I'd be hard put to put anything mildly, but if I was I'd, to put it mildly, put it mildly. Putting it mildly, I'd put it mildly. Putting it mildly is part of my personal appeal. Personally, putting my appeal personally is mildly off-putting. Putting it personally, I'd say I'm part-paragon of perpetual pant-wearing. It's wearing a bit thin but I still wear pairs of pants. To put it properly, pants go on people as pants regulate body-temperature in pets. Personally, I have pets who like pants. Perpetually, I prefer eternity to infinity. Both are baffling. If I was pressed, I'd probably pick. One time I pondered both. Now I merely prognosticate on piffle. Luckily, my pants have no buttons. To put it mildly is moderately mean. I'd go miles to cover a few more kilometres. Melbournians are Mexicans to Californians. As for the vistas up there: moderately maudlin. Moderate and mild: equal.
If we take the example of Leonardo da Vinci and Pablo Picasso, and, assuming we care, accept the fact that they are essentially opposite, we ask ourselves, "I wonder what's on television now?". The simple fact is that simple facts are never facts. If the opposition, the magnetic polarisation, exists for the planet, why not for us and the most visible works on the landscape (theirs)? That we've failed to see this, failed to highlight it, failed to walk down to the shops naked, is a wringing endorsement for laundry products. I couldn't tell you how many times I've told you this. Leo and Pablo, our precious couple of personas, were actual people making actual choices along the way of life bound upon. That they were bound to make decisions that were diametrically opposite to the other is something that just slips under the radiator, and starts to stink. It stinks that lives and works aren't seen in relationship to their opposite (never you mind equals). It stinks that I don't wash my undies. Seen this way we can see how elemental we are. Salty in the pants. We are no more than the basic agents for elemental farces. The common ground coffee these two, Leo and Pab, drink is not even theirs. I despise beverage thieves. If I could see it I'd say it. Sadly, mine eyes are full of dust. Once again. Leonardo and Picasso: opposite.
I could sit here and tell you that I have what it is you're looking for. I couldn't. I have nothing of value to offend, at all. A tall tale or two I can leave well enough alone. Enough alone, I'm alone enough. Say what you like about sayings, they're about right. The simple fact is that we all have opposites, equals. To know this is about as close as you can come to discovering the underlaying truth beneath the carpet. To know the exact opposites and equals is a matter for human fallibility. I could fall over my own feet looking for my ear-shoes. There are no issues. The only issue worth looking into is where does everyone fit. Uncontrollable fits require infestations. I could name a hundred or more actual cases of equality and opposition but my hands hurt. I could be wrong, but I'm not. If you think I'm happy about it just look at my downtrodden mask. It doesn't matter who you are, where you come from, the size of your buttocks or what you do, this thesis is always true. I wish it wasn't the case, my little baskets. Sadly, you might accept my proposition. Sleep with me on it. I tell you, begin to see people and their works in this way. You'll see the world in a hole. If I thought I had anything else to offer the world I'd do that. This is my eternal present. To you I say, see it and know it. I also say, have a laugh. Can't help you there. Off the top of my head: an absolute fact. Leonardo da Vinci and Picasso: opposite. The real quest is for the underlying ground that they share. And why at all the world this way. Some essential natural force? Providence? Accident? Falsehood?
It's a great light relief to realise your ineffectiveness, effective immediately. That's why we should all take up the practice of throwing a log into a net. Bounce a few ideas around about the state of the world, while you're at it. If you don't mind, I have some rather heavy reading to do. A little matter of a thousand pages of classic literature to get through. When I finish with a book you simply won't recognise it. Now back to my little topic and, patting my head while patting my tummy, I can safely say that Power and Philsophy are opposite because I said so. I said so because I thought so. My mind, you see, is just like some magnificent sifting device, not dissimilar from a hand bucket with lots of holes. I could be quite wrong, but I think we know that's not about to happen any time this week. Fall over while cleaning shit from your shoes to realise your lying in a treatment plant. That's enough of that. Power and Philosophy: opposite? Potentially. Depends. The comfy incontinence arse-pillow for the bony-arsed blogger with bags of bread: bought bountifully.
To be perfectly blunt, there comes a point when there is no point. I wish I could elaborate but I'm a little light on the front porch. Having the front light on is a sure sign no one is at home. To get straight to the point, I'm as dull as. As dull as I am, I'm pointless. It's a fair point to say that. You and I both know that you're as sharp as a bucket. Sorry to pour this on you. I'm going to cut right to the bone here, points are as valid as. The point I'm trying to make is, there is a point. If you are ever going to kick on in life, set realistic coals. It's a sure way to set the wheels with notions. The goals, sometimes shifting, are the key. It's not out of bounds to make a leap or two. This post is bound to be another hit. Points and goals: footy.
Laxette Parties disguised as Christmas choc-fests are all the rage with those wishing to flush their insides without using water. The only downside to this approach is, it is so successful, it actually flushes the colon from the body forcing people to clean it with water (and a toothbrush). But minimal water. Just a glassfull is enough. (Do not put your colon in the same glass as your false teeth, or in with the Berocca tablet). Just like false teeth, the sparkling clean colon can be popped back in at any time it's needed. Dentists recommend using an Oral B toothbrush and not flossing.
An ill wind often stays in class when it should be in the infirmary. Political correctness in classrooms has created flatutlence. A stich in thyme suggests that the government can't tell the difference between herbs & spices or when to tell Cathy Freeman that wearing a coloured condom at the 2000 Sydney Olympics is why Anthony Mundine is upset about inner Sydney tattoo artists getting it all wrong and not saying sorry to the white non-indigenous population who migrated here. Go Danny Green he will say and oust Peter Garrett from his seat of labour which belongs to a childbearing woman on maternity leave earning a pension. Sorry will define 2008. Everyone will say sorry. Cats will learn to speak and dogs will have to learn a new language to get their immigration visas approved. The climate will change in Melbourne as it always has. Peter Garrett will get on the bandwagon but refuse to sing about sixpences. John So will go offshore to learn English and return to head the AFL and force the kangaroos running up and down the dingo fence to relocate to the Gold Coast. Victoria Beckham will give birth to a Scientology soccer ball on stage and cause the Spice girls to reevaluate the value of Caesarian sections during pop concerts and whether a sponsored stitch produces a bendy scar as attractive as plastic boobs and chicken legs sponsored by KFC. Kevin Rudd's defacto will become a stripper and approve of Kim Beazley saying sorry for touching her up because he thought she was Cathy Freeman' s mother.
Promoting atheism is never easy. There'll always be a Christian or a Moslem or member of some religious wacko cult out there somewhere to attack you. Grapefruit for me. Followed by a big breakfast. Button mushrooms slice easily and mix well with fried tomatoes. Dunk them in a runny poached egg covered in spinach and you get a picture of etiquitte with perfect teeth. Being insane is not as easy as it looks on Law and Order. You have to prove you're insane. A simple insanity plea has to be backed up by evidence. One that sane jurors will understand as insane because they are all sane and handpicked. Not like lemons. Machine picking is the go nowadays. But go for the insanity plea and God speed. So, Sundays. Sunday mornings are the perfect time to read about serial killers and mass murderers. Two sandwiches short of a picnic is a great saying. But a few numerals short of a Mensa invitation is even better. Mushrooms and bacon? Partners for life when it comes to marriage vows. Enjoy your breakfast.
If there's one thing that makes me sit up and take notice it would have to be a sign that says "Sit up and take notice". I have an uncanny ability for reading the signs. I won't sit up or take notice without being instructed to do so. You can go a long way with literacy and numeracy. My foot, I can't put my feet on the seats. Feet go on seats as arses go on the floor. My arse is without flaw. My feats on the other hand. When I start whistling that's the sign that my lip reduction stitches have healed. Nothing makes my lips whistle like a can of beans. Cracked whips are a sure sign of dry skin. I'm not going to beat myself up over it, but I love self-flagellation. All the signs say that signs are a sure sign of signals. If you've ever sold sea shells on the see-saw you'll know how hard it is to have your arse pounded. If it came down to your arse or mine I'd back mine in. I've put a lot in to mine and I'm not going to back out now. Chances are, if you're reading this you're sitting up. I have noticed your fly is undone. Yours and mine: undone.
The sad fact is that arseholes are like onions - every one makes your breath stink. The other sad fact is that, unlike onions, arseholes don't have layers. They're as simple as a hole for expelling shit. Another sad fact is that facts are, sadly, sad. Fact is that sadness is a fact. Of facts and opinions, I'd take a deadly dose of ratsack. Like onions, potatoes are in potato and onion soup. If I had to choose, I'd choose. If you've ever noticed how much like an arsehole you are, then you're probably as flushed as me. Even more flushed is of course the product of everyone. The thing about being fixated is that it gives you a chance to concentrate. Pucker up your lips because you've probably got some work to do. Your interests rate with me. We all need to keep our balance. Onions, have you ever noticed, leak through your skin the day after you've eaten them? No doubt, you're full of onions. Opinions and them: equal.
If there's one thing that gets right up my arse it would have to be a broom. I much prefer vacuums. They're cleaner and easier, apart from being more convenient. Brooms are a real bastard. They get stuck in all the wrong places at all the wrong times. Of course, if you are going to stick an obstruction in your rectum - never stick a blog that nobody will having any need to read when you fall off. Current events never stop - it's what lies deeper that lasts. I speak, of course, of rectal reckoning. Of course, some sites simply won't fit sideways in your ear or your eye. Let all alone your arse whole. Some parts of some have some lasting value - and that's more than sense. Less than intuition, sense is. Of course, this world - running like a man with a pair of watery winterbottoms - is off kilt. That means starkers. It's fine by me if I do as I please, I'm pleased to say. It's not unfair to say that I'd like to take a broom through so much. Obviously the main part I'd like to take one through is what I'm sitting on. Vacuums, I suppose, are just so much the same. There's a saneness to them. All the same, who are we to juggle? I've got my hands full with my sleeping. Brooms and vacuums: inserted.
Forget about them. Just start a photography blog.
If there's one thing that really gets my back up it would have to be muscles. Muscles. The very thought of them makes me tense. I could go on all day without stopping on muscles. They make me so tight. Particularly around the anus region. Forgive me father, it's been days since my last shit. Shit, muscles are such a waste. I won't waste your precious time with all this shit. You have better things to do than chew on a mindful of crap. I suggest that you find yourself a nice quiet spot and curl one out. Drop the hostages off at the pool. Failing that, find some brand to help you release your offerings. No doubt you've spent the night digesting all those delicious morsels that you appreciated so graciously. The gracious appreciation of morsels is graciously appreciated. I'm not just going to type this shit without muscles. You're probably wondering by now what you're doing with your head so far up my arts. Well, let me drop this on you: a big colon suasage. If you have stumbled upon this post while searching for this, then you can stop clenching your teeth. It's about time you realised what a pile you really are. If I may be the first to say so - you are. Let me reirritate: bowels brew bog bricks. Put down your papers and start wiping. It's been a long time since I've had one like this. Another one to sink to the bottom, you'll probably say. I had planned to make this a little longer but I'll cut it short. I have excellent control. Textual diarrhoea is not contagious so you can stick your nose right in. If you are rummaging around in this mess, you're probably too far gone any way. May I suggest some toast? That which takes jam is the best jam. If you are into jam, spread 'em. Look, I'm sorry if I haven't exactly been. I'm still in the process of being. I'm only a humourous after all is done and wiped. You look flushed. Perhaps you need to go in for some treatment. It's lucky for us all that text that sticks to the wall does slide down eventually. Can you imagine a dog that had all the characteristics of a cat? That's a cat. Sorry, I think I hear the brown cat barking at the back door. I thought I left it a jar. Crap in a jar is nothing like jam. Put a cork in me, I'm done. I thought I was, anyway. Oh, shit! I've got to go. Thank you, I've been an excellent host. Crap, shit, bog: faces.
In the days before being inducted into this secret society I was whittling away my pencils here: CLICK go the sheer idiots. If I had the want, I might want to return to such lofty and populated places as those. I'd pay close attention to my body odour, if I was socially aware. Unfortunately, all I ever do is flap. That is concerned with the concerns of concerning individuals. The arrangements are an absolute mastery. What I mean of course is, they are on a par with dross. This, on the other hand, is an absolute peanut. I'm not buttering anyone up for a mission through a pipe. It's just work. What i mean to say is that my vision doesn't require spectacles. This and that: improvement? Without having my head too far up my rearing end, I can safely say that I have no idea.
When it comes to jugs or cans, we all come down on one side or the other. Walking into a bar is a mistake I've made rarely. From that you can probably surmise that I come down on the side of cans. There's nothing finer than a couple of nice bubbly ones. The thing about jugs is that there's usually so much to go around. A can on the other hand and one on this hand is handsome. A jug on the other hand would require an extra extremity. It's not extreme to say that whether one likes cans or jugs says a whole lot about the very character of an individual. So, on a fine day such as this, crack open your mind and have a little think about what it is we find oursleves so stuck in: reality. It's refreshing to see so many who have poured over the information on hand. Nothing is more revealing than everything. On a sobering note, cans and jugs: opposite.
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