Norm’ll be the first to admit that Norm’s really got a handle on things. Normally Norm wouldn’t say this, but don’t ever question the Norm. Just follow the conventions that are set. You follow? If Norm needs to build a chair from your broken body, I will. Be done with your structure and turn it into a potty. Norm might just keep you alive so you can watch him sit on the new structure. You’ll just be a pair of eyeballs attached to a brain attached to a spine attached to nerves and pipes attached to heart and lungs and liver and kidneys and stomach. You’ll shit yourself to see Norm eat your hands. Norm’ll give himself a clap for you. Keep an eye on the Norm. Be ready to change your unalterable principles with my fluctuations. It was once that eating your neighbours was common practice. Some things never change, like Norm’s undies and socks. Genital mutilation is looked down upon in most parts. It’s what I’m all about. Modesty forbids me to go into it in any great detail, but suffice to say, Norm has one big groin-nose. It’s always running and Norm has to buy shoes in pairs of three. If I have to put my foot down your throat and out your arse, Norm will. You won’t feel a thing because the Norm is a considerate fucker. I’ll get you on the blower without lifting a finger. Tell everyone about me, if they don’t already know. Norm couldn’t care less what else you do. Normally Norm wouldn’t normally bat an eyelid at singing his own praises. Your arse is a trumpet that he blows up. I do say some explosive things. Stick to the Norm. Pride and humility: opposite.
Unless I put my finger through the plastic of my new software package, and touch the CD, I will not believe.
To believe in modern art is to be a doubter of reality. Beauty is in the finger of the chest wound. The way to a man's mind is through a lobotomy. All roads leading into Rome lead to Rome. All roads leading out of Rome lead back to Rome if you U-Turn & Re-Turn. The Gates of Rome were not named after Bill as some sort of prophecy. Nero was fiddling with himself. Rome was built during the night. Roma Tomatoes grown in Australia are sold at Safeway under false pretences. Put your mobile on Roam and don't be suprised if the Pope answers. Roam all over the world looking at modern art and Christ will appear to you and say 'Quo Vadis'. Don't tell him you like Anthony Quinn as an actor. U-Turn & Re-Turn to Rome with St Peter and get ready to get crucified upside down. And hope like hell a Master is there to paint your portrait, not someone with a PC. Otherwise? You'll look like an absract blob with as much humanity as the inhumane modern artists. And that's how people will remember you from generation to generation. What colour is blood red? Is it the colour of martydrom, or the colour of the slaughter of art for non-art's sake? Modern computer trash masquerading as art, and the paintings of the Masters done with real paints, real brushes, and real canvas? Opposites.
Eating wriggling rodents is not a fitting punishment for being a glutton. Shit, eating your own shit is even a shitty fit for you unfit fat fucks. I’m having a hard time thinking of a time when I didn’t eat shit loads of the worst kind of crap known to humanity. The only reason I’ve lost so much weight is because I became stranded on the couch and had to eat my own arse cheeks. If we ever get stuck in an elevator don’t turn your back on me; not for a second. You’ll find your arsehole has become a chocolate doughnut. I’ll be found basting your face meat in your potbelly. Face meat tastes a bit like buttock, if you’re after some idea. Don’t interrupt me while I’m devouring your family, I’m not into the whole social aspect of the dining experience. I’ll dine out on your knee ligaments if you do; keep you alive in my boudoir and kneecap you with my teeth. I’ll single out your tendons across the whole network; tie you to string and send you out to do my shopping. You’ll buy me tomato sauce which you’ll pour over yourself before eating yourself and then shit yourself out for me to consume yourself in the form of faeces. I’ll then shit you out and write postcards to your loved ones with personalized greetings written in yourself. Then I’ll take a warm bath. Shit, I could eat just about anyone. My appetite knows no bounds; I feel free to eat whatever I see. It’s so much easier dictating than doing the type myself. I think that eating habits are ingrained very early and hard to alter. I found my parents very unpalatable. Gluttony and temperance.
Honey, money makes a funny day sunny, and makes a cunny runny for the dunny. Beautiful women love a man’s pocket to be bursting at the seams. They’ll show a lot of nerve just to get their grubby manual manipulators on your hard earned. I’d step over my own dead body to keep my stash of cash a cache. I’d skin you alive. Dry out your hide and print my face on you before offering to reskin you with my money for your own. You’ll walk the streets tattooed in my face. Killing is a licence to print the stuff. If I thought that I could, I’d tie you down and extricate every one of your teeth, attach them to strings sell them back to you and then pull them again. Your bloody gums will be fitting counterparts to a rubbery suit of my face. You’ll pay for services with your body. I remember selling my dear old granny for spare change for the public pay phone. Saddest day of my life. The buyer sort of twitched his eyes as he hunched over the dear old thing, he said he like the withered and dry ones. I took that as a good sign. He said that I could keep her wheelchair and blanket and colostomy bag and hearing aid and garments and wig but he wanted to keep her apple catchers, something about a souvenir. Must have been a tourist. He did have something of the Japanese about him. He actually stated that he was going to turn all Japanese on her arse. Must have had an International passport. That was the last time that I saw dear old Gran with her head attached to her shoulders. I had to sell her; I wasn’t just going to give her away. Besides, with that phone call, I placed a bet on a horse that placed. Greed and charity: opposite.
My my, my anger is cold. It’s the anger of a butter knife. Blunt and oily all the way so that I can’t get a grip. Blunt on the edge and sharp to the touch, cheesy. The placid plasticity of a block of cheese you’ll find adheres to canines. God, docile like a lamb. Skin like a baby and the maturity. Faced few chellenges in my life. There’s a girl I know of the non-fee persuasion. For a person of her intelligence she can be a bit daft. Don’t be fooled by my reservations, I’m well aware of my own shortcomings. In some comings I’m a fucking daft dwarf. I hate small people. Lazy like an adamant insect on a cold one, I’m a bloody dildo. A solar calculator on a cloudy day can’t function. Centre yourself, squint your ears to hear the mouse peep, peeps. I’m sick of my own worthless wrath. Angry about the whole thing. The heart is taken there by inclination. In reality it’s not really an issue for me. Anything goes in virtuality. I recall seeing someone drop their hat. I get really angry when that happens. If I had a dollar for every person I’d beaten senseless, kept their eyes open and shone a red light in their eyes and then used their ears for pants and stepped inside their heads and then scratched my balls through their eyes and then had an erection out their nose and then shat in their lungs? I’d be really rather well-off. I'll make a puppet out of you. Turn up to your house and have my way with your family. Get in my bad books and you’ll wind up in my cookbooks. I treat the corpses of my enemies like grudges. We all need something to hang onto in this life. Wrath and forgiveness: opposite.
Literal language is far from my favourite. Actually it's my all-time fave, Mavis. I pee on my pets when I think of it. Saying precisely what you mean to? Here Rover! Here Moggy! Cop this. That's why I take Viagra. I like to be able to fluff my pillows while putting a post up in offence. Writing to comfort people? I love that sort of thing. There should be more of it. The fact of the matter is that to understand the worst actions you have to put your mind in the actions and track back. <<<<Rewind to the origin of an action. Often times there is a disorganized monologue behind the worst of what is done. The goings on in reality are more important than fostering a harmonious community in virtuality. That's why I don't expect anyone to come to me with padded sells. Whatever it is you're hawking it’s not flying with me. I'm not afeared of flying. It's crashing that frightens me. I like to be able to take a weasel squeeze out the window. I live in a housing commission flat. It's standard practice. Falling from a great height does nothing for me. This piece is a little slice of self-piety. It's really not fit for consumption. It's pure shitty dysentery. Most of what I put through the screen door is false, behind it lurks some grains of truth. I'll let the old hens peck their own. When it comes to bonkers, take your teeth out and get stuck in. It's true what they say about falsity. When it comes to truth words are inadequate. True and false: opposite.
Rape victims have really got my back up. We’re in the middle of a fucking drought and they’re having the longest showers of any of us. Don’t you sluts care that the rest of us stink to low hell? I can’t even water my roses, Doris. We all know that if it wasn’t for rape there would be a lot more random acts of violence. The love a man has for his selected is a beautiful thing. A bully uses the delicate craft of intimidation to demonstrate their inane sense of self. Don’t let anyone tell you that they aren’t noble by birth. Bullies come out of cows. Beneath every rapist is a bully and below them, squashed and whimpering, is a coward. Flat out truth. Fuck ugly are some of these pock-marked, poker faced bush-pigs that enjoy the experience of force. Strength in the face of vulnerability is what heroism is all about. Fuck, the human heart is a pump that circulates blood around the place. I’d love to spring a few leaks. If I know myself as I do, I’ll admit that they exist in me, potentially. The rapist is a high form of coward. Lucky for me I’m a lowly miser. Otherwise I wouldn’t be a mere coward. A bully I have been, no shadows. Only a transparent window. Rapists, bullies and cowards: equal.
Don’t bet on any one word standing for any one thing. Words are bought and sold and transferred as easily as coin. Coin is only worth what we believe it to be worth. Getting all serious is a field, not mine. Watch a canter in action and compare to a jogger. The former will try to give you the run around, run you ragged; have you on the hop with your foot in your mouth. Fists down. Anything they say, they think has veracity for their capacity is for atrocity. They run gently on your granny's head, sharpening her bones into spikes to put in your drink that are attached to string. They’ll wind you up, dear friends. Wrestle with a canter and you’ll be in banter with a hamper full of wankers. Bank on their duplicity. Bet on your own, it’s in you too. Their teeth are stained in lies and the gaseous river flows from the mouth to flood the plain. We’ve all had our run ins with bad vibes. Don’t be a dill; do recharge your batteries with some time spent in the country. Skip on the spot, it’s no means to get around. Walking is taught. Tight will be your shorts when you least expect it. Breasts in bras belong in binoculars. Out of them you’ll fall off the twig. Witnessing a canter arouses suspicions about the human race. I’ve seen it in myself first so I’ll recognise it in you. I only have to jog my memory of my own inner machinery to know yours, you fucking canters. Jogging is conducive to good health, you sham. Poo will be your cue to open your cock-hole. Say ah. Blppbplpbpblbpbl. I really should have passed at this post. Canter and jogger: equal and opposite.
For so many women, it's easy to be Nasty. Not Illie. Nastase was a tennis freak. He might have been nasty at times, but not always. So what's your racket? You refuse to wear a skirt. Too busy trying pants on? Too busy wearing them, even when they don't fit? The fact you don't have balls? The fact you hate men with them? Even those without them? Just men in general? Yet won't play in the ladies half of the draw, either? Too many lesbians who indulge in crack-licking? You really are a ball-girl. Your whole life is spent trying to grab hold of men's balls out of spite and hatred. What's your racket really? Is it that you can't get to Deuce? Don't know how to come? In your own juices. Never have, even after baby bearing? And life's just one big frustration, and you have to take it out on others? Perhaps, now, you're just too dried up and withered? You won't OPEN your legs? Ever again? Not even for the chance of a GRAND SLAM? Your personal tournament entries closed years ago? So you reject Cyclops? Take the hard line appproach? Rather than put your body on the line? It's time you got a new grip on life. And let a loving man get a grip on you, before you can't even get a wild card entry from a hillbilly Deliverance, pig-fucking slob (not that they're 'that' stupid anyway. They'd rather fuck a pig's twat. At least pigs sqeal due to their animal nature and basic instinct, not their rejection of both. At least a pig has pink bits and feels wet on the inside and the outside (the ones that live in swamplands, anyway)). It's time you got a handle on life. You're far too highly-strung for my liking. I'd like to be the chair umpire who yells out LET! LET GO of your spite and vitriole. Learn to play a few love games. You're so far from ACE! You're far too set in your ways. It's hard to find a nasty person to match you. You'll never win a silver plate. Until you get the spoon you stole (and weren't born with) out of your foul mouth. I don't even know how you made the cut with a sewn-up gash. The fault is not with your foot. It's with your brain, your heart and your mouth. The court surface of your brain has gone all Marat Safin potato-paddock mushy and lumpy on you. Beudy Newk! Stomp on the spuds and squish them into the faded-grey-matter-turf. Your heart is as cold as a Martina Navritolova Lesbian stare. And your mouth is as open as a Venus Williams panty gash when she bends over and lets a fanny-fart rip! People who are kind to themselves are kind to others. People who are nasty to themselves are nasty to others. Opposites.
We can't help playing out text over and over in our minds. We are the authors of our minds. We arrange and rearrange familiar parts to make unfamiliar wholes. I dreamt my Karma went up to the heavens; the highest point. A special ceremony was held; I was showered in adulation. Perfection in numerical expression was achieved. All the other perfect prefects of pettiness passed praise personally. Pathetic. Don't kid me and tell me you aren't desperately hanging on to your vaunted status. A goat is up and the Devil is in session. Sitting in satin, Satan satiates selves. Shit, life is a trip. We're all sad sacks worthy of sinking saturation in selfsame sack. We all race in the sack and we're not alone; our opposite is holding us back. Cut it loose and you'll be falling from your rung. Next time you hear yourself say something in the dusty room of your mind wonder where you acquired such facility. It's some sort of facsimile of feeling in form. Don't fool yourself; it's the saddest sack that Satan ever sowed. Plant yourself in some decent soil and give fruit. Far be it from me to sound like a fucked up git but, for fuck's sake fall off your fucking chair and stop farting through your fucking fingers. At least fess up to the fact that you're a fancy-panted panter. I'll pull your pants down and show you the ropes. You'll be strung up and out. A number can't express worth so stop fucking believing it. Why not accept a system based on the circles of hell and discard this lip-service to karma. I'd love to see a few get forked in their fanny, front or back. Can't wait to be perfect too. Hell and Heaven: opposite.
Ask to see someone's business card? Professional. Bold. Both the name and the title. Just not the person? IT Savvy Mr Fixit, it will read. Mr Limp Dick, Metrosexual, SNAG, Know-Nothing more like it. Put the label 'Cure All Remedy' on a 'Bottle of Poison' and most ignorant fucks bloggers will drink it, and not question anyone or anything. Until they end up in hospital on life-support? And then write a First Will & Testament Document? Professional and Bold? Leaving their family of ignorant sycophantic and brown-nosing conditioners all they own? Their ignorance? Their lack of self-knowlede? Leave it to the people who gave it to them in the first place? In spades and shovelfuls? The same spades that will be used as shovels to dig the grave? Leave their skeleton to posterity for medical discoveries to be made? No brain matter in the bones? All chalk. What a startling discovery for the ignorant to make? Leave their family of ignorant fucks full persmisson to sue the hospital and the doctors and the nurses and the ambulance personnel? And the curator of the grounds? The founder? And the company responsible for the life-support system? The real question of responsibility lies in reading between the lines of the business card. Between the name and the self-appointed title? All blank space. Take a squiz. That's how much professionalism certain people with a business card and a title have. It's all they have. A wanky business card from the Deceive All (including self) Graphics Co? THe blank space between the lines is representative of the blank space between the ears. Vacuous. Read the subtext. That's what's below the text on the business card. Have a look just below the business card on a warm day. Run your fingers through the hot air. What do you really discover? Puff and wind? Nothing? Nothing at all? Just as the clothes do not make the man, a title on a business card does not mean the person is a professional or expert in his/her field. Unless of course the field is self-deceit and deceit of others. Real professionals and self-appointed professionals? Opposites. People eager to apply a title or label to themselves? Poison disguised as a Cure-All Remedy. Read the fine print. Read between the lines, and read the subtext. But learn to read first before you put 'Reader' on your own. A person with a business card blowing hot air all over the place, and a person conducting business in a professional manner without a business card? Opposites.
For crying out loud some babies get shaken like a buggered clock. Some ladies and gents go off at the drop of a hat. Dead set, I feel like clocking some buggers. If the words I arrange in my head were real I’d be a killer; it’s normal to want to rip somebody’s face off. Any pair of addicts can add to the world’s numbers. Same to be said for spotless wonders claiming to be next to cleanliness. Numbered are our days. Permits need not be issued to prospective parents. The planet is a beautiful place populated by pedants and parasites. I give it a big tick. Parades of pram pushing poor mill at lights, tripping, fantastic. You don’t see them give their kiddies a smack; they must go the knuckle. It’s a scene, man. Living without clean internal machinery can make for powerful pollutants. It’s alarming to see how waste can contaminate the sea-beds for future generations, baby. We’re all air to the throne in the outhouse. I can’t picture what poor unfortunates do in dung abodes. Chasing answers to these questions has occupied my mind shitless. Really, I’m too vain to care. Looking at reflective surfaces must be a constant reminder of fractures and fissures. Faces famished for feeling. Articulating problems is just a waste of time. Watch out for the surprises that unusual sources can deliver. Intelligence and understanding can be wrapped in rough packaging. I have experience of seeing some heroine on the bus. Of course kids still get smacked on and off the face. Real heroines don’t spoon feed the world their worth. Smack and heroin: equal.
What if you decided suddenly out of the blue to get irate, mad? Hopping on the heads of the happy halters. Smacked your own bottom as you rode yourself to victory. Held the whip over your eye and brought yourself home. Stopped passing the buck. Accepted that you had to ride your own case. Halted jockeying for position. Recognised that your odours were rank. Stood in on a session of the house of your own head. Fell on your own words. Madness is a reaction to the state of the place. Don't tell me that everything is all right. Everything is fine. Whether or not you believe in your determination is determined by determination. At the termination of your carriage you'll be departing for a station that we do. The refugees of time seek sanctuary in death. My doodles have saved me many times. I’m as happy as a man with doodles, plural. I don't for a second think that they are anything special. Toothless am I from the force of my lies from a clenched jaw. Joy in life is far from funny. Don't beat the dog with the cat. Madness is emotional and madness is intellectual. Enjoy them both in tranquillity. Don’t object to me being the subject of my own. You can’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed the benefits of both. The beauty is that two conditions are one. Don't damn yourself to dam your own madness. Mad and mad: equal.
Tell a child ‘I love you’ from day one (minus nine months). Continue to tell this child ‘I love you’ every day of its youth and observe the adult. Listen to the adult tell you, ‘I love you’ back. Tell a child ‘I hate you’? From day one (minus nine months)? Tell it the same every days of its youth? Observe the adult. Behind bars? Make a visit, only to engage in Blame Transference? Still? Or more Guilt(y) Trips? The only transference of blame which should occur is, you should be behind bars. For you are guilty of a far greater crime than murder even. The crime of conditioning a child to hate. The crime of murdering the soul. Of your own child. Grow a brain! Wake up to yourself! The ‘h’ word? The ‘anti-love’ word? Piss it off. Replace it with the word love. And observe the difference it makes to your own life, and the lives of those around you. Try it out. Give it a go. You’ll be surprised. You’ll be amazed. It may hurt (your pride) for a while. Spare the ‘l’ word and spoil the child. Break the cycle. Don’t perpetuate your own parents’ crimes. The ones perpetrated on you. Clean out your own family closet. Piss off the dead skeletons. Re-Invigorate the live one. Re-Invent yourself. Clean the slate and start anew. ‘I love you’ and ‘I anti-love you’.? Opposite effects on people’s lives. Opposite.
What would happen if, set as you are in your ways of anality, you departed from your usual aspects? Say, one, in the infinity of one's wisdom, took the opposite stance that one took as a rule. Began putting clothes on backwards and in reverse order. Wore the heart of your undies on your sleeve which was to be found around your ankles. The way to a woman's undies is through a spiked drink. Sharp objects in the throat followed by, to put it mildly, a blunt one. Sat on offence. Took the splinter off your buttocks. Refrained from being a cunt in your posts. Put up a post in offence. Put one in your....Climbed over the fence and shut the fence. Fuck the gate. Took up an opposite gait. Knees bent to the back of the arse as the alternate knee hit the front of the arse. An arse that was home to a family of lice. Began drinking in the morning. Vomiting in the eve. Let apples fall from your eye. Hid in the grass. Took a hose from the back of the arse to the left nostril. Breathed in rarefied air. Became the airs and the graces to the throne in the shit chalet. Began typing directly into the window that you walked out of and into the stinking airs of so many other pompous backscratchers and anal gazers. Took to utensils. Enacted every thought that crossed the pristine floors of your mind. Looked under that rug where you'd swept all the refuse. Refused to have the carpet pulled from under your feet. Farted out loud in public. Stole things from your enemies. Stopped believing in the surfaces. Smashed a window. Anything. Someone else and you: opposite.
Waiting for the cows to come home can often times, in my humble opinion based on limited experience, bare more fruit than waiting for a fuck in a convent. Convention has it that some rules should remain unwritten. Writing with a mouthful of excretus is easier than talking. Don’t snap one off in your palms and eat it in front of your girlfriend’s parents; they’ll be most unimpressed. Impressing people with my social skills is what I’m all about. Rules are made to be broken and conventions are farts to the shit of a rule. Shits are made to be flushed with cash. There doesn’t exist a ruler big enough for me; they’re all too small. If you won’t give me a hand for that, I’ll have to. Going to a penis hanging out your fly convention will show you that certain conventions are most peculiar. Why anyone would want their old fella peeping its head out at the passing people is particularly puzzling. Still, it’s better than the shit-lovers expo. Shit, wearing a suit and a tie is suitably sufficient for standardization. Fuck I love suiting up in the uniform I was born in with my little bow tie and rocking up. I’ve been barred for barring up in all the singles bars, bar none. If push came to shove I would probably bar a nun. I’d give her a bar in chocolate. Sheepish is the best way to put how I feel about involuntary movements in the downstairs skyscaper department. If hopping mad was a more effective means of carriage than walking, I’d tie my walking sticks together and peg around the place like a pogo-sticker without. It's out of convenience that I condemn convention. Convention and norm: equal.
If you ever want to know the difference between having a fist in your mouth and a fist up your arse look no further than being a civilized westerner. Bearded yodellers with pipe afflictions are too lazy to talk in a reasonable manner about unreasonable matters. Strapping yourself in cash and blowing up other people is synonymous with the fight against terror. Westerly winds blow up people with no care for people, individuals. To get thrown in a bucket and pissed on from a great height is best when you keep tight-lipped. Media sources are very even-handed in their reporting of major sponsors. Money talks and it says worse words than I’m going to fuck you in the ear with a wad of myself. Coming in to a bit of money is what powerful people do, right in front of you. Talk about offensive, you delicate fuckers. Offenders in offense are always on the offense. Wake up to the world. Wake up to the word. Our forebears fucked each other, silly; and don’t you forget it, stupid. The only thing stopping me from sucking my own dick is a dicky back. No mention of a short dick here. Don’t let anyone stick their fist up your clacker, tickle your tonsils and pick your nose without asking your permission. Nothing tickles a throat like a pair of fluffy dice. People say you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full; the same goes for your cocoa canal with regard to analysis. A fist in you arse and one in your throat: opposite.
Urinous is the best way to describe some people’s pantaloonies. Some people’s subwear smells of piss. Giving them a kiss, I'll give a miss. Some people’s breath has the odour of amorousness with urinousness. You and us is one way to describe a certain mentality. You have to mine, plumb, for a mentality that you can call yours and mine. It’s fine for some to come undone for fun, but I prefer to keep my shit together. None of this plop plop business for me. Making a splash is not for everyone. Give me one long gentle brown bomber burnishing the bowl's bottom; I don't put burnt bananas in my own. Going mental can take many outward forms. Being off tap is worth bottling. Your body’s worth baking; mine’s full of phlegm. If you shake me, I won’t rattle. Disturbed people are cause for disturbance. Do not disturb a person who urinates in the cups of their hands because they might take the piss out on you. No-one likes to be made a pee-pale out of. Seeing a sliced legless reptile pales in comparison to being one of the same. A madwoman’s custard is curdled completely. Can’t say I blame them, I’d be mad too if I had to cook dairy desserts. Talking to yourself is a sure sign of being a few laces short of a straightjacket. I know because I tell myself constantly. I refute those claims, unfounded. As the saying goes, an orderly in a loony-bin is fucking nuts up the arse with a salad vegetable, not a broomhandle. People in positions of authority are totally trustworthy. They have no mental health concerns. It’s just as well that people who act insane get thrown in the bin. Lives have been lived out in the nut-house, ce la vie. Orderly and chaotic: opposite.
When it comes to a bit of lit, it’s best if it’s writ with a bit of grit, writ large. It’d be a cess-pit without shit, lit without it, grit. Now, words put to print or screen without heart are cart without horse. A cart-horse without a 'c' word is a horse, a plain horse. Fuck off you fancy carts! Lit is shit without a bit of a hit to the organ behind the left tit. It must speak to hearts through minds. It can’t go straight to the heart, although it can and does come from one. You shouldn’t write your name in bold face in faeces on the toilet walls of your host. It's considered impolite to even shit in your own hands. Likewise, flopping out your chop at a barbeque is considered mandatory, while farting in a community dish at a dinner party is generally frowned upon. “Gosh, did you see the shade of brown his anus was?” Disgraceful. Arseholes should be bleached. That’s why I recommend a powerful bleach. Hopefully a powerful bleach will be easy to find. Heaven knows it’s hard to find a powerful bleach. Where were we? Were we where one went wailing willy-nilly way wide? The mind is full of tangents, lines that touch parts of circles. Lovely round things, circles. We eat to keep our brain active so we can find food to keep our brain active so we can reproduce our own image. We, many of us, hang on to the idea of living after death. When our own heart stops, that is. Be mindful of my words, I live in my head. A headcase, I'll be brief. Our mind is there to keep our heart going. That is all. Having your heart in your mouth is better than having your reproductive organs in a griller. Take it from me, my dick hurts. Falling for your own work is drowning in a wet puddle of widdle. Don’t be too pleased with yourself, nasty cysts. Narcissists get boiled in a pot. Melted. Melt, pretty fuckers. Mind and heart: opposite.
Why anybody would want to jump in front of a moving train is beyond me when there is a perfectly good bridge accessible, or furnishings available for defenestration. We’re all born with a bucket in varying stages of decay. If there’s a hole in it, don’t kick it. To boot voluntarily the vessel of life before our number is up is to commit lottery fraud. Topping oneself is not a personal best. Sure, some shores are clogged with weeds. A storm can clear the breakers but only once the cycles of lunacy have sucked the saline liquid from the grey rocks. Brains soaked in heart’s remorse can drown if you haven’t taught your grey one to do the doggy. Paddling up a creek with a dunny-brush cleans the river for others to swim through the clear stuff. Ending it all is only ending it for yourself. If it’s never entered your mind to take such drastic measures, unlucky for you. Hitting such lows can yield all sorts of shit. Self’s laughter at itself is a way to beat self-slaughter. It’s true what they say about death being final, there’s no bringing a life back. Where there's life there’s rope but don’t hang around waiting for your shit to come in the harbour, they treat shit shabbily. If you ever see a farm for sale, stay away from your keycard. Buying blocks of land used for farming are fucking fatal. I hate to say it, but meeting your maker is too. Death is inevitable at the best of times, but bloody miserable for the people a suicider leaves behind scratching their heads with feet soaked in tears. Feats of fatality make families frantic, fucked; feeling feeble. Tearing a loved one away is a teary day, bleary. I'll say this, those who do it show real commitment. A stew was cooked by a slow, intense heat. Fortune favours the filthy fingered fuckheads. The unfortunate have more bravery than those with brazen bravado. What some have to endure, beyond me. Commited to suicide and booting the bucket willingly: equal.
Look, take it from me, don’t fuck a cadaver on a slab. You’ll never get it it up and if you do you’ll run out of puff before acceptances. So what’s the point really? If you’re anything like me, you’ll need a couple of cans to get you going. Nothing makes me go for a stiffy like a couple of those nice things. Sometimes cans seem like they have more in them than at other times. Something to do with the lunar cycles makes me hop madly. Now, laying a lovely lady on a bed of rose thorns has nothing on doing some rigorous work with the mortis on a cold one. Or maybe two. My character is stainless, immaculate. Make sure the cameras are on, because a love-affair never lasts as long as it seems that it will when you’re in love. I’m deadly serious about this, sticking a stiffy in a stiffy is for the spiffy, attired. So suit up, because you're going in. Nothing gives the game away like a trace of your genetic material. Make sure you put a sock over your head. Tired am I of the rigmarole of relationships with the living; communing with the dead satisfies my need to dominate darlings. I’d never degrade an unidentified stiffy with doggy, I’m a missionary man. Folding a corpse up like a banana lounge to park your banana is just too tough. God’s truth. Struth, I’d hit the roof if I ever found footage of a lover of mine in comprimising concord with a colleague. Some stiff chicks are just plain loose. Corpses, their cold corneas catch my eye. We get up to all manner of stuff under the sheets. I can really charm the toe-tags off them. I don’t always have my way with them mind you, but that’s just stiff. Fuck me dead. I’d do the same for you. A corpse and a stiff: equal.
[Size] [Size] [Size]
[Colour?]
[Pulsating Purple?]
[Throbbing Red?]
[Sperm White?]
[Labial Fuchsia?]
[Bold?]
[Centre?]
Bet the length of your penis or the depth of your vagina on it. All on Black? All on No. 69? On the roulette wheel of life? But more importantly? Bet the sum total of your intellectual property on it. But don't always thing big. Bet big but sometimes think small. All this talk about size? Mind Monopoly. Play fair. Don't put too many hotels on Playfair. Try Park Lane sometimes. Life is a roll of the dice. Double sixes fit. Six and One don't. Two threes fit. But a four and three makes 7? If you can add up. Not everyone is a six and not everyone is a one. Albeit unique and one. Men's penises vary in size. Women's vaginas vary in depth. It's all about a perfect fit. A perfect roll of the dice. But you have to play a bit of Mind Monopoly to understand this principle. Or Squatter. For when women squat? Expect a golden shower and cleanse yourself. Take a ruler (Not a Howard or George Dubba-Ya type:a school ruler). Take instruction and be wise. Shove a ruler (or preferably a depth guage) into 1000 women. Do a decent survey. No Morgan Giddy-Up or Gallop Pole. And don't pervert or alter the stats to make them say what you want them to say. Be real. Or get a job as a Govt Statistician if you're like that. Once you've plunged the ruler in? Pull it out. Check the 'water' stains. See how far a woman's come comes up? Look for a G-shaped stain. Use a magnifying glass if you have to. It will be there somewhere. Observe closely how the increments differ. Then measure the length and breadth and depth of your penis. With the same ruler. Don't touch it against your foreskin though. Far too erotic. And once you've got the measurements right? See? Size? It's all rubbish. (unless we're discussing comparative sizes of vagina-depths and penis-lengths, not just the size of the penis. All this talk about size? It's all designed to make the modern man feel inadequate and accept those penis-enlargement SPAM offers. When the reality is? Real women don't just measure the size of your erect penis; they measure the size of your brain. Call in the neuro-surgeon. Right now! Do a scan. Boost your self confidence. Love-making is about full-on mind and body engagement. Real women? THey can come without your penis even being inserted into them if your brain is HUGE. Enlarge the size of your brain. Go for Brain-Enlargement SPAM. The size of a man's penis and the depth of a woman's vagina? Sometimes equals, somtimes opposites. If the size of the brains are equal? You have your perfect fit regardless of the roll of the dice. Take a risk. Bet big. The way real men think and real women think? Big. Equals. The way unreal men and unreal women think? Small. Equals again.The unreal man thinks with his dick. The unreal woman thinks with her vagina. Real men and unreal men? Opposites. Real women and unreal women? Opposites. Real men and real women. Equals. Intellectual Giants. See? Size is important. Size of the brain.
I’m not one to stand on ceremony, but shit-shaggers shouldn’t share the sanctimony of matrimony with any old, or for that matter young, man and moll. Hitherto, hateful hetero homes have nurtured nubiles, whereas pansy pairs rear rectal raiders. God knows conventional married couples have held the holy union in high esteem. Shirt-lifters make me steam; they should all, every last one of them, be shovelled into furnaces to appease my railing. I do not have tickets on my self so you can’t jump on me unless I can punch a hole in yours. For a child, having two fathers is better than none, but faggots go in and out of piles with relish. Don’t make me start up on carpet chewers. Would that I could. Butch bitches bade bad begetting. Security within yourself doesn’t allow for allowing others the same. Society works wonders, it’s like a well-oiled machine. Homo’s exhaust me no end. I’d never stick a banana in mine. Keep your eyes peeled for teeth marks in your pillow. Don’t slip up or you might find yourself arse up. Pride is nothing to celebrate. Particularly when you put your post in the wrong category. For fucking shit, you get a big fat zero, you fucking shits. Pride comes before a fall, and that means going down into shame. Come back, Shame! You can't spell it without she. Even hetero haberdashers of hurtful haranguing have that. So they should, if they’ve taken umbrage with someone else’s preference. Mind your own ends you fag-bashers. Don’t carry on like it’s the best thing in the world, poo-pokers. Not that I’d ever know. Just don’t wave your naked oily arse in the air. I just don’t care. Homo and hetero: opposite.
Being off your face? People will wonder why they’re speaking to a mask. And where the rest of you is. It will scare them. Especially children. Being shitfaced? People will hand you toilet paper and get you to wipe your mouth. Or flush you far from their lives. Being off the planet? No-one will speak to you at all. Other than aliens, and NASA astronauts, and the man in the moon, and if you hear a Moo? That’s the jumping cow. Woof? Dogs in Space. And those bits of human beings you keep bumping into? Dead astronauts. Being legless? You can apply for a disability pension. Being cactus? People will find you prickly. Being trashed? People will treat you like garbage. Being pissed as a parrot? You’ll repeat the same thing over and over again. Being pissed as a mute? No-one will listen to a word you say. Being drunk as a monkey? Evolutionists will kidnap you and put you on show as the missing link. Being maggoted? You’ll get sprayed with insect-repellent. Being drunk as a skunk? People will screw their noses up at you, and tell you, you stink. Being off your scone? You’ll never get an invite to a Catholic Women’s League morning tea function again. Being as Sober as a Judge? (Paradoxical?) People will find you bland and boring, and avoid you if they see you coming. Sobriety and Drunkenness. Not much difference for some people. Equally offensive.
If you’re a fat fuck, put down your patisseries, re-adjust your screen, empty your colostomy bag, tend your bed sores, wipe your arse, brush your teeth and listen up because you’re about to die laughing. Better that than a cavalcade of chicken carcasses caught in your cat-caller. Fatties have been found finishing fistfuls of feral felines five days a fortnight. For fucks sake you fat fucks, find famines feasible. Forsake feasts obese beasts. The least you can do is give up your seats. Perchance, the seat of your pants: cover the coast of France? Never mind, you’ll find my hind to be too kind. Arty farty smarties find overweight mates’ dates flat as a tack. A flatus attack from an obese crease can flatten a slattern; not a bad thing, on the whole. A fat fuck of a glut is a firetruck of a mut. Eating disorders are mystifying, magnifying. We all have problems, except for me. Fancy that, fat-facillitators. Fancy fannies in designer decorated day-spas would never judge a junk-junkie. The staples of a flabby fornicator go in the belly. Too much tele turns a relly to jelly. Hell, that's me. You don’t need to put a bell on them to hear them coming. Beauty is fat deep. It’s a grim reap. Fat fucks and the morbidly obese: equal.
When is a horse not a horse? When it’s not a horse, of course. Of course, a house is not a horse, unless of course, by force, the laws of whores (none) take tours of intercourse. They are rotten to their cores, whores. Mores the pity they have no other chores. Rooted in fiction are these facts. Fucked are the facts! Lacking in social lubricants, whores choose cat-houses or to be louses let loose on streets as meat to greet. Great is the life some have led for them by circumstances beyond them. Sirs and madams never sit in on judgement. Circumspect, bespectacled, professorial, petticoated Polly’s make folly of the plight of the flightless. The pie is in your eye. It’s on you. It’s a sty in your eye; all you can see is pigshit. Language is not a stable thing, too many barriers. Horses go in knackered and come out worse. That’s when a horse would wish to be a horse. Of course, Mister, educating a dolt is easier than adults. Many whores are saddled with unsavoury horsemongers until crops have been ridden, more grim reaps. It’s a rough trade. Governments subsidise apprentices. Whores have unbridled enthusiasm for their turf. They’re the world’s oldest professors of human nature. Back alley bachelor degrees in depravity. Breaking in a whore is a matter of force. For some a whore is to be treated with delicacy and for some a horse is too. They both get chucked in the can. Very few end up in good paddocks. I can’t afford to give one a carrot, let alone ride it in the bush. Horse-shoes and high-heels. Whores and horses: equal.
If you’ve ever had to crap in your own hat and keep a secret, you’ll know that things are never as bad as they seem. Defective vision is not hindered by a little river of faeces when it happens to be your own. Getting an eyeful of someone elses brown bum bricks is less offensive than a gutful of the same. Shit, some serious turd talkers claim their crap radiates roses. Crap! A shit by any other name would still smell, a suite. Frying bogs in the deep fryer has never happened. Some gits who think that they are it and a bit have now been served a bit. For all that, it (shit) is best served in a bowl. Poos with wees on top. I’ve never liked eating straight from the can. It’s better to eat fresh. A toilet brush for a toothpick and lav-paper for a napkin. Septic tanks are full of shit. All of them. Dig for nuggets with a toothpick. Finding a welcome stranger on the roof is pure gold. I go round the bend looking for something nice to eat. If I look flushed, you now know why. Potty’s have lids and I dip mine to you all. I keep more than secrets under my lid. In some places it’s called a john, I prefer the shit-chair. Geez, I write a lot of shit. John and bogger: equal.
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It's beyond moronic. It's downright absurd. Real Speak and Computer Speak? Opposites.
What goes up must come down. Time was that gravity carried a lot of weight. Today no-one gives a flying clock about it. Contrary to some, apples fall from twigs of their own device, in line with natural laws. The letter S signifies plural and ownership. Snakes certainly climb ladders. Rank is rank. I’m the fallen apple in your eye. Sitting at the top doesn't give you more gravity. There are more ways of killing a dog than hanging it by its tail and clubbing it over the head with a spade or a shovel. We’d like to run a few experiments. We westerners deplore the inhumane treatment of non-humans in the east. You’ll be waiting a while for a unified paddock to be found. This post is without offence. There’s no romance in a giant shed of penned pulsed packages. Science makes mushrooms out of clouds. It’s a monkey-business. Time will tell you to hurry up if you want to live longer. Spectators are participants. Theories about trains are great if you can get one that runs on time. That which is indicated by clocks varies with the clicks the clocks are doing. There is a time and a place for everything, including having a bum-plug with a digital clock in it. Don’t ask me for the time unless you want to go peering up my arsehole. I'd only ever have it digital. I’m only winding you up. Time flies when I fart. Time and gravity can’t be resolved. Weight and time: opposite.
Grab a cock by the neck? With your mouth? And bite really hard? Its head will turn blue. Women who know how to treat a cock properly? As rare as hen’s teeth. Some women suck, and some women know how to suck. Opposites.
Far be it from me to make distant calls for the censorship of profanity. I’m fucking adamant that bad language is a reflection, in a mud puddle of a muddle of words, of poor character. Foul fingers belong to cocks and their mouths are toothless. Teeth don’t gladly go into a rooster. Have you ever seen a tongue on one? Pimps don’t just give you the bird. You can’t have nothing for free, no way, no how. Bullshitters trade in oxymorons. Foolish bullshit is the propane that fuels the barbeque where intellectual shrimps coming the raw prawn are cooked. Their brains have the mobility of a crab. Fuck me sideways. I’ll give them a bit of stick. The real cancer is the fear of language itself. We create their meanings through their use. Inherent in words is nothingness. I’ll introduce them that try to restrict language to a world of hurt. You’ll beg for a rude word in the end. They’ll experience the weight of a canon’s balls. The full force will make holey their immodest structures. If you don’t wrap your muck in dough and tell me it’s palatable, I won’t shit down your throat and tell you you’re full of it. I’m sick of digesting shit wrapped in a frilly crust because I’m supposed to. Please don’t drop your guts on my path and tell me the roses are beautiful this time of year, and I won’t be such a thorny bull. Prunes are good for you but don’t pare your bush down to roots. Having your head in the clouds is having it up your arse. The land of the living is inhabited by deceased pedestrians. If you see a reddened man in mid-stride, stay put. My pen is mightier than my words. A bull belongs in a pen. The shit has to come out somewhere. Muck and shit: equal.
If you’re like me, you have opposable thumbs. That’s the wonderful thing about being human. As far as anyone knows the divine takes on forms that are known to us. What we can’t imagine can exist. We know all there is to of things we can never know. The pattern of human endeavour is beyond our control. Isn’t life grand? It’s fortunate for us that we are blessed with those who can elucidate any issue with their extraordinary erudition. Trouser-tripe tossers take traffic tallies to total truth. Literary merit is not measured by numbers. Baptised with a chemical reaction you might have to be, wooden wankers. The divine is manifest in patterns of human endeavour. If you could see beyond the end of your own nose you might catch a glimpse. That’s one bridge that you have to cross alone. If you do, I’ll give you two thumbs up! “Snotrags in the top pocket.” Cue the stick. That’s all it takes to realise the transience of your intransigence. I used to be stubborn and on that I won’t budge the metric equivalent of an inch. Don’t get me started on my three feet. I’m the metreman! Do you see what happens when a human tries to write of divinity? I’m all too human too! Humanity is wretched like divinity is great. Human and divine: opposite.
Dogs and Women? How do you tell the difference if you're visually impaired? Is that a she dog or a he dog? Or should you just grope around in the dark? Because the fanny doesn't stick out like dog's balls? Inverted dogs' penises? In Dogs' Space? Can someone give me a hand? (I just Miss/Ms-Placed mine in my Guide Dog's cunt? Why do I get a mongrel every time I have see a bitch through my blurred beer-goggle vision specs? Q: Why do women who are not blind as bats wear sunglasses? A: (1): They can't look you in the eye of the penis? A: (2):Can't swallow? Their own pride? Of appearance? Vanity? Blind people? They live in the dark. Sex for a blind person? It's all about touch. Women who touch my spirit? They have inner eyes. Contact? Who needs lenses? UP Periscope! Short-sighted? Long-sighted? Or just sink the sub? Women who touch my body? I invite them back and put a bowl of water by the bed. And spank them with their white cane? Blind Love? Love at first non-sight? Love at first touch? Love at first blow? Suck? Lick? Fuck? The sound of a doggy? Woof. The sound of a woman when you go the doggy? Woof. Equals.
My penis? If I could locate it? I would. If women would locate it for me? I’d let them. They’ve got better eyesight in general. For the finer details of life. Women? They have to keep their eyes on multiple children and multi-task all at the same time. Why won’t a woman multi-task with me? No penis? Probably. Adult Product Shops (the ones that sell strap-ons) and me? Equals. Neither has a real penis.
Some cunts are more cultured than others. The washed up ones are that way because of douche-bags. Gee, spot on was the fucker who said that cultured cunts are dirty twats. Tight arses turn to jelly when things get too uncomfortable. Gone arrears are those that discharge secrets. Some squirts are claimed by beneficial baggage. Don’t ever do what I did, and mistake one for a bong-pipe. You’ll be burning the bush and smoking weeds, truly. Some dildoes have experienced more culture than me, surely. I’m Goliath all over. Stay away from my arse shepherds and I’ll consider doing the same. Ladies, you’ll turn to jelly at the sight of me standing tall. Philistines are sanitary cunts, sterile and lacking. Creativity is a dirty business, the mind collects all manner of bugs; some are healthy and the others are expelled. It’s a stream without consciousness. You’re not being showered with praise. A hot, twisted stream of acid right in your eye, stinging. After years of hitting the bottle through the mouth, I now opt for enemas. “Scotch on the rocks up the arse, please barkeep.” Shaken? I’m only shit-stirring. If you are a bit of a dirty cunt, you’ve probably got the right mix of cultures, and if you’re one of these fussy clean freaks, then you’ve been bagged. The bagged and the cultured: opposite.
The figure head of the new religion (irreligion) is that great WEstErn IDeal - YOU! If you belong to this religion, you invariably think that you are ever so fucking righteous. Your sinister egomania is rife with your own pathetic ambition. Selfish arse gazers take a step back from the gaping chasm of your unholey arses. The shit has nowhere else to go but out your fingertips. I write with my member so I'm not in total control of my flow. Please notify me if the brutal butchering of blowies is offensive. Your belief in yourself is a cardboard cut-out that is blowing in the wind of your gasbagging trout-lips. Belief in forces greater than yourself is the first step towards humility. We are but the vehicles for our spirits. Your work is manifest with a poisonous moonshine. Sit yourself up on your hill, on your stool and roll back down into the sewer that you crawled out of, you loveless-rats! Downright up yourself are you, expect me to lob on your mater’s door wearing nothing but my birthday suit. Return to subjects that you know, for you are not your own subject, you caught jester. Your bells and whistles give you away as you wank in your wallet. I’m not a fan of murder, but in your case I’m willing to make an exception. Your underworld you'll share with worms, you'll pine for box. The calibre of my barrels will have you spewing something other than shit, you dais straddling junior. You’ll be sent to the darkness along with you ignorance. Ignorance and enlightenment: opposite.
It’s a well known fact that you should use toilet paper to wipe your lips with after a meal. It comes in handy. I’ve come in handy many times. Depending on which side you curl them out from (we all have a leaning) the left meat hook or the right is generally sufficiently lengthy and supple to swab the shit chute of even the most long arsed and short torso tentancled. I’m so fucking rich I get someone to wipe my faecal fanny for me with a fifty. Advisable it is to check the hue and texture of your disposable dunny paintings. Fried human genitals don’t agree with me; they’re repeating on me eternally. You don't want a gobful of that. My nostrils are preoccupied with more serious matters. Exhibitions of arse-art are held in high regard in shithouse galleries globally. Object as some will to it, I often wipe my scent detector on a blank canvas from the crap castle. Nobody has ever masturbated on a canvas, let alone exhibited shit art in a curator’s cardboard castle. Please don’t wank in a public square; someone might be watching or listening. Cardboard cylinders make excellent erection inducers. If you are going to wipe either arse of matter, it doesn’t matter if you don’t use a white shit towel. I like to leave things to the left and others prefer to be right. Organic art supplies are optional. Wiping your arse with your left hand and wiping your arse with your right: opposite.
This post is about the length of a post. The length of a post is about this long. A post should be as long as it takes to stand up. There are many out there and if you like surfing you can find those out there. If you like diving, Lezzos, then this is one place where you can. God I love beautiful lesbians. You could almost say words and reality: opposite. It’s all in motion. Words have a regular root. Lucky fuckers. He knows a bit about roots, my mate Man. I’m a regular fucking green-horn. It doesn’t depress me to see other sites getting more sights than my own. It sits well with me. I’m a very balanced individual. It’s not easy when you’re hopping crabby. God, I’d love to set myself up on top of a building and pick people off like you would. This post has no direction, it’s just as I wrote it. The world is orderly on the floor but all I can see is chaos on the faces. I’m sick of crafting cheesy dishes that have depth for card carrying cardboard eaters. Scaling a ladder with shit in my boots and a fishing knife is not for me. Give me a spectacular fall from a low rung with my neck in a belt any fucking day. Practising profundity is pushing a paddle through poo. Not really, I care as much as you do about flat banal heads cooked in their own juices. Fuck I’d like to flatten a few peanuts and spread them on bread. My supplies are low. Watch for me to fall flat very shortly. It gladdens my heart to write. Like a man with two dicks and a tent, I’m one happy fucking camper. Fuck the depths! I’m pond scum. I’m only posting this because I’m building offence. Surface and depth: opposite.
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