In my haste to undersatnd myself in terms of categorical alignment with conventional classification, I may, and I stress may, have followed through on a fart. It's an uncomfortable situation to find you've done a bad jobease in your jodhpurs. The fact of this wasteful matter is that I may, and I stress may, have farted while taking a piss. I wouldn't want to take the piss out of farting but, the reverse is also true. Melancholy, as some errant idiots may have told you, is not the opposite of phlegmatic. Errant idiocratic tyrrants in their midday meal-boxes! The opposite of phlegmatic, that I truly am, is, and I stress is, choleric. Grumpy and painful, I am surely, in most cases. Particularly brief ones. The long and the short of my petticoat is that undies worn brown go to wash less often. It's camouflage for the phlegmatic. After all, what's a little poopoo in your pants? Faeces in your flares, of course. Scattered and logical, you could, and I stress could, argue I am. If you cared as much about me as I surely do: and I do do do-do in my best do. Scatology is a branch of choleric humour and humours are not funny. I wouldn't normally go out on a limb and say phlegmatic and choleric: opposite. Oops, I did it again. Got lost in the end.
There can be no confusing confusion with delusion. Grand as it may seem at first, at first glance confusion is an easily explained state of mind typified by a random sequence of intelligible factors in sequential order rearranged into an order that, while seemingly straightforward, is anything but - a mangled web of tangled wreckage left over from a high speed mental collision. If you've ever had tools in the toolshed, you'll know that sitting down to do number ones is the last place that a tooled tyro would want to squat. It's the equivalent of wanking in your cake and having sex with it. No chocolate mud cake for me thanks, I'm on a diet. In any emergency, be it medical or optical, sitting down for a nice blast from the bladder is not nice at all. It's far from the stuff of literary mania. Awards have been won globally by nice books about things that are just so much ffffffffffun. Books that are globally challenging are not what we're looking for, thanks. When you do go to one of those ceremonies, make sure you sit down to eat. Never let it be said that saying nothing is a bad thing. It goes a long way in this world to have a long one in your pants and those unfortunates without the good grace to keep their hands in their pants are truly unfortunate. Far be it from me to write a whole lot of crap and then slap a neat little ending on the end: a whole bunch of crap and a hole in a bunch of crap: opposite.
It's a sore point in parts but a knife in the eye is no worse than a knife in the ear. The ear and the eye are essentially equal. Work that appeals to either of these two is no less equal than those that tinker with the old head machine. The old, having no notion of old notions, are essentially refused access to soaring points on the globe. The globe sits on the shoulders like a monkey grinds his organ. The young are foolish like the old are so too. Being so too is no way to be, so know that we all have to go. One day. The ear that listens to song and the eye that listens to paint are just so many organs for the grinding. What lies is that which the senses appreciate. I'm sure somebody of your upright nature will understand that what lies underneath sense is the real marrow. If you've broken through sense, like I know you have, you'll be happy to sling some bread my way. It's a curse to live hand and foot to mouth. Knives in the hearing socket are painful. It's just a pity that pain doesn't actually exist, otherwise I'd be putting forking knives in my seeing socket too. Seeing pain turn into pleasure is a sore point for some. My forking vision-scrotums run red with bloodshots and ingrown hears. Too much rubbing. Knives and forks: opposite.
In all good humour, I am one of those who subscribe to the theory that people are not made of fluids. A human being is a very solid thing. If I was one of those errant deviants, I might go along with the idea that I fluctuate between phlegmatic and melancholic. In my short and long stay at the drinking hole of life, I have noted certain features in myself that are not peculiar to me. Nobody is an original individual. At a microscopic level we are all unique. The forces at play in our lives - who we are and what we do - are scarcely within our strides. Our strides are full of shit. Like some refrigerated jar of preserved cucumbers in an upright good o' white, I'm phlegmatic. I'm duck on the top and legs down below. Yes, that's right. Duck! At various times in my stint at the cold face of life, I have slipped into black piles. Piles of black strides you'll see me in, if you don't smell me first. Black bile is an unexplained mystery that is full of myterious mystery. When I am down in the slumps, you can be sure that I'm a delight to be told. Somehow, I have managed to fry underneath all the major radars. O, really. I do go on a bit. It's fine by me. Without a window of doubt, I'm fatalistic. I'm too accepting of slings and marrows. In my own way, that isn't really my own, I'm a mad pasty. Phlegmatic as a bag of feral hats in a flying pan. I don't know if I could ever go as far as to say melancholy and phlegmatic are opposite. Melancholy and phlegmatic: opposite.
I can't stand hackneyed cliches: not a leg to stand themselves on. I'd never generate or perpetuate them myself: opposed to them vehemently. The overuse of phrases or devices: against passionately. In summary, I'd say that there are certain things in this world, that are bound by certain laws. To say that everything is subject to the same laws is equal to slipping the old fella into the knickers of some lovely long legged thing with gorgeous long legs. Things that have no legs don't have a leg to stand on. Not everything that runs in this world of yours has legs. Take air conditioners and put them in your pants. Go take a long peer over a short walk. It's a simple fact that everybody in motion has an opposite. Beyond redemption am I from the tyranny of my own cliche generation. This generation is a lovely mix of new types of people never before seen before or since. Since we are all so special there is no need to revert to type. To type this out has been more joy than staring down the barrel of some buxom beauty busting out of her attire. I neve tire of seeing that. It takes a certain degree of nuttiness to write like this. Not to mention weariness. Weary and tired: equal.
The cups were all quiet. Only a mouse was rustling. Children were tucked up in bed plotting terror. Then suddenly a bomb fell on the roof. It was a season of joy in the white house that year. People had gone off to another land to defend their country. Nobody has a choice. The decision had been made. He was firm. She was receptive to his advances. He paid in cash. Then suddenly it fell off. They couldn't believe what they had just witnessed. There were no witnesses. Those who saw it happen couldn't believe it. The house was left in rubble. Suddenly the man put on a lot of weight. Her testicles barely touched the ground. It was then that they stood in amazement. The stench was tangible. From all reports the war has been run and won and run again. Beside herself with illness she grappled with the wrestler. He pinned her to the canvas. His brushes felt soft against her thighs. The gates opened and the man, standing proudly, skipped lightly across the pebbled pavement. The concrete compost heap was awash with a bouquet and stench of rotting words. The story started as it had ended. On one side was this and on that was that. The laments of the story weighed heavily on her nose. She made the sudden realisation that all good books were just so much rubble and fluff: opposite. Here stood her exact opposite. She stopped to light a bomb. The ground came crashing in on her eyes.
For whatever reason, I have abandoned reason for the calmer waters of the mud puddles in my undies. Mud puddles are all squishy and warm. Reason alone is reason alone to reason alone. Reasoning in groups is nigh on impossible. To be abandoned by reason is like abandoning your groceries at the bus shelter and finding a packet of nappies in your pillow case. For what it's worth, I sleep like a bucket of ants in a chicken factory. When I'm in full stride I can be heard to mutter "I'm in full stride". Having a pair of full strides is not unlike having full strides. My strides, ravishing as they are, are ravishing and full like a pair of freshly filled femur frankfurters. My legs, in full strides, have oft been compared to a couple of delectable bangers. Ladies across the globe love a man in filled strides stepping gingerly across the way with a look that says "Don't look at my mud-duds". More than duds, we're all just pants with a torso. Reason alone dictates me to be reasonable but frying doctors alleviate trousers. Trousers and trousers: very similar.
In my humble one, being stuck in the land of the intellectual giants is a situation worthy of laughter. Nothing could be less dramatic than spouting off while under the influence of your own bowel emissions. There are certain situations where crying foul whilst committing the same is not laughable. So few and far between are these instances that it's more likely that one thinks one can pen a few chickens while cycling on one leg. Cycling without legs is a most common happening. Cycling under a silvery moon is far from lunacy. So far up myself am I that I can tickle my tonsils while tickling yours. If you do happen to spout off while inserted in your own rectum then bear in mind that what you eat you shall surely eat again. It is one of life's little miracles to believe in your own worth while your stocks plummet like a pair of lesbians sipping coffee and besmirching my good name. My name is very good. It won't be blackened by any black-clad chimney sweet. If in earshot you should hear the sound of my cock, please wake up. I'll get my hand off it now but, duty or force of habit forbids me to part without one last shot. Intellectual giants and intellectual height challenged individuals of considerable stature and standing in virtual matters but not so they notice and just go trapsing through the living room of your mind: opposite.
Truly it is wonderful to live your life with your own shit lubricating the surface of your eye. Surely to live with a falsity that is beyond compare is comparable to living with a falsity within compare. Whittling the sticks of experience is an experience for the stubby fingered. Call me Stumpy. The manifestation of a life falsely lived is in the words delivered from the birth canals of our minds. To raise our minds to be good mental citizens is akin to farting into a cheese grater. Not to mention wiping with the same. To wipe your bum with your mind is akin to dancing with your sister's girlfriend's sister's mother. It's quite enjoyable to dance the dance with the feet of your mind. I happen to have two left brains. Truly, I am truly. In all dishonesty, I can say safely that safety is stately for everybody lately. Living with truth is a common thing. Facing farts is an endeavour for the romantic. Having the south wind blowing in your face will get anyone going. To the toilet for a nugget I find my truth. If you haven't seen the end in the beginning, you would be expecting anything but this: falsely and truly: opposite.
If you've ever stared into the gaping abyss of yourself, you'll probably know that nothing has a deeper bottom than a pornstarlet. People of depth have parts to themselves that are far from the shallows and closer to the gallows. You can make as many handbags out of a blogger's ear as you like but there's only one certain way to go blind. If you've ever played darts blindfolded you'll know what I'm talking about. People who've played pub-games impaired know everything. Knowing myself as I do, and I surely don't, I know that there isn't much to know about things that have little to know about them. Little known as it is, the self is far from an indelicate matter. Throw yourself in the laundry with delicates and you'll know just how much. To know yourself isn't as important as knowing me. I'm it and a bit and a bit and another bit. Another bit of information that you'll clutch to your bosom is that clutching information to your bosom is pointless. The self is more than an accumulation of knowledge. It takes depth so take a floatie. Like a turd in a swimming pool, I'm popular. Popular like a shit in a sandpit. Self and others: opposite.
If you've ever found yourself hiding behind anonymity, you'll know that hiding behind nothing isn't hiding at all. It's plain to see that a media is no more a circus than an opera is a vehicle and, that being yourself is virtually attainable. Also virtually within reach, handily, are my genitals. It comes as some relief. To have things like that within arms reach is a very happy accident that is probably no accident at all. To be born with a good name that is easily besmirched is akin to riding a bicycle sidesaddle. Getting off your high-bicycle head first is a most inelegant way to fall off the old coil. Falling off the old coil is every person's final fall. It is not to be laughed at. The way some would laugh, you'd think they didn't even care a jot. Note well those who don't care about people they've never met. People who care about themselves are always likely to live in glass jars of preservatives. Death is anonymous like bicycles have hooves. Whatever it is I'm trying to say, I've said it. There it is. To lend your title to the title is called eponymy. So I've read and I've read a lot, wife. I've read paper bound in soft paper and hard and I've read straight off my PC. This might sound a little PC but them's the apples. Anonymous and eponymous: opposite.
Meiditating on my own magnificence, as I often do, I came to the rather happy realisation that I was even more magnificent than even I first suspected. When I am faced with the startling proposal that I might be at fault, after bench-pressing a cargo plane full of ailing equines, I can happily say that no, I am never in the wrong. Yes, that's right. It is in the midst of such a magnificent ego, as my own, that others must surely (and they surely do) find some solace in the magnificent energy source. I'll take you to be someone of lesser inteligence but greater stupidity than my wonderful, flawless self. Being of such extraordinary spiritual standing (and floating), I'll take you under my wings and carry you far away from any semblance of reality. Reality is a deeply troubling semblance. On the surface of things, it might appear that I, in light of recent unfortunates, have been a little bit of a hypocrite. I won't hear of it though, not in your presence. The shock for you to find that I have been so would send you cartwheeling off into an olympic stadium of despair. All of this, is of such intelligence that very few, including you, have ever encountered and, I'll trust you to know this yourself, as I surly do. I'll trust you to know a fool when you read one because sage is a herb. It would be stupid of me, perish the mere thought, to leave you without one last thing. Intelligent and stupid: opposite.
Significantly, realising our insignificance is a significant step towards doing something of significance. For someone as significant as my good self, it is a significant advantage to deny the very significance of my significance. You are probably at a significant disadvantage if you have failed to realise your own insignificance. It is not insignificant to say that you yourself are significantly insignificant enough to achieve just about anything. People right through history and the past have achieved just about anything. Just about anything can be done at any given time. Within reason, of course. Within the compassion of your compass is realising the insignificance of so much life. It is far from insignificant. Far from insignificant is the significance of the saying you can't tickle your teeth while scratching your knackers or twatknackers. You simply can't. More's the pity that I can. If your eating soup right now you won't like what you're about to read. I probably think that, in all probability, it would be a significant time to tell you that I don't like liquid meals. At all. It's far from a glorious statement. Further still from glory is - significance and insignificance: opposite.
For some, some reason is reason enough to reason that some are without reason. While they are under the misheld belief that they are wholly without the capacity to conclude from premisses, they are wholly within reason to reason so. Reason, so unreasonably the instrument of the rational, is, without a good reason, employed in the services of the most wonderful atrocities imaginable. It is with good reason that reason is distributed only amongst certain reasonable classes, and not others. For some reason, for some, reason is the sum of their existence. To exist for the sole purposes of multiplying seems reasonable enough, and when you boil it down seems even more so. So, if you are in full control of your facilities you might not like what I'm about to say next. Reason is a wonderful thing. It's my reason for living. I can't imagine what I'd do without it. If it had an opposite, and far be it from me to tinkle on your piano while pissing in your poscket, then imagination might be well be it. Be it in dreaming up some sandwiches for a hat or a talking pair of piano-pants, imagination is just as wonky as a television on a bad hair day with a moustache. Moustaches are deeply offensive. In all these instances, the erroneousness of images is a sight for soaring minds. Reason and imagination: opposite.
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