Norm
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[ February 2007 ] [ April 2007 ]
Equal and Opposite - March 2007
Filth
Tired of hearing filthy language?
With a dick in one ear and a pencil in the other, you won't.
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Wordsmith
Birthday greetings
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Object and Subject
The physical and the spiritual are two opposite ends of the same stick. It’s a stick that we have been whipping ourselves since Cocky was a calcium footy. Science is the domain of the objective whip; a torturous lab of tea-totalling terry-towelling tamperers. Religion is the domain of the subjective whip; flagellations from fiery pulpits prevail. The synthesis is Politics. It lies in the middle and it’s practitioners always do. You can’t throw them as far as you can trust them. The futility of social uniformity is an embarrassment to masculinity. The padre of pants reeked with the ideas contained in this post. I mean no offence with this post. Art is a representation of the physical world as Science is. And Music is a representation of the spiritual world and Religion is too. They go about it in vastly different ways. I don't mean to sound bias but it's hard when you've fallen off your chair, as I have and will continue to. Art and Science: opposite; Music and Religion: opposite.
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Brain
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Forgotten your own name?
You really should get that checked out. I recommend that you do. The brain is very important. I have one. It helps me to get around. I'd be lost without it. Where was I? Do things with the old grey bits. Don't think about genitals. You won’t know yourself!
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How good is your brain?
Put a pencil in each nostril and bang down hard on the table.
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Are you too cerebral?
Unlikely if you’re reading this.
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Don’t think about genitals.
It’s bad for you.
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Have a brain in your head?
Better on the inside of the skull but whatever works for you. And please remember the thing about genitals. Don’t think about them.
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Got bad brains?
Look at funny squiggles. It really helps a perverted brain.
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Forgotten your own name?
You really should get that checked out. I recommend that you do. The brain is very important. I have one. It helps me to get around. I'd be lost without it. Where was I? Do things with the old grey bits. Don't think about genitals. You won’t know yourself!
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How good is your brain?
Put a pencil in each nostril and bang down hard on the table.
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Are you too cerebral?
Unlikely if you’re reading this.
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Don’t think about genitals.
It’s bad for you.
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Have a brain in your head?
Better on the inside of the skull but whatever works for you. And please remember the thing about genitals. Don’t think about them.
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Money
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Got access to a computer?
Of course you do, how silly of me.
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Earn extra cash.
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Got access to a computer?
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Earn extra cash.
Put your hand in the till and just take it. It's a victimless crime. Don't even think about it.
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Work from home.
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Earn Millions on the Stockmarket.
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Prickly problems
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Remove your head from your arsehole today.
Pull yourself together this very minute.
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Bounce back with the arse to chest transplant.
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Get your hand off it.
You can use your lips when we fracture your spine.
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Got Itchy Balls?
Have a scratch when they get itchy with digital art.
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Remove your head from your arsehole today.
Pull yourself together this very minute.
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Saggy tits are a sign of the times.
Bounce back with the arse to chest transplant.
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Get your hand off it.
You can use your lips when we fracture your spine.
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Computerman and the Brain
Two testicles and a head like a monitor and the body of a keyboard and the heart of a processor, lets Computerman trudge the cyberstreets. It is not unusual for our hero to think highly of himself. His deeds back up his beliefs. It was online one day that Computerman went off his monitor with rage. A dodgy server and a case of the irrits was the cause. The unfortunate, but not undeserving, victim was the Brain. Mistaking the insignificant organ for a footy, our hero sunk the slipper in and sent the neuroned nasty into Enronland. The Brain is just a lump of grey bits with a cord. With his mighty processor, he made sliced cheese of the evil Brain. He ripped the cord form the column that it had perched itself on, and sent the organ to his boot in a kick that would have sent the Fev into drug-induced ecstasy. Big drug companies are always legal. The crowd roared because the Brain had been kicked; the Heart has things in it that the brain can never understand. In the race for the world, it is the Heart that reigns supreme. The grey mattered monitor is a mere masturbation manager. The pumping station is the heart. Thanks to Computerman: the brain and the heart: opposite.
TAKE THAT, EVIL BRAIN!
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Find trousers
Wear Trousers. I would. You should. Trousers go on one leg at a time. Wear them on your legs. One leg at a time. Leave your home in them. I would. Walk in them. One leg at a time. Left leg and right. Sit down in your trousers. Bend at the knees. One at a time. If you're going to have a crap? Take them off. Two legs together. Spread your legs. Lower yourself. I would. Do your business. Don't miss. Don't slap one on all over the sides. Be direct. Aim well. Shit in the water. Go plop. Wipe. Not with your trousers. Anything but your trousers. Your bare hands. Pull up your trousers. Two legs together. Do them up. Walk off as though nothing has happened. Don't forget to flush. Tell the world. I have done a good crap and now you know. I do. You should too. Wear trousers. Find a nice pair. They are out there waiting. The trousers will see you. Hanging on the rack. You'll be unsuspecting. The next thing you know. You're wearing trousers. You know all about it. Don't spill anything on them. They are trousers. Wear them well. Keep them clean. Keep them intact. Stains in the crotch region are inadvisable. They are suggestive of poor character. Wear underwear. Keep a hard-on hidden. Wear a hole in your trousers. Wear it well. Walk the streets with a hole. Try it. I would. Don't ever forget to wear trousers. Trousers: don't leave home without them. One leg at a time. Don't ever be short on trousers. Shorts and trousers: opposite.
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The unassailable adventures of Computerman
DA DADADA DA! IT'S COMPUTERMAN
MILD MANNERED NORM
NANNANANANANANANANANA - BARDMAN
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Tips for fat women on how to go about registering with an internet dating agency.
If you haven't been fat all of your life? Choose a photo from your less fat days. On second thoughts. It's hardly likely there was a time in your life you were slim now, is there? You probably blame food or something. Anything probably. If you have been fat all your life? Which is probably the case. Download a pic of an anorexic model. There's plenty around. No-one will know. Just blur the head if its Callista Fuckheart. If you are computer illiterate? Just tick the box that says Photos in private gallery. If you can't manage that? Just hit the keyboard anywhere and hope for the best. If you have a basic knowledge of computers? Which you probably would have. Most fat chicks have so much time on their hands after they realise no number of trips to the beauty salon or no amount of beauty products is ever going to make them attractive, so they develop their computer skills. Something solitary tends to help. Never grant anyone access to your private gallery. Pretend you're a real honey and the guy has to be really special and stop sending you dic pics before you'll let him see you naked. Or just pretend you do have something on offer, and just tell the guys you're a prick teaser and that's why you joined. Because you feel like the femininist movement isn't making as much progress as it should, and you're taking a stand against all the abused women out there. And since you can't take any revenge on your ex, you've joined this site to take revenge on every man because he turned gay on you. And how it had nothing to do with your looks or attitude to life. Don't think for a moment this will turn moronic men off. It will only make them desire you all the more. Until they see you that is. But don't ever meet anyone. Unless you want to end up in a dumpster. Or three of them, in your case. Don't under any circumstances put a real picture of yourself on an internet dating site profile. Even if you do have a wide-angled lens. You will only attract fat balding men who are as desperate as you are. Lie about your weight. Never tick the cuddly or voluptuous box. Any man whose ever been on an internet dating site knows that means one thing. You are fat. Don't tick the I choose not to answer this question box either. That's a dead giveway that you just might be the world's fattest woman. Just lie. All of the other women on dating sites do. Even the not so fat ones. If you can call them that. The only women who dont lie on internet dating sites are the ones who aren't on there. Fat women and women on internet dating sites? Equals.
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Adding Sense to My Glooble (My Blog Doodle).
Dour Joan's Index finger? Shove it up my eogenous zone, Joan. Com Sex me off the graph. Show me where you truly EXCEL. Let's share. Stop dying your pink bits and spitting blue chips, and start mining me. I've got the tools and resources you need. Rate my interest in you a little higher. Think percentages and returns. Take stock of yourself. Don't play the whole market. I'll be a bull. I'll be a bear. I'll even be a Wolf. Invest in me. Don't trade our future in. Come play FTSEs with me. I've been self-managing my funds for too long now. Show me your hedge. I'll fund it. And give you the credit. Make more than a few deposits and withdrawals. I'll bend you over-the-counter. I'm into bondage. My last girlfriend? I broker, but you can handle the rises and falls. Take a risk on me. Those who play the stockmarket, and those who don't treat it as a game at all? Opposites.
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[ Link ]
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Cut the crap with a fork. Utensils are very good these days. Wear trousers. Eat and multiply. We recommend it. Buy something. Have a click. I'm desperate. I need this. Give me a break. I need it desperately. Do me favour. Eat and defecate. Life and work: opposite.www.poopants.com
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Sense and cents: opposite.
Make sense of any of this: good luck.
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Need to poo your pants?
An innovative way to defecate your duds, dutifully.
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Cut the crap with a fork. Utensils are very good these days. Wear trousers. Eat and multiply. We recommend it. Buy something. Have a click. I'm desperate. I need this. Give me a break. I need it desperately. Do me favour. Eat and defecate. Life and work: opposite.www.poopants.com
Short on stature but big on temper?
We cure Little Man Syndrome with our gigantic facilities.
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Sense and cents: opposite.
Make sense of any of this: good luck.
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Pot the piss
I can drink a shitload of piss. Piss my hardearned up against the wall weekly. Shit, it's hard to knockback piss. I can knock it back by the potload. Pots of piss are surely shit-hot. On a cold one even, a shitlot of shit-hot cold ones, I can knockback. On the odd occasion that I knockback a pot of piss you'll think that I'm shitting you. I shit you not, a shitlot of the shit-hot, I can't knockback. Stare at full jugs on a hot one on a lot of piss, or not. Knockback jugs never, not on a handful of nuts, anyway. Don't hold back on the nuts and I'll come across a little squirt, piss pullers. I can sit on a stool all bloody day; I'm just a regular Norm. Beer is not cause to have a nap in the prime of your life. Seeing your life flash before your eyes can take years through special goggles. This slab is dedicated to the first one that I ever sank. I certainly can sink a silly assortment of stubbies. Hopping beverages taste better in glass but cans are convenient. Store that in the old memory bank and then drink it to the deep recesses of your data processor. The pot is a receptacle for piss. It doesn't tickle to have one smashed over your melon. Nobody has ever glassed anyones melon with a jug. Don't go pissing on your jugs though; it's just not on. This slab has fallen; it's flat! What's a pot to me is a schooner to others no less me than me. Pot and schooner: equal.
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Cracking up
If you’re cracking up you’ll be cracking up when they crackdown on crack-down. Hair in the arsehole is a real drag, you dag. It’s laughable actually. There’s only so many ways to wear the hair down there. I recommend, highly, product. Natural product is a product of pooing in your pants, people. People pick their posterior pouters plentifully. Don’t get on here and tell me that you’ve never grabbed a handful of jobease and just buried your face in it, please. Please, having the wind rushing through your hair is a sensation we all know and love. Whisper sweet nothings in my arse, darling. That has a nice ring to it. I find it hard to believe, but believe it, I do, that wankers wax their dunny whackers. Whacks on the bum is what you want and whacks on the bum is what you’ll get. It’s a real bummer when dags hang about your heirs. Not that I have any. Sometimes offerings just don’t come out the ring properly. Arse-lickers are smoother than bum-sniffers. Arse-lickers are slicker. Having a face full of bumfluff is akin to face-fungus. In certain circles the hairier the hamburgerhatch the healthier the heathen. Aussie blokes are renowned for their crackdown. It’s nothing I’d put in my sleeping bag. I wouldn’t put down putting anything down my crack, normally. Cracking down and cracking up: opposite.
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Who bangs your drum?
Fisting is not for everyone. It's a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me. Let me grab my own stick and perforate your skin. Let me feel the beat within. The pulsations. The vibrations. The emanations. Bring on the tribal dance. Invite me into your brush hut. Cast your spell on me. Cast yourself on me. Throw and thrust yourself on me. I want to go beyond romance. I want to go all Voodoo on you. I want to bang your drum. I want you to twirl my stick. I'll even bang your bum. To the same beat. You're hard to beat. The music you make to the sound of my drum beating? It's not demonic. It's mesmonic. Your pace is frenetic when you're in Voodoo mode. I just want to explode. While you implode. Bang me Baby, bang me. Bang Bang Bang. Bite the head off my chicken if you like. Add it to your boiling cauldron. Sacrifice yourself for me, and I'll stab you to death. Humans and Animals? Equals when it comes to secret things.
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What does your destiny hold?
Destiny, it has been decided, is a determination delineated by devourers of deadhead descriptions. The course of our lives is beyond any of us. Why don’t you please play a ball sport on an autobahn. Death’s decisive deed is our common destination. Deadpan, I can deafeningly deal dearies debilitating decency. Decerebrate decorous decomposing debtors, deferentially. Being brainless might do heartless howlers wonders. Get your hand off it; the future is not in the palm of anybody’s hand. I’d like to see you read my palm: all the lines have been wanked out. Don’t get me started on tea-leaves; I’ll leave you straining for breath. Deriding deranged designers deserves decades of destitution. Life is long but death is longer. It’s a map that can’t be written with any precision. There’s no certainty in predicting what the road is like only that it goes to a deadend. If you could live forever you’d be so decrepit that you’d delight in deathknells. The door to understanding is deadbolted but there’s a catch: it’s not supported by walls and once you step through you can’t come back. The derision of the debauched is a devastatingly deluded decision. We’re all debauched so make with the merriment and pull your digital illusions out. Fate is fatal. I’ll leave you with some levity: literature, literally, is a load of lifeless letters. The denouement: destiny and death: equal.
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The problems associated with logging in and logging out.
Do you have problems logging in and logging out? I know I certainly do. I sleep like a log but where do the logs go? And what does a log sleep like? And what is a log? And when is a log in? And when is a log out? These are the questions I ask myself in my sleep when I'm sleeping like a log, and shitting my pants in my sleep. I have often been as crook as a dog. Even as crook a healthy one with straight legs. But I still don't know what a log sleeps like. I've slept with a few dogs, so I don't need an answer to that question. I've even stayed awake with a couple of dogs and gone the doggy. But the stink of the morning-after dogbreath is vile. Forget about what the dog looks like in your bed. Even a horse's head would be more appealing. So how does a log sleep? Only the toilet cistern, and the Sewerage Disposal Company can answer these questions. The toilet cistern wont speak to me. It just gushes and flushes in that porcelain way they all do. Unless it's a pit toilet and just goes plop. And I can't log in to the Sewerage Company's website. Even their phone lines are jammed. It's a conspiracy. Someone has shoved chocolate donuts down the lines. How do I login in to Blog? Log in, in Bill & Ben speak and just say Blog-a-log. And expect it all to happen? Logging in and loggin out? Intermediates.
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Global Warming. The Real Cause.
It's all the hot-air politicians release into the atmosphere when they speak. Take a close look at John Howard's head. Have a paper bag handy at the time. The type they put in the pocket on the back of aeroplane seats. If you spew into it? Send it to Kodak for processing. I do. It's no wonder John Howard emits so much toxic gas. His head is the shape of a hot-air balloon. Don't be surprised if, after he loses the election, he floats over your place. With Jeanette in his basket. He's already invaded our houses and workplaces with his policies. And those short blasts and rushes of fiery air? The ones that make a whooshing noise? Coming from the Little Johnny Blimp? They'll be as meaningful as anything he ever spoke during his political career. Hot Air and Politicians' Words? Equals. John Howard's head and a Hot-Air Balloon? Equals.
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If You Only Read Two Orble Posts This Year? Read This One Twice.
Why? No reason. Read it to find out. But you have to go beyond the title header. Oh it will be well worth it. Believe me. Trust me. I'm a Blogger. Where else on the net will you find such profundity or depth of thought? So what is the post about? Read on. You won't be disappointed. It is a bit saucy and raunchy. But some people like that sort of thing. I don't. I just write it to meet market demands. I want my 2c/month from AdSense. It's well worth the effort. So, what is this post really all about? You've just read it. Those who teach others how to Blog without knowing how to go about it, and those who just Blog? Opposites.
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Do You Doodle?
Do you Doodle? Try it without a pen and paper. It's a hobby for males and females alike. Unless you're a lesbian. Look at the squiggly patterns, even while the ink is not quite dry and crusty but still running all over the place. Don't try to make sense of the swirls and curls or sticky bits, or analyse them or criticise them or judge them. Just accept them for what they are. Enjoy them as an expression of your innner self coming out. Doodling may be played alone but it is not Solitaire. It does require patience, but buy a pack of cards if Solitaire is your thing. Grab a friend. Ring one even. And get him/her to join in. Do not ring a Lesbian. Hours of fun to be had. It might seem quite childish at first. The sort of thing only animals without reason, or children would do at kindy or lying on the floor at home in front of the tele. But once you release the inner child and go back to your primal nature? You'll enjoy it. Believe me. Trust me. I Doodle a lot. I'm a Doodle expert. Writers and Doodlers? Equals.
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[ Link ]
If there's one thing you should read this year, this isn't it but have a little look anyway; maybe read it twice or once slowly or thrice upside down
Intelligence is no guarantee of security. The insecure are often fraught with perspicacity. It’s a surety, that frequently, intellectual dexterity has fraternity with uncertainty. In actuality, insecurity is a typicality of fatuity. It’s through spirituality that true security is gained in perpetuity. In perpetuity, it’s inevitability that dexterity is fallibility. Fallibility is, in a nut’s hell, humanity. Humanity, despite the attempts of the rank and file, is vile and rank. Simply put, put down your glasses. Life is a physical reality. In reality, it’s really an ability to hold onto equanimity, but hostility is not without manageability or validity. Safety in numbers is a reduction of probability but only if sagacity is combined with impetuosity. Sitting on the fence is really quite an offence. Balancing equanimity and volatility is feasibility of personality. High-minded console straddlers can’t escape their own mediocrity. You can’t drum it into yourself enough that you are a solid piddle. The earliest humanity was a cannibal, it’s probable. Societal equality is an absolute fucking furphy, far from feasible. Far from fine, it’s not an idea that is in any way mine. My ideas have the buoyancy of a sub but humanity can only scale to so many depths. There will always be darkness in the bottom. Turds float, you can’t refute that. In security I can say that we all have insecurity. Thought put into words without feeling is a hardened shit, doomed to float on the top. You’ll never see a bottom again. It’s where the truth lies. I already know that I’m a shit and so should you. In a nutshell: intellect and emotion: opposite.
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Pain and pleasure
Not many people know this but, pissing razorblades is really rather meaningless. It’s an absolute pleasure to apply ointment to open genital sores. The things I’ve seen. Sawing a bitching in half with a shoestring means nothing to me. As far as I know dogs know no suffering like being bifurcated up the nose. Know-all armed arse-robbers can wipe my arse with their face cactus. They make a real spectacle of themselves. Glasses require constant care, Constance. If anyone lends me their nasal windows I’ll put their eye in the pane. The monocle on my all-seeing one is not rose coloured. No, not that, anything but that. To people who know me well enough, I’m a right pain in the proverbial bog blaster. A pane in the arse is a window to the hole. Without consciousness we know none. I’ve known none. My habit is avoidance. There are beings, living, who are really having pokers pushed in their peepers. Hurt is the body telling the brain: this could be fucking fatal you walnut! I’ve never known excruciating insights into what the body can say. Plenty to look forward to. Fuck, don’t get in my face and tell me life’s a fucking picnic, basket cases. I’ll wrap your carcass in a blanky and roll you up and down the hill, up and down the hill. I’ll hamper your attempts at winging it, chickens. Once again, it’s been a pleasure. Pain and pleasure: opposite.
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Retreiving my mind from the toilet cistern.
How it got from the gutter into the toilet cistern, I'll never know.
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