His own body was that of a tall flamenco on a hotplate rushing around from lilly to lilly, with an appendage that an elephant would have been proud of. Hardly surprising that Joyce(James) predicted a bright future for him. At his best, his works have a density and texture that is rarely seen, they can also be as sparse as a carpark. No body should take too much credit for their body of work, we as people are the conduits for our energy. His works are equal to those of Vin van Gogh and John "Birdman" Cage. Don't look at Jonson and say this and that without taking Beckett into account, or the other way around, or upside down on your head. Whatever you do, don't.
Albrecht "The Dancing Arse" Durer, also known as a German painter and engraver, liked fine foods as Vince "Do these look painted on?" van Gogh enjoyed the complex flavours of potatoes. The past is and History is a construct. The Prancing Farce, or just plain Al, had a social standing as Vin had none, as Al was into new techniques (woodcuts and engravings) Vin was into new subjects (boots and sunflowers in a vase and a chair and roots). Whereas Al abandons colour Vin embraces colour. In general Dancing Al stands on one leg with his arm in the air and his tongue at right angles to his index finger, more interested in socializing than facing another night alone with himself (and Vin), Al would hop to the disco district to look for trouble with drunken clowns; Al could handle himself. He came to be known as The Dancing Assassin for his balletic ritual of fighting, he would chasse around his victim and pick off punches willy-nilly as his increasingly distraught drunkard would slowly collapse under the spell of the man they called The Pouncing Stiletto. It was after all Vin who had dubbed him so, a man with no small reputation himself. It was a repute earned through the meticulous flower arranging he did whilst in a work-for-the-dole scheme. His Job Network facilitators remember fondly his violent outbursts. Outbursts that were directed at the wall with a bucket of paint, a hand shovel and a hatful of arseholes. From now on in, when and if you do look at the work of Vin, remember and bear in mind Al. The two go hand in hand down the river for picnics, and a romantic evening in a boat as the water shimmers under the light of the shivery moon, with a couple of ladies each, at least a couple - more likely ten sisters from the circus under each arm, and they both had at least two arms.
Johnny "Barking Meat Plates" Bach was born attached to a woman he knew as his sister, and fathered by a man he knew as uncle. Fond of walking on tiles in gumboots that he dubbed 'my rubbery chums', Meat Plates was taught lessons by the school bullies. A master of a bit of needle and "spanking the monk", he enjoyed his own organ as others enjoy theirs. His mobile phone would go off at inappropriate moments such as when he was rogering the missus or "whipping the heretics". The Baiting Shrimp, as they called him, enjoyed the adulation of the masses but today his star has faded into promiscuity.
Igor Stravinsky, The Sprinting Turtle, was a fisherman with the breath of a kingfisher, the tonsils of a frying pan, the knuckles of a teatowel and the demeanour of a vagrant with the larynx of a realtor. He abandoned his dying dog in it's final hours as it hopped hopelessly in the yard, suffering from a fear of loss. The Hurtling Turtle had a pair of piano fingers either side of his meat-hooks that opposed the others in the fashion of some sort of giant, upright, hairless, monkey with spectacles, a hat, gloves and a sparrow perched on it's knee.
It was Geoffrey Chaucer, AKA Petulant Pete and Slippery Sam the Lady-killer, who wrote those poems in that funny brand of English. The man loved the ladies and the ladies loved the man, and little wonder with that cheeky grin and charming façade he was like some new-fangled townhouse. Ladies love townhouses. Writing in a ring surrounded by his adoring harem and with his curly mop blowing in the “wind”, The Flippant Philanderer penned his name in ink with a pen the like of which Chuck Jones could only dream of. The ladies love pens. His adoring ladies carried him aloft through the filthy streets to keep him clean, and as an excuse to declothe in front of the man they called Clean Pants Geoff or The Google-Eyed Eagle.
Baudelaire “The Happy Campervan” was as decorative as a man can be and he was a man despite the power of his mighty bosom and his fastidiousness around the home, particularly when bong water spilt on the carpet that one time when Delacroix came over to smoke a few cones and play Nintendo and eat chips and lie on the couch and the chips had the texture of masonry and the colours, the colours. Such was the fortune of the fortune of the man they called The Handy Handyman, a fate that left his works in such a way. On first reading some didn’t know what all the fuss was about but upon leaving the books in a smoke filled room they acquire a power rarely experienced from any art with the brevity and the vocabulary and the punctuation which is some of the cleanest and best you will ever see.
Giotto “The Boning Chicken” Bondone was a drunken plasterer with a trowel made from discarded underwear and undies entrusted with encrusting his groin with a whitish liquid he was adamant was plaster. Famous for having frozen his banana in an old freezer and carrying a blaring ghetto-blaster on his shoulder whilst maintaining that Art is best done so that the people(ignorant pigeons) can appreciate that the artist is only human, that is subject to a few hiccups, farts, hand-tremors, faults, slips, fish-fingers, scabs. Any art done with the fingers at hand is digital art but not in this case, his work is representative of that which Chaucer and J.S. Bach are in their fields. On a lighter note, enjoy the work of the man they called the Buttering Bean Bag and The Skipping Chippy and The Transient Truant. The opposite body of work (BOW!) of The Skimpy Chimp, Chaucer and J.S.Bach is Gauguin, Baudelaire, and Stravinsky.
Gauguin “The Granny Snatcher” was a man with a head. His head sat on his shoulders like a strange ball in a cup. His shoulders sat on his arse like a cup in a saucer and his arse sat in his chair like some arse in a chair or a horse in a trough or a fly on a crap or a word on a page. His art is just some sort of coloured squiggles on some sort of flat wall or something. If I wasn’t home, I’d say they are nothing to write home about, and with email that saying is just as just as an offshore people processing facility to keep the neighbours from getting upset. The Tranny Spatula had a pair of pants with an inflatable crotch and a drawstring that he would wedge under his chin as he hopped around Tahiti rubbing soap into his whiskers.The opposite BOW of The Straining Cranium, Baudelaire and Stravinsky is that of Giotto, Chaucer and J.S. Bach.
Born in the home of the knife-rack(Wiltshire), England(a hair in the soup), on the day of his birth 1588(as prophesised by Moses), some say the same day his mother gave birth to a son. His father, a man of ample loinage and a vicar of the Italian District were both present at his conception, only one was the real father. The vicar left the town leaving Tommy Plumpbum(later Plumptummy) and his 16 conjoined siblings to the care of a dubious but delightful animal-lover??? Hobbes (Plumpbum) was taught the finer point of crochet, cricket and croquet at the local Church/Inn from an age when most boys were still in the womb. It is said that he was kept and you won’t find any different here: he wasn’t kept. Plumpbum(Plumptummy) was an awful truant with bollocks the size of basketballs until he put his crochet hand to the length that the Lord demed fit: his ankles. From there to Oxford(a flatus) and onto Puritan indoctrination at the hands of Big Johnny Wilkinson and he had some fun too.As a young scholar, and born that way with an exercise book and his hand on it, Young Spanners (Kant) studied the shoes of many of the finest mimes that had come before(Leibniz: onion pores, and Wolff: hole inspector) and came to the realization that he too could wear platform shoes in the same style as these other men of (small) stature had done in an attempt to smell the Tasmanian bush, as they had done. His father, a man fond of a stroke and a noted hanky carrier, was his father as his uncle was his father’s brother. It was his father’s constant stroking that lead “Spark Plugs”, as his tutors knew him, to take up stroking himself; a practice which was to prove highly theoretical.
A co-starring role in a Paris Hilton home movie exists for the right candidate. The succesful candidate must have the ability to perform and use equipment simultaneously. If you believe that you have the ability to fulifill these requirements and you are like a puddle, then read on...
It was a work of similar size,
In different shades.
The second: all shade(and light).
Experimental primarily, then
Simplistic.
If there is anyone out there
who gives a shit,
It is these two
that are opposite -
make no mistake,
if i'm not mistaken -
see for yourself.
See, for yourself,
if there is anyone out there
who gives a flying bowel movement -
an aerial travelling intercourse:
The Last Supper,
Guernica.
Hamlet (by a man with a pointy stick and a cold turkey)
is, in it's field(funny little noises that have prints),
representative of the same things
as TLS is in it's;
If anyone out there
could give a marital completion -
a co-starring role in a celebrity home movie.
Don Giovanni (by the art of a trench around a castle)
is, in it's field(sounds arranged on paper for us),
As TLS and H are in theirs;
if anyone out there
could give a fire-truck -
because I can.
Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn "The Crabby Slapper" is generally considered. One of the greatest pliers of booze to ladies of the night and panderers to the people and peephole finders and terminal madmen, he called himself The Dutch Oven, and so he came to be known across that magnificent and beneficient land of white panderers. "No artist ever bathed in such sweet pudding as he", states the cooking book of Paul "Mountain-bank" Cezanne, The Skinny Whisperer and Pork Nostrils, who had a head with hair shooting forth from every conceivable place that it found such an opportunity. Opportunities were scarce in places that others found plentiful such as the back of the arse, and the front of the frontarse and the rear of the rear and, the name he went by was Tiny Bum the Spiceracker. Rembrandt and Cezanne, if you look closely did what the other didn't in a way the other didn't, have a look sometime or ask me all about it, if you can find me, and I hope you do, because I care deeply about my name being known across the world, via ships and boats and planes and all that.
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