Call me crazy but, I think that insanity is really rather (rub faeces over my face) serious. The mental equilibrium of every member of (masturbate into your sandwich) society is something we all should (pick your nose eat it all sloppy) care deeply about (sex with the cat then give it a kick). I have, on occasion, had cause to (rub my testicles on the bus) have really rather (voices tell me to destroy things) grave concerns about (not having intercourse with foodstuffs) the delicate state of my own mental condition (not showering because the bugs are my salvation). It's often been of such a tenuous state that (never shave because the devil likes the clean shaven) others, no doubt, have (masturbated in their own lunches) raised an eyebrow (or two or three or four or five or six or even seven yes seven even seven even odd seven odd little seven even seven) at my strange behaviour, which, fortunately, is now a thing of the past (all behaviour, I have ceased). Slightly sane and slightly not: not inopposite.
Commend this sentence to every one you know as you would condemn it's opposite to your enemies. This sentence is of such commendability that to not do so would be akin to rooting your fist on a keyboard. Types of people fall into basic categories and I have the key. Well, the key was given to me by sleepless nights alone in my bed just thinking. Just thinking, kept separate from emotion, is what I'm all about. Just thinking, but couldn't I be barking mad up the wrong vertically astute organic structure? Of course, I could, but I'll go out on a limb and say that what I'm on about is as old as lit itself, and that's not very old at all. I'm as impervious to commendation as I am commendation and vice versa; the reverse is also true. It's not trite to say that I write a whole lot of tripe. If you have rooted your own or someone else's fist on a lettered implement it's probably out of character. It takes great strength and ingenuity to find any porn in the web, but don't get stuck. You'll flail about with your legs in the air, clutch at anything to extricate yourself from the stickiness of your situational predicament, get bound in a sack and find you've become some egged thing with long legs' nutritional sauce. It's quite fortunate to find you've been commended but in matters of praise it's more whipped frenzy than mayonnaise. Condemn this whole lot but, be mindful of it's opposite which has escaped my evil clutches once again.
There is virtually nothing in the virtual world that is really real. Reality is as intangible as a fart. And that's no fart joke. All we have to show for reality is a handful of marks that are hard to remove. Actual reality always leaves its mark, no matter who we are. Who we are is a matter for reality, actually my dear fiends. My dear friends, it's actually virtually impossible to say with absolute surety who we really are. Who we make ourselves out to be has virtually nothing to do with who we really are. But it is instructional to discover what we want others to believe of us. If you know yourself well enough, you'll know that who you are is a mystery. It's not possible for me to not insert myself in somewhere or other. No one can take a walk in the park with their bits hanging out and tell other people that "It's awfully cold in these parts". Being cold in the parts that hang out is just so much fun. Warmth is generated by virtually all dangly bits that are squashed like jelly beans in a jar. There's a war going on and everyone is invited. It takes place under the sleeping noses of even the most watchful. Keep an out (of your pants) for yourself. If you don't watch yourself nobody will. It's an absolute kidder that virtual and actual are, as they say, well, as I say, well, not so much as I say as, I write...as I write, the trees softly meander down the azure avenues of sky and lend the ear a soft and smelly pillow with which to lay a sleepy neck-joint that sits on a poorly positioned spine of rare design... virtual and actual are, as they say, well... they are... how does one put this? opposite.
Due to popular demand I have decided to repost this post. This post was so well received (and acclaimed in some quarters) that the decision really made itself. Things that make themself are always the easiest. It was received with a breath that could only be described as baited. Breaths were held in anticipation and I could only resort to that ever so endearing quality of reposting with a short introduction the piece in question. It's not in question that the post is unquestionable. When you read it again you'll know of which piece I'm talking about. Now, without further delay, I represent to you, and the world at large, what I have reliably been informed is, the most requested post in the whole net. Any net that is made up of posts is bound to be effective. If it hadn't already escaped your unflinching grasp, I am extremely enamoured of the information superhighway. The things one can do with info. I can delay no more. Well, actually I can go on like this interminably. It's a chronic condition that I am afflicted with. My main failing is a failure of fundamental integrity. It has led me to mislead. I've never had a single request for a post to be reposted because I've hardly never ever deposted. I'm usually too busy railing against this thing or that to repost anything. Repost and railing: opposite.
I have always liked subjects of great interest. It's how I got to this point. The point is, I got here. Up to this point, I have kept my interest in subjects of interest quiet for fear of success. I have failed to mention just how interested I am in things and stuff. I have noticed that success and climbing ladders go hand in hand in glove. Hands together for climbing ladders. For the health and safety of others, use medical gloves when achieving great success. Ladders can harbour all sorts of disease. Success is achieved by successfully navigating the rungs. If the phone has done so, pick it up. You'll pick up how enamoured I am with success. It's a product, not of content as some would have you believe but, of subject, my loyal ones. Or is it the other way around? I can't know, let alone remember. The greatest obstacle between me and the next rung is probably my own inability too. Being blessed with the inability to give a frying sock is an abiltity that is highly sought after in the lower echelons of high sobriety. I like stuff and lots of it. Whatever it is, count me in. I'm up for anything that'll get me scaling fishy ladders. There's nothing final about success. The shifting goalposts are nothing compared to the ground beneath your feats. Fell free to punch holes in this pile of unmentionable matter. It'll be good for me. Ladders and snakey: opposite.
In this physical thing of two sides that we find ourselves in, it can be alarmingly difficult to co-ordinate both those sides at the one time. Believe you me, I've not really been trying of late to get the two halves of the whole to do anything meaningful at all. A tall person might find it doubly difficult, I deduce. If you need any evidence that the thing you were born into and have grown into and have suffered into has two sides then look no further than the eyes in your head or the hands that hang like fried possums from power lines. It's simply unavoidable to go out into the superhighway with your tennis ball and not expect to cop a serve. The point of what I'm on about, if I may be so bold, is to confirm the affirmation that there are indeed two opposing sides, inescapably. You'll notice that nobody really cares about the things that are as plain as the nose up your arse, but you'll plug on regardless. Sometimes the whole thing is just such a drain but there are so many things still to find out about that are right in front of us. Right in front of our eyes is our nose and that has two nostrils. If you have nose to smell, you'll soon realise that tapping your melon while scratching your toolshed is not as much fun as doing the reverse with a friend. Tap into what is right under your nose, there's really no need to look any further. If you have the motor skills to do so, by all means, have a little manual entertainment. Tapping your scone and massaging your midrift: opposite.
If you're anything like me you'll piss all over the seat and not wipe it off. Sitting in someone else's urine is particularly uncomfortable for both parties. All parties find sitting in human waste a little, how does one put it, squidgy. There is a school of thought that has it that pissing with the seat down is alright just as long as one cleans up any spills, not to say thrills (sitting in someone's thrills is very frowned upon by most parties). Not to say thrills when one is having one is akin to one doing a number two onto a number one. I, for one, am not one who subscribes to any school of thought (other than the one that holds parties with lots of drags and sacks and raw corn-roll). Raw corn-roll is what the ladies love. Schools of thought hold pissing on the seat comps at parties where the ladies hold the parties' parties (is that how one spells such a thing?). My spelling and grammar is truly forked for fork's sake. For fork's sake, I can safely say that a fork in the eye of one's party is part of a joyous life. Try pissing on the seat with a fork in your party and tell me that you can get any in the bowl (particularly difficult with a lady's currant in your gob). Gobsmacked you'll be when your lady-friend finds you with a lady's friend in your smacker. You'll pray for the day when you can even piss out of you part at all. To all parties, part with your piss carefully, particularly at parties. There's more in that sentence than meets the eye of your parties. I've played my part. More than once. Pissing on the seat and sitting in piss: opposite.
Plainly, the nose on my face is as plain as the nose on your face, and the nose on your face, not to put too fine a point on it, is as plain as buggery. As buggery is a pain in the arse, plainly, I won't stick my nose in where it's not wanted. If I wanted to bugger up my nose I might just break it. Things that appear as plain as the nose on your face might just have the complexity of an idiot putting bracers on. Brace yourself for a bit of idiocy. If you've ever made porridge, you'll know that idiotic behavour is as plain as the toast on your face. Toast is very crunchy bread. You might just want to raise a nose to me, if that's how you feel about things. Naturally, I am drawn towards idiotic snobbery. The nose on my face is stuck up like buggery. Like buggery am I not interested in the world of current events. I love getting swept away by superficial occurrences. There you have yet another case of crunchy toast. Plainly, the plainness of the face on which your nose sits is representative of the nose itself. Mainly, the plainly-nosed are less idiotic than snobbish but it's not a gap that can't be bridged. There is something holding up my pants. Obviously, someone knows. Now, I want you to go away and have a little think about this and tell me if you think it's true that snobs and idiots: opposite. Failing that, click like buggery.
There is a substantial case to be argued that substantial cases aren't worth arguing about. I'd argue, if I was so inclined, that cases of substance, or of no such quality, are really of no substance at all, and that all cases are essentially similar when the faculty of their relevant sense is removed. Relevant senses are really irelevant in all cases, substantial or otherwise, and reveal nothing of what is true and lasting. What is true and lasting is irrelevant in all cases of significant substance, in all cases. Significant substances are, without question, unanswerable. A substantial quantity of significant substances are worthy of elusive pursuits down back alleys and, case by case, based on intangible qualities. Intangible qualities are, for the most part, hard to put a finger on but, elusive just the same. Just the same as significance is to the eye of the mind so is substantial to the balance of the same. The same is the same as equal only different but, don't let that fool. You should be aware by now that awareness is only significant in substantial cases and, very often comes in handy in terms of intangible qualities. It is because of this, and the myriad of reasonable causes, that substance and significance: equal.
Is there any cure for sterilty? I'd love to find the antidote for those who dote on downing the antie. How can you just go on with the inane dribble, drivelling on to nowhere? It's true insanity to sit on top of the ladder without chancing your arm at anything else but what got you there, and for what got you to that level, you should have your neck wrung. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you might never branch out into areas that you've never been before, and I speak of internal places (and I don't mean external penetration). I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm going to smear your pap like a cook butters a duck. I won't tell you when to duck when i'm buttering you up for an almighty roast. Potatoes will be your coffin-mates. It's startling to see so much sterilty. Clinical depression I've had to put on the back plate for my steaming. Writing without risk is like so much living in a bubble. Burst out of yourselves, try a new something, a new anything for god's sake. Your antiseptic buckets are poor in spirit and tap into absolutely nothing. Absolute nothing you could ponder in golden showers. The pap-o-meter needle is off the charts, and it's time for another doze. It's all just so much bull. Somehow, for the benefit of my manners, I'll have to put you under before I operate. I'm sent to sleep with the way you operate. Sick and sick: opposite.
What is it about walking backwards with both hands down your trousers that makes me so popular? It's a question that I've asked myself many times with my ankles behind my head as I count my friends. My friends, it is with great warmth that I pose this question because, frankly, without my staunch and stellar support your knees would not knock so loudly on my door at every ungodly minute. You all know full well what it takes to take yourselves to the top and back. Take a minute to seriously consider the benefits of being my friend and the numerous aspects of having your hands down your pants which, are beneficial in the extreme. Ponder seriously these and other mysterious features of the strange and mystery-laden mystery world that we all find ourselves in. And it is in this world, whether you have one or more hands down your pants, that we find ourselves when I speak of this world. In this world, you'll scarcely find a more popular little creature than me. You can search the back of your slacks down the bottom and up the top and never find anything as valued or sought after as me. Seek after me and you will find, as I have, that you'll be sadly mistaken if you take me on face value. Lurking in you is me but, I'm sad to say, the former and not the latter comes before the latter which closely follows the former which is followed by the latter and vice versa. It is in such manner, in the aid of clarity, that I have gardened such unparallelled support. Now, we all know where I'm headed with this and it's hardly a shock that it has ended with the finish as it is, so it has. I, for one, value immensely vast bodies of knowledge and the inherent values of imparting such to others of lesser standing, or exchanging, in a latter-day renaissance fashion, knowledge with other knowledgeable individuals with buckets of insight propped over the door ready to fall on the heads of the unsuspecting in a hilarious scenario that you'll find in abundance everywhere, and plentifully too. In the know and on the nose: opposite.
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