Vegetarian and Vegan girls? Fair suck of the sav, you pared-down, pallid and squalid versions of pushbike-less, suit-wearing, Mormon door-knockers. Stop trying to convert us real meat-eating, bum-scratching, Ocker, beer-swilling, and beer-gutted, BBQ men to your way of anxiety-disorder, sanctimonious dieting, and lack of thinking by-the-ways. Hit the highway. I never hear of you knocking back a sausage in the privacy of your own homes, or behind the Barby. Yeah, I’ve seen you! Having a bony-faced jawful. Don’t you worry about that. I wasn’t born yesterday nor the day before (according to my adoption papers) You aliens! I’ve felt your concentration-camp, chaffed lips, pallid tongues, and hairy tonsils, too. So what’s with all the fuss at a restaurant or café at night? Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Still waiting but not doing my job? A waiter’s job is to take your order. Not WAIT twenty minutes for you to put on a second-rate, B-Grade show and melo-Drama Queen performance for tics. Restaurants and cafes have paid entertainment, or a juke box, or piped FM for that. Why do you feel this obsessive compulsion to tell everyone the whole history of how you became a VegetaVegan, (and repeat the same story every time you (hardly) eat out, rather than tell the ‘full’ story of how you eat out of a man’s jocks or underpants to get your meat-fill when no-one’s watching?). And how you rang management to tell them you needed special attention, because you always do? Because you’re so damn special and important? NOT! (Special treatment, but no straight-jacket?). And how the seat you’re sitting on is made of leather, and you’d prefer a plastic one so your brain (which is firmly implanted in your recently-irrigated colon?) doesn’t get contaminated by bull-skin, while you contaminate the air we breathe with your bullshit?. And how you’re also anti the skinning of animals? And how you only wear plastic Jesus sandals nowadays, even though Jesus ate a fish after his Resurrection on the metaphorical eternal shore? Do you avoid the Communion wafers and wine also, on the same discriminatory grounds?. And how you only wear plastic raincoats as dresses, just in case a cow or donkey or ox happened to brush one of the cotton plants with its hide before the cotton was turned into a shirt? (but hasn’t got your hide to act so introspectively? So ignorantly? So ‘life is all about me-ish? ‘When I was three I thought the whole world revolved around me? I was wrong?’ Non Party-Girl? U2? Not Me 2. Not once. Not Ever. Meat all the way here. And them neither. So dumb-assedly? So semi-minus-epsilon-ox-y-mornishly? ‘Fearful New World’ full of recycled savages?). And how you won’t wear any animal products on your skin, like wool? Because it touched a sheep before the sheep became a hundred gristly loin chops, two non-fatty roast legs and scaggy soup bones? And then the amazing details of your big adventure chained to a dolphin at the local zoo to prevent it being fed fish? And how you go to battery-hen, chicken farms on weekends, and take their batteries out so they can’t produce eggs? And how you suck cows teets off at night-time in dairy farms so the milk can’t be made into blue-vein cheese? Yes, Cock Breath? May I take your order? Vegans and Vegetarians? Equally Weird. Equally annoying. Equally frustrating to WAIT for or upon. Me? Opposite.
The Chief ruled the roost with an iron fist and a calloused Member. He had more than one of those. Fuck he was happy! He adopted me after seeking out any spatially challenged persons with financial ailments and the ability to touch a few keys in order, and I was thankfully free like a fuck in a forest. I play off my handicap. He plays off scratch. His authority was final and total and complete and statistical. His statistical and fiscal pickle was never hysterical; it was a prickle and a tickle (no mention of cabbies here). Cracking funny bones with a feather was not the Chief’s hobbyhorse. Don’t get him started on sausages and juicy cuts of meat. You’ll get the book chucked at you faster than it takes to makes some fuck ugly pictures and call it Art! Vacant lots are OK; say what you will about a frog-hotel. You’ll be rolling in the aisle of your mind-isle with his file on bile; it must exist. Code comes in all manner of hyper-text. Cow or bullshit? The latter is what the Chief stepped into with his five digits scooping up the scraps. You have to hand it to him, this or bullshit. He gave me this shit and for that I’m think full. The profits are their own deserts. He’s cranky because people keep winding him up. I just am! Fuck I'm a miserable miser. Watch out you’re next. You’ll be smiling and laughing if you value that like some of us do. Not the Chief, cracking one on his cheeks would be tantamount to Tantalus eating apple-pie. Thank you Chief for adopting me but I’m one sick elephant. The Chief and the Member: opposite.
You can’t sharpen your cue with a block of cheese and you can’t spread chalk on your crackers. Or to put it another way, you can. There’s no doubt that after a lovely and civilized meal, with the conventions of ettiquette perfectly observed, a plate of a selection of the finest chalks from around the world will help stave off diarrhoea. Beating your ring black and blue with a brown geyser is right out of order, Governor. There are a few cheesy crackers around this place somewhere, they’re hard to find but they are out there. Some cheese spreads well. You may have to stick your membership in the ajar door to find them. Fucking crackers. If you’ve ever had white line fever you might need to be taken out to the back paddock and given a few shots. Like the man who stopped eating at the treatment plant said - “I’ve had enough of this shit”. I’m drowning in it. There are no images of chalk and cheese in this post, they’re on the way. Today, I get around on one leg. As chalk defines a field, so too cheese defines a meal. When my balls hit a line, clouds of cheese goes up. I’m fed up with these capers. Try putting balls in pockets with some cheese on your stick. Blue is my favourite type. Chalk and cheese: equal.
A Bolt has a screwed column that Nuts are attached to. They are riveted to it's threads. In combination, their ability to secure things is only comparable to a steel trap. If you get stuck on an escalator with them, all you have to do is hang on to a rubbery strap and laugh at their idiocy. Supercilious suits are super-silly. There is a lot of vacuous torque that they undergo to uncover the truth, the kernel in the corn. They'd stare at the can all day waiting for it to cream itself. The sun is a bolted joint; the world needs to know that screwed columns are just that. A Bolt definitely knows all about the property class, it’s fanatical and festering. Ignorance is bliss for the ignorant, not for people having their homes made rubble, Barney. Couldn’t hit the truth with a hundred fucked checkers! "Apartheid: it’s not perfect but it was the best cistern we had." Nothing a wrench and a spanner couldn’t apply pressure to and take-off mercilessly. There is no way known a Bolt is a stud, a Nazi-boy perhaps. A Bolt goes nicely into the holes that it sees and has not the imagination to do anything but attach itself to nuts. What it needs is a good washer applied vigorously. There is nothing permanent about the constructions nuts and bolts find themselves in. A Bolt and the Nuts: attached.
This is not just a saying relating to Keen’s Mustard. They also make Mayonnaise. So how do you make Keen Mayo? It’s a question of what type of beater you use. Wife beaters? That’s taking things too literally, and way too far. Unless it’s done in tempered retaliatory terms due to pathologically-denied verbal and physical abuse itself. Beer cans smashed on the head and flying stove top throat-slashers and eye-blinders. Mayo with soft almost non-existent bruises? Mouldy bits? Self-inflicted? So deep they don’t prevent face-to-face screams? It turns into a substance reminiscent of sour grapes that are pressed to Whines and served in carafe’s of self-pity at Women’s shelters, or houses full of yapping Sanseveria trifasicatas leaves (mother-in-law’s tongue plants) after abrupt pre-planned and premeditated leaves? Judas-type, 30-silver-coin sell-offs behind the back of a man going around doing only good. Night-time secret meetings? For this is your time? And it was night when this happened? This is your hour of Jimmy Swaggering, femmo control-freak and power-trip power? Night-time? Darkness. For you cannot bear the light? Trading Communion wafers for spondoolee, and giving one Last Supper a miss for betrayal and traitorship? But Whines? The really bitter ones? They do not quite reach their full peak and pitch, before passing through Govt Agency vats, mutual-appreciation societies of back-slapping and back-stabbing fellow victims out for revenge on real men, and a fermentation process in the judicial and legal system, through see-through, transparent, glass distilling tubes first. Do you see life through Rose or Shiraz or Cab-Sav coloured glasses, former Dear? Or was St Paul right? We only see things through a dark glass clearly in this life? But Whines? Approved by faulty pro-bleeding-women’s-hearts judicial systems? Not approved before coming at you with the full force of a Pharissarcical, Sans-Head (rin) torch and weapon bearing hypocrisy army behind them. Families full of discord and dissension and festering hatred underneath a false-exterior-morality veneer, uniting to fight a common enemy? And Herod and Pilate became friends? The Judas Kiss? Friend? Why dost thou betray me with a legal and judicial kiss on restraining order documents? I have done thee no harm. I only ever did thee good. But I’ve been resurrected, and you’re bleeding bowels have been rent asunder under a tree in the potter’s field, and what for? A measly thirty silver coins? You will trade love for money. And in my resurrected glory? My new-found Immortality, Impassibility, Brightness, Agility, and Subtility? I’ll beat my new brand of Mayo with my lips and my phallic wooden-spoon-type dipping stick. My butter-pat. That churns out cream from both sources?Matured Wines? The substance of a real, mature woman. The Whines of immature, unreal, young Girls? Opposite.
You can’t really nail a can of soup to a wall if you’re not a fine stud. If you’re ever lucky enough to have enough bread to pound the starch out of a tart, don’t hesitate to nail it in the key-hole. Sleeping with a hammer and a driver under my head is a job for someone accustomed to uncomfortable and secretive affairs and subtle propositions. I never clean the dunny just in case I find a scrubber on the corner of the street. The look on my face when I get in the rim with one of those must be priceless. The expression would look like a man gargling a lemon in a cavity of vinegar. Nailing a pin into a bike is best done with a split-loaf. My love-life is forever hampered by the basket on the back of mine. Pilgrims can tread all they like but they don’t ride side-saddle any more than a metropolis smells rotten. You can try and open a door with a purple crash-helmet, but don’t go riding on a dog track without a pig’s intestine on your pump. Watch the fat spit! Some posts are hard to swallow, I’ll give you that. Spit on your fist before you go pounding a rissole or else expect a lot of tomato sauce. Put your pump in a nice soft one, be gentle like a screwdriver, and mess that wallet up. I’m not the sharpest tool in the oven but, to be perfectly blunt, nail and screw: opposite.
Smack a dog on the arse? While he’s humping your leg? You’ll be the first man to give birth from your calf. And after birth? Wipe it off. It’s like dog spittle and spoof. If a cow comes? Out of your knee? Milk it for all its worth before udders do their thing. Breast feeding a cow? Bullshit on your smock, if you’re not careful. Especially if it’s a baby male cow. Otherwise? Cow pats. A patsy for my cow? Take a surgical glove in the cause of cloned humanity? Who killed JFKow? Fidel-ity to Castr(o)(N)ation? Cuban cigar snips? Or a tummy tuck, and Dallas nip(ple)S? Curiosity killed the pussy, or was it an oversized penis fired from the grassy knoll that put a three magical bullet holes in the axe wound and the brown barrel? Telescopic? A penis erecting itself? With a Jacqui-Off in its sights if it misses its mark? O-Na(r)ssis [cistic-fybrosis or Asbestos? As best (os or as) it Gets? Even better still? Take a porno? ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!(ruder)? Ruder than Debbie does Dallas, the death of JFKow? Bloody Hell or bloody opened head wound? Who fucked his brains out in the operating room of a Texas Cavalcade? There’s a man named Armstrong walking on the earth? An OZ-world receiving info early? From a Jack Ruby Red Satellite in an Apocalyptic sky full of fire? Space Odyssey? Earth Oddity? Capricorn One, Two or Three. Sequels? History Repeats Itself? Who next? Howard hopefully. He’s fucked the country over, not just Jeanette. It’s time a dog humped his leg and gave birth to a new Nation. Next time a dog humps your leg. Hope it’s a mongrel. A male dog. Get a mongrel and get yourself up a dog? But be glad and rejoice about both mongrels. She dogs? Bitches. Women and Dogs? No distinction generally. Not opposites. Equals, in the main. Go the doggy. Each and ever time. Treat them mean and keep them keen. Good-O for doggie-style sex, eh Pal. Take a few Meaty-Bites on the inner thigh? And get into the kitty litter? Fuck a dog up the arse? A she dog? Woof, growl, bark and howl (along with her?). A dog’s arse? A woman’s arse? Smack them both. HARD. With your phallic patterbat? But only insert yourself in one. Women’s arses and dog’s arses? Equal yet Opposite. To the discerning bugger.
The end of a sentence is the beginning of a sentence. A death sentence ends with a full stop. Prison is home to the incarcerated. Convicts have been sent and held before facing the dexterity of the judicial meat hookery. Legal systems are like a proverbial river. Shit creek. Human waste gets treated like shit. Separate individuals are not treated the same. Rivers flow into bays. Prisons are often divided into blocks too. Entire lives are washed down the gurgler and into the bays. You won't see any of the affluent in the bay. Politicians and pundits bay for blood. They only spill that of others. Propertied people create laws; they look after their own. They hold cancers and hicks in cells without splitting them up. Ownership of justice belongs to forces greater than any of ours. Mental health can be seen in the way a person carries his legs chained together. Life is full of tribulations. Punishment ends with a capital “P”. Death is a lonely experience. There is a lot to be learned from everyone’s but our own. Life goes on after death. We barely own our own. Before a sentence begins there are trials. Freedom is another “F” word. Free inmates walk the line in suits and ties in only one shoe as their other foot toes the line. They are subjects without a sentence. There’s more to life than the pursuit of yourself. A sentence and a release: opposite.
My dad gave me some advice that my mum contradicted. So I went to my auntie. She contradicted both of them. So I asked my uncle. He said the pack of them were a mob of fuckwits. So I asked my grandmother. She said, ‘I’m dead. Stop expecting me to channel my thoughts to you.’ So I asked the dead fucker in the next grave. He said, ‘Go ask your grandfather.’ So I did. My grandfather? He said, ‘Go ask a grave digger.’ So I did. The grave digger? He said, ‘Don’t believe a fucking thing that dead fucker in the grave told you. The things he’s accused me of since I buried him? You wouldn’t believe.’ I said, ‘Give me faith.’ He said, ‘In me or in my shovel?’ I said, ‘Are you gay?’ He said, ‘How did you guess?’ I said, ‘Well, there’s a shovel handle sticking out of your arse, and you keep smiling and winking at me.’ He said, ‘Do you know why that shovel is up my arse tickling the most erogenous spot inside my body?’ I said, ‘No. I’m as straight as a die.’ He said, ‘What’s a die.’ I said, ‘I don’t know. It’s something to do with fitting and turning. It’s just an expression my dad used to use. Why?’ He said, ‘No reason.’ I said, ‘So what’s the deal with the shovel, and please call your shovel a spade?’ He said, ‘That’s my YOU substitute.’ We’re married now. And my name is The Brown Dirt Cowboy. Opinions? Mine? Others? Spades? Shovels? Equals and Opposites.
Being born with a foot between my legs, I’m told, is uncommon for someone of my pallor. It's opened a couple of doors for me over the years. I don't have any problems finding footwear. An Asian has a yellow epidermis (or so I read). All Muslims are terrorists (that's in the Koran). Americans have faith in God. Australians. Mercifully, I beat my wife with a moisturised fist. One day I peeled the skin from my head. It came to me on the couch. If you go to bed with crabs you wake up itchy. I can count the times I’ve had sex on one finger. My balance is gymnastic. To come on the other hand is the best. Nobody told me men don’t use tampons. What good is a sink without a plug? If an arsehole could, imagine what sort of blog it would write. The stories they could tell. My stars. "I've seen more crap in one day than you'll see in a lifetime, sunny". You can try and wipe your elbow but just make sure you wear clean underwear, and thick, rubbery gumboots. It's just as well that people who write blogs don't hold their opinions to be gospel. Bumcavities are like opinions. Arseholes and bloggers: equal.
I put my head down to sleep in a pair of undies that have seen the events of another dramatic day unfold. Early is the best time of the day to do such a filthy thing as waking. Sometimes you have to step outside your smalls to realise that you smell like a sweaty jobease bum. Different people will find different things on the nose. Having cotton threads soaked in seminal secretions satiates sourness, certainly. There’s no accounting for bad smell. Polkadot seethrough briefs of brown and white have adorned some of the finest arses of posterity. Not to mention front-posterities. Who knows what that holds? The day I can pugilize myself out of a pulped organic sack is the period of sunshine that I wear boxer shorts. I don’t really know my way around a ring. Smuggling budgerigars up the nose is a custom in my family. Why front when you can’t back it up with the goods? To be perfectly frank, I rarely use any underwear on my hips. If you open up any male, you’ll find that we’d rather not wear them at all. Stepping into an elastic chastity belt is no fun at all. I promised myself I wouldn't but once again, I’ve put my undies in a post. Boxers and briefs: opposite.
The last thing I ever wanted to do was fall into a hiatus. Actually, I probably sought the solitude of a cavern sometimes. A chasm with comfort was my clammy rope. When you face a gorge, you can go around or go over. To go over, you might need to build a bridge and get over it. That’s the thing about a gaping chasm, you always have the choice. That’s if you want to get over yourself. Going through a crevice can lead anywhere. I have been in a hiatus for most of my adult life. Lucky for me I had enough rope, otherwise I’d never have climbed out of it. It’s easy to wind up in a gorge when you’re carrying a slab on your shoulders. If you’re going to drink to excess, you should have a gorge. Bilious is one way to describe how I feel, some of the time, after a spell of hops. If you can possibly avoid a void, do so. Square yourself with the concept of the abyss. It's alright not to know everything. If you do go without the aid of some crevasse conduit, it’ll take forever. Build bridges. Get over yourself. A gap and a link: opposite.
Only one thing lasts forever. Nothing. It lasts forever. It’s a long time. Waiting for a bus can sometimes take just as long. You can do everything looking for nothing and you’ll always come up empty-handed. Even with a vacuum cleaner you’ll just get dead skin flakes and dead cells; maybe some fluff. It’s little surprise that women use vacuum-cleaners. If you were lucky enough to get your hands on such a precious and rare commodity as niente, you’d probably want to hang onto it until such time as you got sick of it. If it slipped from your grasp, I’d call you a douche-bag! Nothing has its own culture, so don’t clean it. To walk around with nothing on your person must be a strange feeling indeed. Nothing is a mystery. It’s like a watermelon swimming cap. Undiscovered country. Show me the nothing! You could go onto the rocks looking for oysters and you’d probably just wind up with nothing in your mouth. Of course there is more to it than that. You can do everything and in the process see nothing; if you have the lights switched on, that is. If you took a lady-friend to the pictures, she might let you do everything with nothing. Just because she is has it, doesn’t mean she’ll let you use it. It had better be a good movie. Perhaps some pop-corn with a hole in the bucket? It’s just one of life’s mysteries. Nothing and everything: opposite.
A lot of blogging lately has centred on the merits of putting foreign objects in the anus. I want to make one thing perfectly clear, I only buy Australian made vibrators. Now making love in the anus with a vibe does not make the norm homo. Far from it ladies. Strap yourself in. And ladies fear not, for the norm is looking for a wife. I’ll sneak in the back door when you least expect it. You’ll get the fright of your life to find me coming in the front! The norm is a romantic bastard. Get your tickets! All are bored. Do you have a cyst? Ah. Spit-roasts are the norm around my parts. Vegemite donuts are the normal favourite. It is the norm for plastic prosthetic penis parts to probe private places. Straight up. The norm is to have a protein lollipop in the licker. I can hardly wait. My rooster is on the hook of your breath. After erroneousness it is the norm to pull your socks up and hold the position in puckerment for a pulsating patented piledriver to pulverize the pelvis pleasurably. Straight up. Now I’m not saying that the norm likes chocolate copulations. He loves them! Now, none of this is in any way natural in any course. The Foreign and the Unnatural: equal.
A cigarette is a small rolled leafy sausage for women. I’ve smoked a couple of those in my time. I could always take them right to their sweet butts. Once, by accident, I put the wrong end in my dental cavity. It tasted like crap! I inhaled two packs one night before exhaling. When you’re happy and you know it: crap your hands. Haven’t had an air-sack snuffer since several seasons. I used to go tally-ho old chap or to the tailor for a generic pair of black lung undies. Air sponges like my sole. You can’t bleach black bum barriers, boys and girls. Never have I smoked and talked; can’t tar the forest and ring the ears, together. I did at one time use a head cancer brick. Industries that sponsor major sporting events only ever do so with the best of intentions. It’s very hard to exploit the young and ignorant. When I had use of the wave emitting and receiving social head toaster, I only ever used text. Can’t stand talking. Have to sit, or preferably lie. You can be safe in the knowledge that big business would never kill you for your money. Murderous thieves always face the machinery of justice. I don’t want to be taken out lining the pockets of some well-meaning money-grubber, thanks. Cigarettes and mobile-phones: equal.
There are two pieces of furniture to choose from in a room: the chair and the couch. I am compulsive couch vegatation. In an ideal world, I’d never scrape myself out of the idle jacket of my bed. Fortunately, my mattress is like a pine box, otherwise I wouldn’t seek the sanctuary of the sofa. For someone of my name, I don’t suppose I am very much. If I was a saint, I would be in the animal enclosure. Normal isn't saintly; most were born with a wooden spoon in their mouth. Back to the couch, I watch the box and put pen to paper. Done dole deposits to death, deceived. I’m far from upright. Far from my own identity. Still prefer home, by choice. Put me on a couch and you won’t hear a peep out of me. Hard to get a vibrating stringed exhalation out of me at the best of times. As quiet as a mouse, I can’t click with others; my conversation is far from fluent. When it does flow it’s mere effluent. As a student, I make a fine truant. You won’t find me very much on a chair, posturing proudly. My compulsion is to lie. Upright and lying: opposite.
If you’ve ever heard the Magpie in the morning or seen the Crow at night, you’ll know how great a bi-ped really can be. I have a lot of time for both and I won’t be swayed by any fracas they might find themselves in. I’ll back up my belief with deed, if need be. The Magpie is really a friendly and confident character, that if you ever study, will be revealed as a warm and kind critter. I've watched them rear their young, they are proud parents. The worms might disagree, the post-modern crickets and cicadas too. The Magpie has a beak, and feathers that can be ruffled. The Crow will often find itself doing things that societies find disagreeable. It's intelligence and imagination has me aghast, at times. It also has a beak and feathers. When you find a diamond in a shit-heap you can overlook a few flaws. Complex creatures they can be, certainly. They can pluck the eyes out of new-born lambs. Despite any fights they might have, they’ll always be relatively similar species, in my estimations. Even if they peck at each other like hens in a coop, I’d like to be able to consider myself a friend to both winged wascals. The Crow and the Magpie: birdbrains.
My father once told me to never mix grape and grain. In large quantities, I’m sure the two staples form a chunderous cocktail. Alone, liquefied granules in abundance have made me remasticate morsels. I've gone green on red and amber. Liquid diets are not generally recommended by palliative practitioners. The digital orb is a sanctuary for aqua without profundis; the distinctiveness of the odour occupies olfactory auditoriums to awful applause. It’s a groggy puddle for small swimmers and stale saps. Patterns appreciate no-one, particularly paters. Governed garrulously by plonk or hop as a grown genetic gifter can garrotte a colt, gutted. The net effect on an espoused egalitarian essay in matrimony was acrimony then alimony. Alcoholics abuse adults and ankle-biter alike. Life is full of mishaps and mishops. Like a running man over a drop-toilet, I’m over it. I guzzle wine and beer, together. Grape and Grain: opposite.
What is it that could make someone feel right at home in a concrete jungle gymnasium? Do their callisthenics in an ordinary plastic one, bend over in front of some lycra beefcakes and atrophied lives on the treadmill, then exclaim “Fuck that hurt”. Modern methods in misanthropy are cause for multiple miseries. In any era, certain types are susceptible to spells of sombreness. It’s often caused by a compound of fractious factors and flailing in the face of failing familiarities and fractured fragilities. Rugs with too much refuse refuse to be ready for relaxing. Misery is life’s prevailing westerly wind. Nobody knows where the winds will wail from next. Wound by the wind, answers blow in the mind and the smalls suffer most from being left out in it. Sheltering behind mirth is a most effective means of maintaining manageable merriment when the rope of life is in lots of knots. Maladroit masticators and maudlin medicators are seriously sickly and seethe at self’s silliness. Poking pleasure at our own predicament plants pickings of piquancy for others palette. Nothing is more seriously side-splitting than human dignity. Life is ludicrous; there is a place for gloom and glee. Misery and Mirth: opposite.
Nathan “The Excitement Machine” Buckley is a riveting and renowned raconteur. Like a pair of acid wash jeans you’ll be riveted to the seat of your pants by his turn of phrase, light larynx and scintillating lingual lashings. Regale you with his righteousness? Routinely! Comparably, John “The Woody” Howard is a fellow free spirit and astonishing character. You’d love to be trapped in an elevator with them without a belt to hang your neck from. Crying foul while being foul, they’d never do. Thrill the people with the variety and value of their brilliance they certainly will. Neither will tug at your ham strings. Pity the poor pigs that have to praise their performances for being in their pockets. They really are a couple of characters that will have you hanging on to your seat. Mirth is the best way to describe the feeling they engender in both genders. Their choice of spouses is particularly spectacular. We all love weird dumplings in a solarium. Both are fond of a gag and liable to make you want to do the same. Suitably selfless, if you were out fishing with them you can be sure to turn around to find they haven’t taken your line. Bucks and Honest John: related.
I’ve eaten fast food too quickly and I’ve eaten fine food too slowly. Fine food makes me sick to my guts when thinking how I’ve eaten so well when others are eating fast food. While some people are dining out others are scrounging for scraps. Sustaining survival systems on Sir's surplus sometimes suffices. Paying through the nose is worse than eating from it; trust me I’ve done that too. How would you like to pay exorbitantly for a plate of nostril steaks? Bladder beverages set off nasal-truffles like white wine goes with chicken. Blood is best for backdoor boogers. Sometimes there is little choice. There is a world of shit out there and you like to be waited on. I, for one, have no problem with that. Others will beg. To differ from fine food and eat fast food is somewhat looked down upon. Eating from the can can result in poor health. Tinned tummy treats take time to taste tantalizing. Eating from the bin will have you laden with illness; if you have to, you’re not travelling too well anyway. No-one will look down their nose at you as they wait for their plate of crap. Rushed diets are all that some can stomach, and gorgeous gastronomy says phallic face furnishing like perfume and fine wine say crab catching cunny. Fine food and Fast food: opposite.
none(humans at checkouts dipping, unloads!)
some(polyglots have run-ins, as skylarks - unloads)
plenty(zealots make pass-ups the spines; shafts)
many(hands make lights work and switches offroad)
all(death after hand-outs, writes columns, triggers)
scarcity(maggots are fed-up, whines then laughs)
any(breath on lip-pouts make solemns sniggers)
one(health cause spouts, and indices go in figures)
Daics and Rabelais really did things differently, equally. Like sand through the hour glass so too words for Rabelais. Dry, separate and steady, his dictionary-entity arrangements are really worth a look. Now, posterity has it that bums sit on seats and Rabelais was a monk. As such, words you will find he used include shit, fuck and see for yourself. Daics wasn’t really one for a game that wasn’t played in the right spirit. I don’t suppose he had the physique to go crashing through a pack of ockers, but he sent yobbos and bogans into rapture like few wogs else. He probably grew up without any sort of racist attack. Australians are truly tolerant and enlightened. Like a worm-burning-spinning-top he could do things with the pill that only the mail order wife of a millionaire could match. A rose by any other name. Masters of spin, Daics and Rabelais did works that really have a different look about them. You just wouldn’t know what to expect next. Technically proficient and ingenious, they’ll both have you rolling around with sheer delight, even if you’re on the receiving end. The Macedonian Marvel and Rabelais: relative equals.
You might note that James Joyce has been said to bear some trace of Rabelaisian influence, and you can certainly see the trace of Daics in the work of Fev around goal.
Few people can cover the opposite ends of a pole with equal aplomb. Jezza was such a man. Equally adept below his knees as he was above his head, Jezza was capable of controlling the ball on the ground without taking posession, and taking posession overhead without ever seeming to be in total control. Granted, Jezza wielded a vice that squeezed an aerial animal skin to death, but only when his feet were well set. Able on his right foot he was less so on his left. Marginally. Blind snapshots from a mile away could only ever be taken successfully by those with inner eyes for the game. Jezza had inward visioners of such an ilk. Athletic precision to see his visions realised he performed in an unusual piece of machinery. Not overly quick in running upright, he could run while crouched over a stitched ovoid that was matched by his aerial activities. Actions that were enacted by a huge languid spring that he kept in his shorts until the bladdered egg was flying. His prowess was enough to make a sad man gay. Athletic windows are narrow openings in an otherwise oppressive wall. Athletes use their bodies like an explorer uses a compass. Like everything, the body is made up of two opposite halves. Jezza on the ground and Jezza in the air: equal.
I used to work as a storeman. Boxes everywhere with their own identity. An identity that only existed as one of a type. Unique in its individuality. It’s personality was a treat as yours is to you. I love personalities. Never would you find an original identity. We are all types. A letter in the alphabet. A key on a board. A key in a hole. Beyond our own control. Bodies of work are no different, in my experience. A work can be translated into another field’s language. Concrete in it’s reality is this. Grey in its appeal. It’s my obscure concrete jungle gymnasium. It’s cold and hard. Concrete. It keeps me occupied. There’s nothing funny about concrete; poured it once. From a wheelbarrow to a dusty hole. A stump fell in. Set. No laughing matter, foundation work. Structure and Concrete: equal.
Whereas before I felt my concrete mixer full of slush and gravel now I see naught but a huge and pointless concrete wall in front of me; immobilized by indecision and set or sinking in a slab of the same stuff, at least the mixer is now as empty as it can be and slowly revolving to inactivity again but there’s still this unholy wall and meaningless and am I sinking to the bottom or are my feet set in one large concrete slipper that I’m to sink into the geometrical monolith facing, and without a short shadow of doubt the wall is my creation and I’ve set or I’m sinking in front of what I’ve been building behind my back, and if I was to look around I might see a vast concrete landscape of meaningless concrete objects, a veritable playground of harsh meaninglessness, cold and inscrutable; but for now I’m sinking or set in a ground facing a structure, the wall and the slab: equal.
Norm
Mal
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