Bloggers well know that there are certain things in life that, for a spiritual crab, are detrimental to a healthy and long existence in the physical shell. If you've ever felt that you've lost your ability to do the the things for which you have an ability then I can't relate to you at all you pathetic creatures. At all times, I have maintained my ability to construct words into the most readable and digestable calf livers that were ever served up with onions and some sort of sauce. Some sorts of sauce just lead nowhere and some sorts of sorts lead somewhere and some sorts of sauce lead the rest in readabiltity. Read ability. If I was to paint a picture for you about what readability is then I'd probably resort to the most readable and delightful strain of brussel sprouts served with cracked pepper and some sort of butter. To butter you up to vote for my post, I might pop into your little domain and just flop out my old chop in your comments section and leave you in no doubt as to my intention. My intentions are pure. Purely as an entree to the majesty that is me, I'd regale you with readable snacks from the pantry of my experience. I'd open up my stinking hinges and you'd know that I've never come unglued at the sign of an ability lost. Deference would be your leaning as I leaned into your shoulder and whispered in your ear: painting and writing: equal.
Collingwood good samaritan and loving family man, Alan Didak has mysteriously returned to earth after "two little green men" beamed him aboard their interplanetary vehicle. A traumatised Didak said that "it was a bit like a coupe" and he was clearly shaken by the dramatic incident because those UFO coupes are hard to get out of when you can't speak Martian. He has quite a trauma. But not enough to miss a game of football. Because nothing could be more important than playing football.
For their part, the little green men remain tight lipped, as always, they are born with lips that are that way and eyes that are big and googly. The Collingwood hierarchy just hope that such random and traumatic things happen to no other players who can seriously play. If it happened to a lesser light, say Leon Davis?, then the Collingwood authorities would let him have it for being out boozing at a strip joint with funny little men.
As for rectal probes, well Didak who sat uncomfortably, simply said that he wouldn't be ruling anything out in the future. And although we don't know if he's a misogynist, he did say that he was going to kick a bag on the weekend. Neon Leon is merely green with envy that the culture at Pieland is not a reflection of the broader community and that his 'type' get treated equally. But when it comes to mediterranean and indigenous members of the Australian community, I know who I'd have. Neither. Give me a good Anglo running the forward zone any day of the weekend.
Small forward and small forward: opposite.
Woken up one morning to find that you're as serious as a plastic bag full of bricks? Just found everything without wryness? Struggled to push air from your lungs to the tune of an inarticulate, but understood, noise(commonly referred to as a laugh)? Finding fun faulty? There can be only one way out. Some would say that to sniff the underwear of a colleague and friend is laughable. Laughability is not what I'm all about. Underwear is. Under, where over is looked up to, is below the surface. The surface is a smooth sausage. Look, I may not have found my sense of humour yet, but I'm getting there, thank you very much. It happens to us all at one time or another and often frequently.
Drama and humour? opposite.
I apologise. I haven't been around. Norm knows why. He wanted me to tell people why. I didn't want to. He pressed me. It was either, Tell them, or lose your spot on this blog! Or, I'll tell them! Norm didn't leave me with a choice. Norm is a great moderator. Yes. I met a woman on the net. And we are now lovers. Physical lovers. I met her on a writing Blogsite of all places. I'm glad I cancelled my subscriptions to internet dating agencies. The females on there are all so deceitful and false. Females on writing Blogsites are so honest. I can't tell you who she is. Privacy issues. But I did meet her on this site. We're still getting to know each other. It's taking a while. There's a lot more to her than meets the eye. She likes sitting around. That suits me. So do I. She's going to sit around the house tomorrow. I want to take a pic. Truth and Falsehood. Opposite.
Oh whatever is one to do when one feels as though one's ability to compose delightful pieces that appeal to the most excruciatingly discerning intellects has deserted one for some prostitute or other? The sense of abandonment that one might feel at such an event is likely to lead that particular individual to console oneself by staring at a console for hour upon hour. Hours heaped upon themselves in the corner of a dusty room until the celing bursts open leaving the inhabitants open to the most extreme weather conditions whether they like it or not. All because that sensitivity to certain little units led one to believe that they would remain as strongly by one's side as they had at that time when one made the formulation in one's mind that they would never abandon one for the company of some lady of the night or other. Fickle are the juices that we have coined creative. They are as likely to be there and not here as soon as one feels as though they are here and not there. To employ them in the services of some drab head mechanism is to sign up a dope to do the work of a chemist.
Don't look now but, what you have you may not have as much of as you think you do and being bereft of bounty is to balance on your toes walking on a cotton thread over a pit of snapping handbags. Don't count your eggs before they've been laid or you'll be in a mad scramble to poach someone else's and stealing is very wrong.
Ebb and flow: opposite.
In order to attract a larger number of readers, I have endorsed the policy devised by the Foundation for Blogworkers, and enhanced my writing skills accordingly to fall in line, to mention as many proper nouns (as improperly as possible) as I possibly can. My interest in proper nouns is, and always has been, absolutely proper. Right away, I'd like to peel of a few names so that I can attract those who can control their eye muscles to move laterally and understand linear progressions of funny little characters on a keyboard that a machine understands and converts to type. To type such nouns, I'll have to consult the Foundation to redirect me towards such examples.
Really this post has gone right off the rails. It seems that my head is elsewhere. I can't seem to focus. Anymore that I do has been tarnished before it has been done. It's all just so much lint. Right off the bat it was doomed. It should have been played through the corridor. Of uncertainty and doubt, the former is relevant here. If you can make sense of this, you're a better woman than me. Far from fine is the form. Restless and lazy is the state of mind that has prevailed. What a cocktail of chemicals (as is how I understand states). Slightly off key is the tone. Did I mention the punchline? No gags in this one. Except from me.
Proper and right off: opposite.
I'm not particularly internetally aware, but, and I say this with utmost sincerity, there is no way, not a chance that the number of people reading my scribbles numbers in the three figures. Not even in a pink fit could I say that I know this for sure, and if I really wanted assurance I'd ask for it, but it just seems a little loftier than ludicrous to suppose that that many people are actually reading any of the things that I make appear on the screen from the delicacy and accuracy of my fingertips on the keys. Lock up your minds if you are out there and you are the single reader who is hitting on my shit some time down the track. My shit just gets smellier the longer i leave it but someone hits it any way. You'd have to be a dill to substitute quality of creation with the number of digits that arrive in the mail. A man has to eat though and he can't eat his letters forever, even if they never arrive in the mail but he posts them himself. I speak of myself of course, I wouldn't dare speak for anyone else even in my most arrogant moments. Even in my most humble moments, I'm better than you humble reader. If you are that single reader who is out there and you are reading this in the future, just drop a comment so that I can verify your existence and engagement witht the text. No doubt there'll be an outcry of what i've said here today, the technorati will have me on a number of counts. I'm not into number counts(even though I really am).
Numbers and readers: opposite.
Under no circumstances am i capable of the most overbearing kind of arrogance that you have ever encountered in your pitiful lives. I must make you all understand that I always, always, always have a handle on the size of my head (that, i think is why i have been called trophy ears but i'll let you be the judge of that, if you think that you're up to it. You're probably not, so let's just forget that i ever asked you to assist me in my endeavours, as it's obviuosly something that very few are capable of handling. Hardly surpising that nobody has ever called you trophy ears with anything like the frequency that i have been handed the prestigious acclaim of receiving the accolade for always having a handle on the dimensions of my bean. And since it has been so long since any of you have ever had the privilege of bathing in the infectious joy of my carefully constructed persona, i thought I might assign you all a little task. Hang on, we've been through this and i thought that I made it clear that you, to no real fault of your own, aren't up to the task of holding a candle to my scrotum so that i can squeeze the ingrown hairs on the underside of my sack. Now try to restrain your relief that it is no fault of your own but, be determined in your resignation that there is little, if not nothing, that you can do to attain for your shortcomings. Even with a pair of high heels on, you still wouldn't be able to do the required candle handling).
My head and my sack: opposite.
Being an irresponsible and tarrible spiller as I am, swear words I find particularly diificunt to smell propellerly. You cunt smell thatch without vatch, and I have it on good orthority that it's true that a cook goes in a cont and so on. But in reality, I hate nothing more than hearing people swearing on the bus and and in and around, but mostly because they handle the words with so little care (and I hate people passionately). I don't throw my dicks or my arses around willy nilly for just anyones ear. But in reading, a word is amplified by the technological equipment in the brain and powered by the heart, and those of weak hearts fail to hear the vibrancy in the words and are stuck with an insipid life sentence that just keeps repeating. They are stamped NEVER TO BE RELEASED, and rightfully so because to tread the boards of language and grammar with their heavy feet is an abuse to those who have lighter more nimble feet. It is little wonder that expletives fly in the face when such travesties as overusing commas and pathetic lifeless sentences abound and mean and nasty constructions rob us of any sort spiritual wealth that some sentences can promote. Naughty words are just that: naught. Of course they are more important than being true and honest and forthright in your dealings with yourself and others. Be as underhanded and sneaky as you like but, don't write that for fack's sake. My bad spilling and swear words: opposite.
Well, my dear friends and even dearer enemies (some of you are one in the same only you fail to realise how much I love you), it seems, from studies conducted in Upper Mongolia, that making vapid comments on a blog are of more value than making vapid scribbles on a wall. The team at the Research Institute for the Hard of Thinking have come up with these astonishing results after spending a mere fifteen weeks as bloggers. The head researcher, a Ms. Leonie Windybritches, said "Yes, I have a blog tag, and no I don't merely make comments to get myself seen. Not like those irresponsible and misguided grafitti taggers." Windybritches went on to add that she has a preference for hand sculpted dildoes because they have no ridiculous and unnecessary writing on them. Sponsored by The Lady Short Shorts Designer Fat Peoples Clothing Co., her team consists of notable trouser wearers and an assortment of hairy lipped bloggers(not to be confused with taggers). "I'd say a resounding success for the fight for hypocrisy has been achieved here today, what do I think?"
This article was the brainchild of Norman Pastrypuffer III.
Licensed by the good people of Slim Jim's Tyres and Trousers.
It is in no way representative of anything.
Vapid and valued: opposite.(c)
What's yours is mine and what is yours is mine and what's mine is yours and what's yours is yours and mine. Mind you, yours is still mine and you can can mine the depths of your mind and what is mine will remain mine; even though your mind is my only bugbear and mind your own and I'll mind mine. Mine only mind is your mindless mine of the bottom of your mine and I have mined my mind to mine own grief and it is the grief of a mind that has lost its mind to be left uminded in your mindlessness. And it could only be apparent to those with any sort of mind that, minding the minute details of life is what living life with the likelihood of learning lessons is all about. Likely is it that mucking up with the pen is far from any sort of real error; the real error comes before the pen has even been picked up and wiped the page like some sort of paper you might locate in the shit-shower. The real accuracy is only ever hit by the wayward pen and shitting out your ballpoint is case in point. I endorse felt pens, as a rule. Straight lines from point to point are best achieved with some sort of mechanism unlike an arm or a hookmeat. Me mean meathooks have rarely stroked the pen with any thing but a sort of ragged and furious inertia typified by a sort of mindless scribbling beset by aural cavity insertions and distracted chewing. My mind is merely some sort of aerial that operates all too infrequently. I'm certain that yours is the same? Yours and mine: opposite.
For all intents and purposes I had fallen from the face of the sphere, but I hadn't. Intents and purposes line the well worn track to the not so pearly gates of the other place; or so I've heard. You can't walk a mile in my shoes and tell me that my feet stink, because I always wash my meat plates in grey water. To run off a few lines and let it all hang out is, simply, what it's all about, for me anyway. I can't hold a thread long enough to do anything but unravel like a ball of barbed wire at the bottom of the sea. You'll see what i mean when you get there too. I'm afraid that's it for now, but don't hold you breath that I won't be around again, because I probably will. Absent and present: opposite.
If you've ever been so exhausted and worried that you thought your head was full of knots then i have absolutely no sympathy for you. In my humble opinion, and it is humble and trust me on that, and I am trustworthy, you can believe me on that, have no doubt about it, not even a touch of the shade of one doubt shall fall over soggy ground, take it from me, in my humble opinion there is no such thing as a knot that goes in your head and if it does, and it doesn't, then i know of no such thing, and I know a lot, you had better take my word for it because I never get tired or worried or feel like a massive rope has curled itself around my brain and is squeezing the hair from my head. I just wouldn't know what to believe any more and any more than than that i can hardly take at the minute and i've been counting the seconds until the new day arrives when my head feels like so. Knotty and not: opposite.
Now I've never stated that I was a coffee machine, but if you punch my buttons I'll certainly spit something out. It's just a matter of what, not to mention all the other aspects which are too numerous to even name in your head and naming things in your head is about as useful as having legendary status in your own midday meal carrying case, and what is written is never as important as what isn't and I should know because I've written some of the finest pieces that have never been written. All you have to do is see for yourself, such as in this little number you'll scratch your eyes out trying to find just which line that I haven't written is your favourite, and there are many. And if it's verification you're after then just press rewind on your hearing aid and play it back to yourself because, I won't repeat this, I won't say it again. No I won't. Take all the recordings from your sound enhancing device attached to your audio organ and make a little, really I mean to say large, compilation of all your favourite things that I've never said and play it at parties; pump it up. I could literally go on for days like this but I haven't even got the whole amount of even one, so I'll have to, duty bounds me to, leave you with this, and I've never written this a lot: serious and silly: opposite.
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