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Equal and Opposite - February 2008

Vermeer and Matisse, Norm wants you to know

Jan Vermeer was as culpable of making Dutch ovens as the next man with a paint brush was or is. In that same way Henri Matisse wasn't. He was more of a French pastry chef with a penchant for pickling his penis in a plum jar. Little wonder that he was such a hit with the ladles. The only hit Vermeer ever scored with the ladies was when he ran them down in his Ford Ranger. Many was the late evening that he would come home to his wife and kids and dog and cat and goldfish and canary and rodents with parts of various women attached to his mud flaps. It wouldn't be long before he was attached to his very own flaps of his very own. His wife was very accomodating of stranglers. In much the same way that Matisse's femmes weren't, his were and vice versa. He seemed to attract the most wanton of scallops. If you're ever in doubt as to the status of Matisse in relation to Vermeer, look no further than the end of your own hose. For all this, the works of thse two masters of their own domain names, as I surely might be, named each other in court as perpetual liars and layabouts in the finest traditions of Westerners. It's little wonder that Vermeer and Matisse: opposite. Further still, you couldn't really care less. Even further still, I have to get moving.



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El Greco and Cervantes: the dog's pants.

If there was one thing that Cervantes the Spaniard didn't know it was how much alike he and El Greco the Spaniard are. You could throw a blanket over their output and have a picnic on a field day. To say that the writings of El Greco and the paintings of Cervantes were identical except for the sense that they are appreciated through sounds perfectly reasonable. Defecating in a jam jar and spreading it on your toast doesn't. The number of times that I'd say you can't compare art and lit properly without slipping into your pants in a trance would be manifestly numerous. There's no denying the serious humour of both these natural phenomenons. To equate slipping into your pants with fingering a supect is ample evidence of booby-traps. I'd always say one shouldn't look at Cervantes without reading El Greco; if I was right in the head. As the headless horseman told his stable-hands: "Hold steedy." There are many ways to scan a cat and this is just one of them. El Greco and Cervantes: equal.
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El Greco and Salvador Dali, locked in El Greco Roman blinds

El Greco, the Spanish artist, was a greek with a whopping arm and a sizeable balance. It's hard to say if Salvador Dali, the darling of his mother, ever really knew his mother. More likely is it that he knew El Greco. In knowing himself, as he surely might have, he must have known that he might have been the verso to El Greco's rectum. His own recto was never quite right as you can see by the scale of his fish. If you don't care that his moustache was not a beard, as surely as El Greco's was, then look no further than your ownership of personal affects. Now I could prattle on all day about how and why they were as they were and are as they are but nothing can quite say it like: El Greco and Salvador Dali: opposite. To prove my point I would have you reflect upon the various, and quite tangible, aspects of their art. In a sense they were of the same mind on many hinges.
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I can’t believe how rude some people are.

A professional blogger


Today, my wife decided I needed to take a break from blogging. After the police had pried my hands away from my computer keyboard with the jaws of life, I reluctantly went outside.

I collapsed by the front door but I enjoyed the ride in the ambulance, and the doctor at accident and emergency said I didn’t need to see an eye specialist but rather, that it was natural to have a severe reaction to natural light after being inside for three years in front of a computer reading Orble posts. She also said that bodily spasms and uncontrolled vomiting and incontinence issues were natural occurrences in people of genius level intellect who had trained their minds to focus solely on Orble votes and karma. I didn’t let on that she hadn’t told me anything that I didn’t already know.

Before I had time to give her a few tips, I had to sign a form. I listed my occupation as professional blogger. I could tell the nurse who handed me the form was more than a little curious about lofty matters far beyond her intelligence, so I decided to do her a favour and enlighten and educate her.

I explained to her what a blogger was. How it was someone who didn’t live in what plebeians describe as the ‘real’ world due to a heightened perception of reality and innate superiority, and how a blogger didn’t have a real job or need one, or need to mix with real people, but knew everything intuitively and theoretically in a Google kind of way without having to go through the tedium of ‘experience’ in order to grasp or truly experience experience itself. And how experience was overrated.

She pretended she wasn’t interested, but I picked up on her deceptive body-language in that intuitive and perceptive way I pick up on the false vibrations of mistrustful virtual people through their text. I could tell she was embarrassed yet titillated by my superiority, and didn’t want to further humiliate herself in the presence of others by allowing her to do what she knew was the only appropriate course of action to take, namely fawning further, prostrating herself on the hospital corridor in order to pay adoring homage to my magnificence.

It is such an advantage for a blogger who has arrived at the point of spiritual union with inner peace itself , to comprehend not just the calming value of crystals and the supple and flexible bodily advantages of non-religious Yoga to arrive at a junction in life where one possesses not just inner peace, but a comprehensive knowledge of where the skull’s acupuncture points are, and how to drill holes in your own head in order to imbed crystals deep into the lower frontal lobes, and then stitch your own head up in such an expertly surgical manner that would put a plastic surgeon to shame, so as to appear as if your hair itself was impervious to the wind and the elements themselves.

I asked her if she needed some help to get her life on track in any area whatsoever, even though I knew the answer to the question was both an equivocal and unequivocal Yes!

She said she was fine, in that way that people say they’re okay when you ask them how they are, when they inwardly scream ‘suicidal!’ and wonder for years later why their inner voice is mute on the outside. I knew her answer was a lie, so I began to give her a few free tips, while I thought about how much more money I would have made through Google AdSense if I was blogging about this matter rather than just instructing a real person who wasn’t ready for the full force and blinding light of my own brilliance.

Being in total denial, and quite deluded about the fabric, nature and essence of life itself - like every non-blogger - she started making excuses about being busy and having other patients to attend to, workplace reforms, etc, and even had the audacity to interrupt me while I was giving her a rundown on global terrorism.
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Quantico FBI release embryonic genetic profile on serial bloggers.

Norm (left) gets quite upset as Charles Manson takes a break from being his Orble mentor.


After a quiet month where only a dozen or so psycho US teenagers from wholesome American families went ballistic in murder/suicide rampages at schools, bored Serial Killer Profilers at Quantico Virginia turned their skills and attention to identifying the common traits of the serial blogger, and have released the following genetic profile.

The serial blogger lives in a city. He or she has a dependency on technology and all the luxuries of modern life, but has such a warped mind he/she thinks his/her real passions lie in sitting behind his/her Microsoft/Mac PC in an ergonomically-designed Officeworks swivel-chair and matching Ikea desk with the air-conditioner on in summer and the blow-heater on in winter, in order to save the non-plastic environment and endangered species from extinction and climate change brought about by evil commercially driven capitalists running multi-national franchises.

The serial blogger is compelled to warn the world against religious fanatics and political terrorists with repetitive posts that read like a version of the Book of Mormon written by Joseph Smith in a whorehouse after being drugged by a prostitute’s Senatorial pimp.

Joseph Smith has a vision of the Orble future, and sees Jon & Charles.


The serial blogger will rail against the lifestyles of rich and famous celebrities due to the injustice of not being numbered among them, teach others anything from how to raise children properly while sitting glued to the computer blogging all night, instruct novice bloggers how to blog and earn money simultaneously without getting a real job in the real world, supply tips on nutrition, time-management and multi-tasking while ordering online, home-delivery fat crust pizzas, or give free fashion and beauty advice while surfing ‘how to become a contestant on America’s biggest loser’.

The reason my Orble blog on nutrition & car maintenenance is in the blog cemetery.


One of the favourite topics of the serial blogger is psycho-analytical introspection on the philosophical meaning of life itself, including a rundown on how to go about achieving happiness and enlightenment by adhering to the wisdom of downloaded quotes from Wikipedia.

The male serial blogger is quite a simple, transparent fellow. In general, he is quite effeminate but likes to come across as real manly in carefully chosen text, but in the private domain of reality, he does not control the TV remote or the Play Station controls, even though he is a self-confessed expert on movies, TV, DVDs, computer games and IT in general, and anything that does not involve leaving the house other than to get a job behind the latest computer and contribute something meaningful to Rupert Murdoch’s global empire, while he dreams of being the next Hollywood writer, director, and star. And is careful to put the toilet seat down after sitting on it to have a wee-wee.

Male Blogger deciding what topic to write about.


The female serial blogger is slightly more complex than the male (mirroring reality), yet there are only three simple types of this virtual vixen.

There is the emotional female yet to find love (fYTFL), the emotional female who found the wrong love (FTWLf) and the anti-male, non-patriarchal, equally-superior female (AMNPESf).

The fYTFL’s blogs will be about the emotional beauty of love and relationships she is yet to experience long-term. She might have a travel blog, a uni blog or a blog about her own mind, but travel, uni and her own mind only have their relevance in finding the man of her emotional dreams and finding after half a night together, they have so much in common and connected, agreeing on the objective beauty of excerpts from Anne Steiner Rice’s poems on Valentine’s Day and sympathy cards.

The FTWLf may also have a travel blog, post-uni, downtrodden-by-my-ex work blog, or a blog about her own mind, but travel, work and her own mind only have relevance in relation to how to avoid places her former lover frequents while she single-handedly raises their children and takes them on holidays to exotic places her and her former ‘partner’ used to frequent as a loving couple (hoping he will read them and get upset), while she teaches ‘her’ children the value of growing up in a balanced, single-parent family environment based upon the dead sea scrolls and letters of Sigmund Freud to his mother as part of their home-schooling. She will often counsel other women not to read Anne Steiner Rice.

The AMNPESf is usually a dominant, psychotic, neurotic confused spiritualist who loves sex with men [other than her father and brothers and uncle], and appears quite open and honest about her lurid desires for those unfamiliar with the known traits of schizophrenic pathological liars who are the product of child abuse. She will litter her blog with spiritual insights gleaned from communing with the spirits, and her comments will be full of niceties. Until you cross her. Then she turns into a lesbian man-hater, and changes her blog to an angst ridden tirade against a patriarchal god and men in general.

Female blogger taking a break from her 'Health and Beauty Tips' blog.


Both male and female serials bloggers are riddled with guilt, and will frequently write sorry posts, yet never change their behaviour. For some reason, they think sorry is enough for themselves, but rarely for others. The main guilt they tend to suffer from is IDHALs. (I don’t have a life syndrome), yet they continually obsess over their own lives, and wish someone would take an interest in things they find important, such as my cat or dog is sick, or it’s raining today so I have a rug over my lap while I’m typing this.

Profilers are convinced that the reason more serial bloggers are not brought to justice is the same reason more serial killers are not brought to justice. It is their ordinariness. An ordinariness that goes unnoticed by other ordinary people. Just skimming over their virtual blogs is similar to standing next to a serial killer in real life. Unless you get to know the serial killer (or the blogger by carefully reading what they write), you would never believe they are capable of such atrocities.
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Sir Paul McCartney’s Divorce Court statement.

Heather Mills listens disinterestedly to Sir Paul's statement in court.


Your Honour,

Do you want to know a secret for the benefit of Mr Kite and the other jurors? What was typical of a day in the life of Heather and I, before the end, before her ‘revolution 9 (at last count), before the taxman, when we were in a ‘love me do’ mood? Don’t let me down, Your Honour. Don’t say ‘You can’t do that.’ or act like a Mean Mr Mustard. Hold onto your Maxwell’s silver hammer. You know what to do.

When I belonged to the Lonely Heart’s Club, I used to drive my car eight days a week, any time at all. Sometimes to nowhere, man, or on the long and winding road past the fool on the hill to Penny Lane where there’s a place I pray to Lady Madonna. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a little help from my friends. It seems like yesterday when I saw her [Heather ] standing there with the local postman, Judas, being chased by a dog until he said, ‘Hey bulldog,’ and it ran off, cocked its leg on some Norwegian wood. Then I saw Heather Jude, come together. He grabbed a handful of her octopus’s garden intent on going the magical mystery tour on her rocky raccoon. He wanted a bit of rock n roll music. I heard her say, ‘Please Mr Postman, leave my kitten alone. Let it be.’ Then ‘Help!’ I got out. I was scared. I felt like I was back in the USSR. I began to shout, “Hey, Jude! I’ll get you!” Jude ran off. Hello, goodbye?

I should have known better than to think, ‘got to get you into my life,’ about Heather. ‘Act naturally or run for your life,’ I said to myself. But a little voice said, ‘She loves you.’ So, I turned to her, and said, ‘I want to tell you I want to hold your hand, I want to be your man’ I said, ‘I’ll give you all my loving and I’ll keep you satisfied. We can work it out when I’m 64.” She said, she said, ‘It won’t be long before you’re 70.’ Her hair was a mess. ‘Lend me your comb,’ she said. So I did. It disappeared in her hair. I said, ‘You’re going to lose that, girl.’ She said, ‘Baby you’re a rich man. One comb won’t matter.’ I should have known then she was a ‘Money. That’s what I want’ type.

A local druggie on LSD known to Heather as Elizabeth-Michelle was crashed out on the pavement. ‘I am the walrus,’ she kept saying. ‘You make me dizzy miss LIzzy-Mitch,” Heather said. Are you on drugs?’ I asked her. ‘I’m only sleeping,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s alright mama,’ Heather said, so I let it be.

A blackbird flew overhead. I looked up. The clouds looked like strawberry fields, forever and ever and ever, making patterns like my ex parachuting girlfriend Lucy in the sky with diamonds on. They began to scatter. ‘Here comes the sun,’ I said. ‘Want to catch the train? I’ve got a ticket to ride the Helter Skelter at Brighton. I’ll buy you a hippy hippy shake or a yellow submarine from the Twist & Shout ice-creamery. ‘Are you asking me if ‘I’ll follow the sun?’ I nodded. ‘Why don’t we do it in the road? Please, please me? There’s no reason you’ve got to hide your love away. Then she undid my zipper and to use a local Liverpudlian expression, came in through the bathroom window, and I got a touch of the cry-baby-cry ‘while my guitar gently weeps in my eyes. It wasn’t even my birthday. All she said was, ‘Happiness is a warm gun, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, your honour. The end.

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Trolley Boy.

wen me obseshun startid


I neva liyucked skoowulll h8id it

Inglisshh was wot I h8id most it woz too differcolt hard

coodnt wate to finnesh an getta job

nu wot I wonned 2 b b4 I left

a trollee boi at Cowells noice

dad use 2 put me in th carria thingy

I luvd th cullers a evvrythin speshlee th lollees

then he got me me owun trollee {c th pitcha up abuvv

I had 2 w8 till I wos 14 2 leev skoowull

best day a me life leevin skool an getten a trolly boy jackitt

use 2 b so prowd a it use 2 ware it 2 bed

all waes wanned a job i cud take seereeuslee

i got 2 th stayj i cud poosh 100s at wunce

wen trollees startid goen missen i nu id cach th purpletraytR

diddun spect it 2 b me gramma

but i remmemma she wunce had a reelee bad speereeEnse in a trollee


me gramma been adukkted from Cowells soopamukkit wen she wos yunga
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Liesel Jones converts grandma’s stockings into swimming cossie for Beijing assault.

"There wasn't enough material for a cap. I'll be using Gran's bras for that.


Part time model and full-time personal ego-stroker, Liesel Jones, was trying on her grandma’s underwear on the weekend for the annual Myer Grey Power fashion parade. Attempting to put her left leg into a stocking, and at the same time hopping all over the bedroom floor, she slipped and fell head first into a the right leg of Gran’s stockings, wrapping the suspenders around her midriff. When she stood up, Gran said, “Apart from the fact you look like you’re about to rob a bank, I see potential here.” Gran grabbed her dressmaking scissors and freed Liesel’s head. Which took quite a while, as she didn’t want to muck up her hair. “That’s better,” Gran said. “What a great look. You should wear it as a swimming cossie.” Liesel swam a few laps in Gran’s bath, and had to agree, but then went a step further. Without tripping over this time. “Why don’t we design a whole swimming cossie range for Beijing?” Liesel said to the mirror. “Are you talking to me?” Gran asked. Liesel nodded to her own reflection, and they set to work on Gran’s old pedal-powered Singer sewing machine. Both Gran and Liesel were ecstatic at the results. “What about a men’s cossie?” Gran asked. Liesel responded with, “Let’s market them as unisex cossies. Thorpy likes the full body suit and we can sell the left over ones at the Sydney Mardi Gras.” And so they did. And now Gran’s stocking cossie is all the rage. Liesel expects her Me and Gran calendar to be available at K-Mart by Saturday. All proceeds will go to buying an electric sewing machine for Gran.

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The True History of Valentine’s Day.

Wolfy in one of his cross-dressing moments.


There’s no doubt about the ancient Romans. Back when Rome was populated by shepherds and sheep, the blokes running the country decided to get one of the gods to look after the shepherds and sheep at night. So who did they choose? Lupercus. The wolf god. It’d be like getting a convicted rapist to look after a convent of virgins. But that’s the ancient Romans for you.

It was only a matter of time before something happened. Early on the morning of February 14, 270AD, Lupercus, or Wolfy as he was known locally, decided to have a bit of a snack. Now gods have different appetites to humans, so a bit of a pre-breakfast snack for Wolfy meant a whole mob of sheep. And even gods make a fair bit of noise biting sheep’s heads off and munching on flesh and bone, so naturally the shepherdess, Valentine, woke up. Needless to say, she wasn’t very impressed. It meant she’d lose her job. And it’s not like there was any dole or government handouts. So that meant she’d be broke, and wouldn’t be able to afford a dowry. No-one would marry her and she’d end up a bitter old spinster. And it’s not like blogging was invented to give her an outlet for her angst.

She gave Wolfy a fair old smack in the snout, and told him in no uncertain terms what his actions had meant to her future or non-future. Now Wolfy had been watching over the sheep and shepherds and shepherdesses for quite a while, and considered Valentine was a bit of a sort. And since he was a god, albeit a wolf god, he wasn’t restricted to sheep. He’d even thought about laying with her in her sleep before the hunger pangs kicked in, and blaming it on a neighbourhood wolf. But that would mean waking her up to check on her menstrual cycle. He was a Roman wolf god, not a Greek one.


The death of Valentine's Boss.


So Wolfy came up with a plan. It meant that Valentine would have to go out with Wolfy for a year and pretend to be his wife, but it was better than being unemployed. “Go and tell your boss Lupercus has spoken,” Wolfy said. “And that he’s decided that once a year on 14 February each year, he’s going to marry a shepherdess, and have a nuptial feast of lamb to celebrate the occasion.”

So Valentine went and told her boss. He wasn’t very happy about losing all his sheep and his shepherdess so he went to complain to the authorities. They fed him to the lions, and sold his property at auction to a farmer with lots of sheep.

Then they went to Valentine. They took presents for both her and Wolfy – they just stole a few flowers along the way, and chucked them in a basket. One of them scribbled a poem and gave that to her as well. It wasn’t much but it did rhyme. ‘Valentine. Be mine all mine. I love you. More than I ever loved a ewe.’ Wolfy threw the flowers and poem away after they left. “Rubbish,” he said. “It reminds me of the crap they’re going to write in a couple of thousand years time.”

While they were there, they asked Valentine if Wolfy had any further instructions. Which he did. Wolfy told his new bride to tell the authorities that each year on the 14th of February, all the shepherdesses in the district had to assemble in the city square at midnight and romp around naked. In his wolf-god wisdom, he’d pick the one he thought most suitable for someone with such refinement and taste as himself.

Of course, huge crowds of single men (and a few married ones who managed to sneak out while their wives were asleep) graced the occasion the following year. After Wolfy had picked the shepherdess he wanted for the following year, they got to try their luck with the leftovers. By this time it was almost dawn. And they say foxes are cunning. Things got a bit out of hand, and a few blokes were dismembered but apart from that a fun night was had by all.

Things get a bit out of hand at the first Valentine's Day festival.


Like most festivals, this one had to have a name. There were quite a few suggestions. Deflowering Day was popular but eventually rejected. Wolfy Day got a couple of mentions, but eventually they settled on Valentine’s Day. And bugger me, it’s lasted all these years.
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Underbelly Update 2 for people living in Melbourne.

For those who missed my first Underbelly post, Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) started half an hour ago. I'm trying to give Melbourne peole constant updates so they don't feel like they're missing out.

The chick who gave a statement to the police, and her girlfriend (also a witness) have been put in witness protection. What a joke. Witness protection in Australia. The police have put them in a caravan at what looks like Werribee.

They're a bit scared. As you would be. But they still manage to romp around naked. (Probably the director or DOPs idea. You know, keep the viewers watching. Nothing like a bit of tit to keep guys watching TV).

Now there's a noise outside. They try to ring the police but can't get through. Now some dude playing Jason Moran has rocked up posing as a copper and told them to come to HQ. Of course the stupid bimbos believe him. They live in Melbourne. They probably drink lattes in some Toorak Rd cafe in South Yarra once a year and think they're cool.

Jason frisks them, so the viewer gets aroused by scenes of a bloke feeling chicks up. This might even keep chicks watching it, even though they'd rather watch a repeat of Desperate Housewives or put Lara Croft Tomb Raider in the DVD player, or pull out the Buffy episodes.

Now he's taken them to a false police station, and Vince Colossimo has come in and offered them a fully paid trip to Europe to 'disappear'. One of them asks, 'Can you get lattes in Europe?'

Okay, the adverts are on again.
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Underbelly Updates for people living in Melbourne.

Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) just started.

It's really good. In the first half-hour, Vince Collosimo's character, Alphonse Gangiatano, shoots this guy, Greg Workman, who owes him money. The police turn up and interview one of the witnesses. She gives a statement but refuses to sign it.

Then Vince's character is at home in the laundry getting rid of his murder clothes. He seems quite upset about having to throw out his favourite pair of shoes. They're those typical soft leather shoes Melbourne wogs wear in Lygon Street. He then goes up into the bedroom. His missus asks him what he was doing in the laundry. I gather she was worried he was doing the laundry and hadn't put enough Dynamo in.

Okay, the adverts have finished.

I'll keep giving updates right up until the final episode so you feel like you haven't missed out on anything. I'll try to get the ending right so you don't even have to watch it.
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PM Rudd admits colleagues researched Orble posts to formulate 17 page sorry speech.

Heather Mills, the former mistress of Humphrey B Bear and Paul McCartney, with her current partner Star Spangled Scientology Bear.


A spokesperson for the Prime Minster’s research department has admitted that the wording of the Sorry Speech was deemed so critical to the Labour Party’s continuing success that she spent the last week without sleep just going over and over the multitude of Sorry posts on Orble.

“When I was handed the job, I automatically Googled ‘sorry’ and the first 3,000 hits were Orble posts. Most of them began with ‘Sorry I haven’t posted for a while,’ which I found quite strange because no-one I know gives a shit about whether some unknown blogger on some unknown site is away, busy reading and dowloading celebrity gossip, having computer or relationship problems, learning to paint, suffering from writer’s block, PMT, untreated nastiness, or thinks they’re so important that people in the real world would have pined over missing their posts after they’d only been away for six-to-twelve hours.

I’d never even heard of Orble before I Googled ‘sorry’. It’s probably because I’ve never been on Seek to look for an unpaid writing job, although being in politics I’m no stranger to false promises. If it wasn’t for the sincere yet deluded outpouring of self-obsessed, attention-seeking angst, and sanctimonious bigotry and grief, which was deemed the crucial ingredient of the Sorry Apology wording, I’d probably still wish I’d never heard of Orble.

But my God, can Orble bloggers make something out of nothing by considering their own thoughts noteworthy, and present themselves as vehemently sincere on subjects they know or care so little about to the point where they do nothing about their convictions other than write pages and pages of diatribe. It was just what PM Rudd was looking for.”
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Humphrey refuses to say Sorry.

Humphrey and John Howard enjoy a racist joke together.


In a 17 page draft of a formal statement to be issued today by Humphrey's lawyer, Mr Squiggle, Humphrey has refused to say sorry to the indigenous peoples of this land primarily because he can’t speak in order to ‘say’ sorry – he’s a mute tap dancing bear.

In Humphrey’s statement, he states:

‘Today, while the Prime Minister and various other brown-nosers are reflecting on past mistreatment of the indigenous, I will be masticating and salivating on how political arse-licking of an in itself produces brown noses, and the odd brown streak in the underpants of both front and back benchers.

Humphrey's overseas cousin Hugh in a Govt approved prison, the Villawood Zoo.


I will be reflecting in particular on the mistreatment of my brother bears of the rarely publicised or spoken about Stolen Bear Generation, still serving time in zoos all over the country for crimes they never committed, and koalas who have been abused as marketing tools for foreign dignitaries, had their photographs used without permission or royalty payments to aid government policies, and their natural habitats destroyed by the destruction of non-blemished eucalypts, as related in the horrific chapters 5, 13, and 17 of Blinky Bill, to make way for farms populated by foreign sheep (the Stolen White Generation) who are subsequently shipped to the Middle East rather than back to England where they belong, only doubling their Diaspora.

Indira Ghandi stealing a koala from its family with government backing from the Minister for the Environment.


The time has come for a new history book, and to turn the pages in order to read the book, or to scroll down if you purchase an electronic copy. The book I would recommend is a new copy of an old favourite, Blinky Bill, so that all Australians are educated on how to treat domestic bears, by placing them in habitats like human houses, and supplementing the incomes of those 4% who can’t get employment with government handouts, discount taxi fares and handicapped parking permits.

Blinky Bill leaving town after loggers destroyed his home.


Until the government is prepared to say sorry to brown bears and bears of all colours, including those living between the Cape of Carpentaria and Esperance and beyond (even the polar bears who immigrated to the Antarctic), the children, descendants, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles, friends, overseas vistitors, acquaintances & etc, for the profound grief suffering and loss they have inflicted upon us, I for one will not be apologising to my brown human brothers.

A koala protesting outside Canberra earlier today with a stolen aboriginal.


Until the future is one where Parliament recognises the eucalypts belong to us, and they stop cutting them down and turning them into parliamentary wall-cladding, and promise never to do it again, and recognise bears as equal to humans, I will not be going to Canberra today. I will be spending the day with John and Jeanette Howard reading Captain Cook’s journal.’
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Tony Mokbel sues Channel 9 for taking Humphrey B Bear off TV.

Tony Mokbel in prison (left) and Tony Mokbel in disguise before he was captured (right).



Alleged Melbourne underworld drug lord, alleged murderer, known fugitive, and self-confessed Humphrey B Bear fan, Tony Mokbel, the man of many bad hair days, is suing channel 9 for millions of dollars in compensation over the emotional stress he suffered in prison after they took his favourite TV character's program off Greek television. "If Humphrey isn't put back on TV in Greece, I want to be extradited back to Australia immediately."

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Humphrey B Bear sues Victorian Supreme Court for loss of income.

Humphrey does his impression of a gay judge, and mocks the pillars of the justice system.


It's no surprise that I bring this news to Orble, having recently voted myself the best investigative journalist on the site, and put 10 of my own posts in my top 10 list of the best written Orble posts of the last 2 years. Those of you who would like to agree with me, and tell me that my judgement is spot on? Don't bother. I already know that.

As great as my investigative skills are, I cannot bring you an exclusive Humphrey statement. Because he can't speak. I have translated what he wrote in crayon, but doubt I will publish it on Orble, when a bidding war is taking place between the tabloids, magazines and TV networks.

For those of you who need your daily dose of celebrity gossip, I can let you know Humphrey wasn't happy and that he wrote his message in black crayon.
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Victorian Supreme Court bans Channel 9 from screening Humphrey Bear for 2 months in Melbourne.

Humphrey using an extra long yellow tie to cover his underbelly.


A Victorian Supreme Court judge has told Channel 9 it cannot screen episodes of Humphrey B Bear in Victoria until the murder trial of a Melbourne underworld figure is over.

The judge ruled that jurors seeing images of Humphrey’s underbelly would find it hard to distinguish between what was real and what was not in relation to the strange, ever-changing-and-shifting lump in Humphrey’s pants just below his beltline, let alone what was fact or non-fiction in the trial. “It’s a drama,” the judge said. “Most people have trouble with soapies,” then went on to add, “Children who have never been sexually molested by blokes who dress up in costumes have had enough trouble working out whether judges in wigs are gay sexual deviants, let alone if Humphrey is a real bear or a gay QC in a costume.”

“The last thing we need is a second trial, which could happen if jurors watch Humphrey doing his weird shit on TV at home, find the murderer innocent and put Humphrey on trial.”
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Ledger family to sell home bathwater for grieving fans.

One happy, grieving Heath Ledger fan in Hollywood.


The grieving family of Heath Ledger are selling litres of water from their home bath (the one Heath once washed in) and shipping them all around the world for grieving fans unable to take a memorial swim at Heath's favourite Perth beachside suburb.

For Thespians who want to take the grieving a bit further, they can order copies of Shakespeare's Hamlet signed by Heath's father, and soliloquize to their heart's content in the bath. Those not as highbrow as most Hollywood actors can download Beatles music to their waterproof ipods.
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Nowhere Else (My Story)

A normal person after reading an Orble post.


I've been suffering from writer's constipation lately. It's different to writer's block, although it was brought on by writer's block. I couldn't write anything, and I was just tapping my pen against my mouth and swallowed it. Which led to constipation. Anyway, I took some laxatives and finally had a bowel movement. When I shitted the pen out, I wiped my bum and was just about to flush the toilet paper down the cistern when I saw the most amazing story written on it. I wasn't going to publish it but Toni from 'What's Your Story' prompted me to put pen to virtual toilet paper and publish it on Orble.

Nowhere Else.

I’d always planned to revisit my home town but you know how it is. Years tick by while you tick off the other failed New Year’s resolutions on your calendar, or in your diary or private journal. Not that I own either. It’s just an expression.

Next year I am definitely going to ask Mary Constance to marry me.

As a town, Nowhere Else was no stranger to evil or ‘weird shit’ as the locals called anything they couldn’t get their head around or didn’t want to know about or acknowledge – like the rampant incest in the area. Even the woman I knew as my own mother wouldn’t talk about it. The road sign at the edge of town always went missing. A town sign reading ‘Nowhere Else’ was always considered a major souvenir for both locals and tourists. (Those who didn’t get shot stealing it, that is).

As a child growing up at Nowhere Else, my interest in the unsolved disappearances of Bill, Bob, Ben, Brad, Beryl, Bronwyn, Brenda and Bonny Constance on the beach at Deadman’s Bay in 1970, right in front of their parents’ eyes was instrumental in my decision to study forensic science, and later join the police force.

It’s funny ‘peculiar’ how life turns out. And funny ‘ha ha’ to people with a warped sense of humour. As a kid I always wanted to be an inventor. I was obsessed with designing a toilet that could recycle human waste into edible and appetising meals and clear drinking water. At school, I used to study plumbing and architecture at lunch time in the library. I had visions of toilet pipes with filters leading into the back of the oven, up the legs of the kitchen table and the kitchen sink taps. A modern day da Vinci. I used to dream of never having to buy food or water again. (We only drank tap water and the local council used to charge you water bills). I used to think, ‘Just think. You’d only ever really have to eat one meal in your whole life.’ I realised it had to be balanced, and contain all the main food groups. It’s not like I didn’t study nutrition. You’d eat this one massive meal like a bulimic, then go to the toilet, but rather than throw your guts up, your own shit and urine would come out in an appetising meal and clear water form in your own kitchen. I dreamt of being rich, and famous as the person who solved the world’s starvation problems in third world countries. As long as some philanthropist would install toilets and kitchens in places like Africa. After building houses there.

When I was first asked to investigate the deaths of seven people who had all died within minutes of each other at Nowhere Else, I wondered what people in my home town who still remembered me would think of me coming back. Most of all, I wondered if Mary was still single. Maybe she had children. If so, I could only hope they were all to her father, and she wasn’t technically married to someone outside the family.

I’d read the brief on the first ‘death’. That of John ‘Shagger’ Constance – sheep farmer of 1 Dump Road Nowhere Else.

Before I go on, most of the people who live at Nowhere else are either related to the Constances or are Constances. Not everyone. Just most. For the record my name is John Constant.

On the night October 31, 2007, Shagger’s defacto, Sharon Constance, was dolled up in the way country girls who don’t watch TV doll themselves up, waiting at the farmhouse on Dump Road for her husband to come home so they could go to their regular Friday night wife-swapping party at the local council chambers. She had the spare car keys ready, for it was common practice to chuck the keys in the microwave in the tea room at these parties and then extract them like a lucky dip, and hope no stupid bastard turned the thing on while it had metal in it. Shagger was late. He had gone out to check the sheep for five minutes an hour ago.

Sharon wasn’t keen on going out to Deadman’s paddock as it was known among the local indigenous tribes (well, the two members who were left in the area and weren’t slaughtered out there, and were now locked up in the local psychiatric institution having studies done on the pigment of their skin, in order to prove a thesis that even if a half-cast abo stood on its head when it had a shit it would turn brown). As stated earlier, Nowhere else was no stranger to evil. It was one of those Australian country towns steeped in racism. I realise this doesn’t narrow it down much in order to pinpoint Nowhere Else’s exact location, but that’s beside the point. This story needs to be told as much as sheep need wool to keep themselves warm in winter.

The reason Sharon wasn’t keen on going out to the paddock was she was in her wife-swapping gear. But it was already 9pm and the keys were ‘nuked’ at 10pm on the dot at wife-swapping parties. If you weren’t there, you missed out, and had to go home with your regular partner.

Reluctantly, she drove out to Deadman’s paddock. From a distance she could see Shagger’s farm ute because its lights were on high beam. But no sign of Shagger. As she pulled up closer the dust was as thick in the headlights as Danoz Direct powder breaking free from a tacky applicator busting when you first try to use it. All she could make out was a mob of sheep surrounding a tree. They were running back and forth dementedly, jumping at something hanging from the tree. She called out to Shagger at least three times but there was no answer. “Shagger! Shagger! Shagger?”. She tried to shoo the sheep away without luck. Only once though. “Shoo,” she said. Conscious of getting her clothes dusty, and hurting her tonsils by repeating the word ‘Shoo’, she got back into the car and kept her hand on the horn while she drove towards the mob of sheep hoping they would scatter. They didn’t. She reversed back and drove at the sheep, still with her hand on the horn but faster in first gear. As she got closer it became obvious to her they had no intention of moving. She reversed back half a kilometre and was in third gear when she hit the mob of sheep.

Later, in an affidavit, Shazza described hitting two ewes like running into a brick wall. The sheep weren’t hurt but the front of the car was a complete write off. The insurance company didn’t cover hitting sheep so she later lost her rating. Not that she would have anyway, for she wasn’t wearing her seat belt at the time, and went clear through the windscreen. Bloodied and bruised and cut, she forgot all about her appearance and clambered over the sheep.

And then she saw it. Hanging from the tree by a rope was Shagger’s erect penis, and scrotum. She didn’t have to look twice. She knew it was his. Later, numerous women in town were shown police photographs of his penis, and testified under oath that it was his. The sheep were jumping up and licking it. As sheep do.

Then something weird happened. Shazza wasn’t sure if the penis spoke to her or not but she clearly heard words uttered in Shagger’s voice. “This is all that’s left of me, Shaz,” she distinctly remembered hearing. She doesn’t know why but she began a conversation with the penis. “What’s going on?” she asked Shagger’s penis. “Remember how I told you once I used to have sex with sheep?” Shazza nodded. As she well would, having enjoyed watching this happen on numerous occasions. “Well, this is apparently my punishment for thinking with my dick, but I don’t know who is punishing me.” “Where’s the rest of you?” Shazza asked. “I don’t know. I think I’m all in here. I think the whole of me has been shrunk down into a dick.” Shazza fainted. As you would if you were in her clothes and shoes.

Shazza wasn’t discovered for almost a day. By the child of the neighbouring farmer. He ran and got his father. His father tried to shoot the sheep but it didn’t matter how many shotgun rounds he pumped into them, even from close range, none of them died. They just looked at him dumbly like sheep do. Sheep who wonder who is dumber. Sheep or humans? If they weren’t so intent on licking Shagger’s penis they would have taken the gun off the farmer, shot him, gutted him and had him for dinner as a way of getting animal revenge on humans.

The farmer ended up cutting the penis down, and taking it to the police station. After fighting the sheep off. Who weren’t very happy about it. Lucky he’d been a boxer when he was young and was able to punch most of the sheep out. He was a bit disturbed by the fact he couldn’t shoot them but could knock them out by punching them but didn’t think too much about it at the time. He was too concerned with saving Shagger’s penis.

For days, the sheep just hung around the police station until the penis was finally flown to the nearest city for forensic tests. Then, the sheep all disappeared and turned up in the city outside the forensic lab in a rental car.

DNA tests revealed the penis definitely belonged to Shagger but on further inspection they discovered it had a human skeleton and a heart. They tried to destroy it to get rid of the sheep but nothing they tried worked. They tried hanging it, electrocuting it, and killing it with lethal injections but nothing worked. The penis’s heartbeat just got a lot louder and faster. The chief forensic officer, gave up trying to kill it, and ended up feeding it to a ram. The ram ate the penis and then turned into a half-sheep half-human and ran off with the rest of the sheep following him.


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Rare brown dolphin not brown after all.

rare brown dolphin
Greenpeace activists washing and recycling their children's disposable nappies.


Photographic images of a rare brown dolphin seen swimming alongside whales harpooned by Japanese ‘scientists’ and posted on U-Tube by environmental group Greenpeace, have been removed after it was discovered well-meaning environmentally-friendly members of the Rainbow Warrior had been washing their children’s disposable nappies in the sea and recycling them.

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Indigenous groups told to join PMs Sorry Apology.

Menzies
PM Menzies congratulates the U17 Winners of Steal an Aboriginal Family Competition


Prime Minister Rudd has told aboriginals who were not part of the Stolen Generation they are expected to apologise along with other Australians.

People who cast informal votes, or refused to vote for the governments of the day between 1890 and 1960 have been exempted but ex-pats who were living in Australia at the time are expected to ring Canberra by Friday, or they will be stripped of Australian citizenship and not allowed back into the country. Anyone holidaying in Australia two weeks either side of the apology date is expected to make a voluntary donation of at least fifty dollars.

A new tax (SGT or Stolen Generation Tax)will be introduced for the estates of all dead people, who died since the first child was stolen, and if they don’t have an estate, their relatives will be taxed twice. If their relatives are unemployed it will be taken from their Centrelink payments. If they are in jail, two weeks will be added to their sentences. “This is the country of the fair go where everyone chips in,” Mr Rudd said.
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Mal’s tip on writing popular Australian Orble blogs.

What a classy US/Aus blog is all about. Striking a Madonna pose like you're sitting on the Jon.


As much as America and most Americans (and Americanised Australians) in general make me want to vomit my prostate gland up my insides and out of my left nostril, cut it into pieces and sell the prostate slivers as salty anchovies to Pizza Hut, to become a popular Australian blogger on Orble, you need to absorb as much American culture as you can, and the trashier the better, then write about it to become a popular Australian blogger. The second best way to do this is surf the net and watch TV. The best way is to read American blogs on Orble and copy them.

So as not to be branded a hypocrite, I have been surfing the US net, watching Foxtel and reading the shit on Orble all morning. All in the name of blogging research. There’s so much great information on there for inspiration. I nearly just downloaded an article but thought I’d at least write something of my own.

Here is my first Americanised Australian post, which I hope will shoot to No 1 on the Orble popularity list, and inspire all bloggers to write some similarly educational and original posts.

O’Bummer fed ‘er a line of Coke.

Dow Jones’ Greenback’s primary twins, Angelina Cruise’s adopted mother, Scientology Hubbard, and the Hollywood winner of McCain’s NASA Spicy Flaming Bushburger swallowing contest, Paris Hilton, held at Harvard, voted in the goodwill Pitt of US ambassador’s Clooney’s Utah’s White House rehab, while Obama’s Hilary Ledger tornadoed Iraq’s twisted $3 Trillion Wall St underpants in the New England Patriots win over the New York Bare Badgered Britneys with UCLA spears.

What do you fill your mind up with?
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Mal’s Reading Tips for Scrabble Players.

scrabble
The first draft of a typical blogger's post.


I used to love Scrabble but I got so good at it there was no competition. I gave up playing and have devoted part of my life to educating and improving others. Pretty much everything I’ve done in my life has turned out like that. I’m forever enlightening people due to the fact I can’t go through any further enlightenment myself, having learned everything there is to know about life itself. It’s the downside of being perfect. I keep conquering everything I do so rapidly it forces me to turn to teaching others. Which is a real trial. It certainly tests my patience dealing with idiots and halfwits in a compassionate, caring and nurturing manner, and raising their intelligence levels slightly beyond that of a dairy cow. To see the joy on their faces when they realise they have finally become smarter than sheep is reward enough for someone such as myself with perfect compassion.

After becoming the world’s greatest blogger, I thought about quitting but I see so many people out there in Blog Land just crying out for help by trying to pass off their pathetic, ill-informed and ignorant rants as writing and hope no-one notices, when the text just screams out things like, ‘Help me!’ ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about or how to write.’ Being perfect in all areas, including compassion, I tend to pity the poor ignorant bastards, and feel compelled to help them. And so I’m still here in an educatorial capacity.

But again, I digress. It’s ludicrous to think I could impart my wealth of knowledge to people and expect them to grasp even 10% of it. Getting most people to a smarter-than-a-sheep level is enough. Sometimes, even that is stretching things a bit. But I persevere for the common good. It’s in my nature to share without jealousy or envy. Not that I could ever be envious of another human being, knowing what I know, and having the certitude of my own mind to convince me I am right and everyone else is wrong.

For those of you who play Scrabble regularly, even if poorly, which I’m convinced most of you do, I’d suggest reading the Zaire Daily. It’s a great African newspaper which throws up some great Z words, on the off chance you get that one Z in scrabble and can’t make the word ‘zoo’ because you don’t have two ‘O’s’ and it’s the only word starting with ‘Z’ or ‘zed’ you know, apart from zed itself.

Here is an article from earlier today for your instruction:

Zaire zebras and zizels zenned out on zibib.

Zazzy and zany zoocentric zingaro zelatrix, Madame Z the zooid, filled the zucca (gourd) of zampone with a zymogenic zygosis of zablagione and zibib.

Your humble yet vastly superior servant.
Mal.
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The Beauty of Writing.

Writer's Block
A blogger trying to overcome writer's block.


Often writers will write about how to go about writing because they don’t know about anything else, but such articles can be highly instructional for the novice or blogger.

Back when handwriting was the norm and cursive was popular, two of the most helpful writing articles I read were ‘How to hold a pen’ (with detailed diagrams of where to apply pressure with the thumb, index and middle finger on pens of varying thicknesses), and ‘Getting a perfect almond-shaped loop on a lower case ‘d’ that follows an ‘r’ and how to hook the two together.’ (with examples of words like ‘hard’ and ‘board’). My writing improved dramatically.

In this age of blogging where people mainly use PCs, there is a multitude of writing advice about writing, but you rarely see an article about how to use the CAPS LOCK key to maximum effect or where it is located on the keyboard.

But, I digress. The biggest oversight in instructional articles on writing is on how to write beautifully, or beautiful writing, and how to focus on beauty. The best article I ever read about this matter was one I wrote myself. It was titled ‘Me’. I only wrote it in my own head but because it was so good I remember it. It went like this: Personally, I myself use a mirror. Since blogging is all about me I may as well focus on me. I find myself and my own thoughts amazing. Unless other people are idiots, so will they. I’ll probably become the greatest blogger ever. And if I want to write about beauty, what better subject than me, myself, I? I get most of my writing inspiration from myself and my own beauty. Me is my favourite topic.

Sometimes I will write pages on the beauty of my nose. Its shape. How long I’ve had it. How I like just stroking it, etc. . Sometimes I’ll look up my own nostrils for hours, and list it as a hobby on my resume. Sometimes I won’t write anything at all. I just stare into my own eyes and just pay my reflection compliments. I’ll say things like, “You stunner.” I’ll just get so wrapped up in my own beauty, it almost feels wrong to share it with faceless and nameless people on the net who might not appreciate my beauty for what it is – perfection in a human being.

If you’re not genuinely handsome or beautiful, I wouldn’t suggest you try this at home. It will only lead to vanity. Stick to standard writing advice.
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Rudd reveals first list of bright minds and topics for his 2020 Summit.

The Wiggles
Kevin Rudd's favourite band 'The Wiggles' will perform at the 2020 Summit


Balancing Mortgage Rates and Inflation for First Home Buyers – David Hicks and Schapelle Corby

David and Schapelle will teach people how to live on next to nothing for anywhere from 5-20 years.

Climate Change – Wayne Carey.

Wayne will speak on adapting to and coping with climate change, and how he once played a full quarter of a two-hour football match one Sunday on a cold Melbourne day and another quarter the next Saturday on a hot Brisbane day with only six days recovery in between.

Stiffer Jail Terms for Child Sexual Predators – Bindi Irwin

Bindi will model her new kiddy bikini range ‘Bite Me’ while she sings a song with the Wiggles unplugged in their Speedos.

National Security and Terrorism – Beaconsfield Mine Disaster Survivors Todd Russell and Brant Webb.

Todd and Brant will talk about the necessity of mining in the CBDs of capital cities, and converting the shafts to accommodation, and how all Australians would be safe for weeks if they were at least a kilometre underground, rather than living in hi-rise buildings.

Obesity – Pauline Hanson

Pauline will cook battered fish and chips to teach nutrition to Australians growing fat on Asian takeways like sushi and steamed rice.

Rising Oil Prices and Alternative Fuels – Casey Stoner and Mark Webber.

Casey will give a slide show of him as a 4 year old riding a home-made raft made from recycled outdoor dunnies in the sea near the Phillip Island race track using a shovel as a paddle, and Mark will do a PowerPoint demonstration of famous Australian stamps based on the native ducks of Albert Park Lake.

Unemployment & Poverty – Russell Crowe

Russell will appear via live video streaming from a Hollywood party and explain how to make 12 crates of Moet last the whole night. The 60 second clip will include Russell punching out at least three freeloaders.

Aboriginal Land Rights – Lindy Chamberlain.

Lindy will give a demonstration of how to kill a dingo (with a doll in its mouth) by boomerang without harming the toy.

Racism & Religious Intolerance – Tony Mokbel

A letter from Tony will be read out about how he and his Greek Orthodox mates once mingled with Catholic Italians at a Lygon Street church fair, how they taught him to make the perfect latte without a cappuccino machine by firing blanks into milk jug, and how they sold the lattes to Muslim shoppers at cost price.

Drugs and Alcohol – Corey Delaney’s Parents

Corey’s mum and dad will host a 45 second rave party followed by a demonstration of home nipple-piercing using a nail gun bought with frequent flyer points.

Getting Australia to qualify for the 2010 Football World Cup – John Howard.

The former PM will auction his famous Wallabies tracksuit to the highest bidder, and donate the proceeds to the financially-strapped Socceroos.
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How to get nuns pregnant in convents – Martin Luther’s hidden gospel discovered.

Nicole Kidman as Hitler
Nicole Kidman as Hitler in Tom Cruise's upcoming 'L Ron and Adolf's Bunker Dialogues.'


Location manager for Tom Cruise’s latest film project ‘L Ron and Adolf’s Bunker Dialogues’ Nancy Cartwright, uncovered Luther’s secret gospel in a wine cellar converted into a sex dungeon at Luther’s former Nimbschen convent in Germany. In his gospel, which reads like a depraved version of St Augustine’s Confessions, Luther writes, ‘I know Catholicism is right but the devil has promised me fame beyond death as a founder of a new religious cult if I keep deflowering the nuns here. He told me most people are so stupid they’ll believe anything, and within a few hundred years they won’t even believe the Pope is the head of the Church.’ “We’ll write it into a Simpsons’ episode eventually” Cartwright said. “Right now I’m busy coaching Nicole (Kidman) on her Hitler accent. Tom will naturally play L Ron, our illustrious founder. He’s already played a German baddie.” So far the only leaked dialogue from the film is where L Ron Hubbard says to Hitler, “Anyone who thinks you need to see a psychiatrist is nuts.” Paris Hilton is tipped to play Eva Braun. Cell-phone footage of Britney Spears at home with her kids will be used to portray Hitler’s youth.
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If I was Suri Cruise’s Father – Nicole Kidman to publish Banned L Ron Hubbard book.

Nicole Kidman has agreed to pay to publish L Ron Hubbard’s book ‘If I am Suri Cruise’s Father’ written by ghost writer Casper the Friendly Ghost with a preface by OJ Simpson. “Tom often wanted to wrap a page from the signed copy of the original Dianetics manuscript onto his old fella when we had sex,” Nicole said. “Tom claimed it had L Ron’s DNA on it because he sweated on the pages writing it. Tom couldn’t produce any sperm. When I refused to play a part in his bizarre sexual fantasies, he used to put cryonically frozen, left over ice-creams L Ron hadn’t finished in his underpants and want the lights out when we had sex. There’s no way Tom is Suri’s father. Tom once told me he had L Ron’s sperm in the locket he wears around his neck, and one day he would use it to populate the world with superior beings. This book will expose Tom and Scientology and L Ron’s evil plan to have children.”
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BRITNEY SPEARS DEAD??? Unofficial Report says she committed suicide.

I know this in unofficial but I have a friend in the US who is a psychiatric nurse who works at the UCLA and she rang me two minutes ago to say that Britney suicided in the toilet about half an hour ago. My friend is not the sort of person who would ring me and tell me it had happened if it didn't. Half of me says wouldn't this be great if what I was writing was a world Orble exclusive and the other half of me says I really shouldn't write this. I don't know what to think. I just hope she didn't give my phone number to people like Oprah. I want to live a quiet blogger's life.
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Australian Cricketers admit they drop catches on purpose to give India a chance of winning a match.

BCCI
An image sent to Cricket Australia via mobile phone by India's Cricket Board.



After Australia thrashed India in the no-contest 20/20 cricket match on Friday night in front of 85,000 spectators, James Sutherland of Cricket Australia called the Australian cricket team into a twelve hour meeting, and finally convinced them to give India a chance of winning at least one match before they go home, so that spectators would turn up to the matches and sponsors would still pour millions of dollars into cricket. Ricky Ponting reluctantly agreed, and instructed Australia’s one day cricketers to drop at least three catches in the first twenty overs to give India a chance of competing. Michael Symonds confirmed that this morning’s fielding session at the Gabba was all about how to drop a catch and throw the ball at least five metres wide of the stumps, and that the Australians had spent hours watching the Indian side fielding to work out exactly how to go about fielding badly. Sutherland said that if Australia thrashed India today, he would work on bad running between the wickets, and racially abusing Indians so that our best players are banned.
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Tendulkar tries to cheat. AGAIN!

Tendulkar
Tendulkar refuses to walk. AGAIN!


One of the most disgraceful, racist and lying cricketers ever to put a pair of pads on, Sachin Tendulkar, ‘The Little Master of Fibs’ refused to walk after being out hit wicket in today’s one day international, and confronted the umpire in one of the ugliest scenes in cricket since Harbajhan Singh called Prime Minister Rudd a baboon for saying sorry to Abo monkeys. An injured Matthew Hayden, watching the match on TV from his back yard, with his Hindu speaking ex girlfriend said she clearly heard Tendulkar say to the umpire, “I’m God in India. We run cricket. You’re a product of your own son having sex with your mother and sister. The BCCI will make sure you never umpire again.” Harbajhan Singh said he heard what Tendulkar said from the batting nets behind the Gabba and he clearly heard Tendulkar say, Holy Cow, Mother and Sister. I’m run out? I accept your decision as if it was coming from the ICC.”
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Britney Spears buys LA hospital.

Jacko
Michael Jackson as he appears in the MTV Video of Britney's new album 'Train Wreck'.


Britney Spears has sold her mansion to George Clooney’s mother, and bought the UCLA Medical Centre in LA where she plans to live and shoot her new album Train Wreck. “People might finally stop saying I should be in hospital,” she said. While the staff and patients were being dismissed, Britney started renovating, and had the ground floor walls removed, then had to rebuild due to the building collapsing. Once the medication room was re-stocked, she installed a life-sized circular railway track, and brought in a steam train. Dressing up in an XL assistant train-driver’s uniform she went round and round on the track while Michael Jackson steered carriages full of children and Britney’s relations. During the train ride, Britney and Jacko co-wrote the first single from Train Wreck, a revamped version of Alvin Stardust’s Kookachoo, ‘Be My Kooky Choo Choo’ as Martin Scorsese began pre-production on the MTV video. “It will be a paranormal tragedy and four-way triangle romance with a classic western feel to it,” Scorsese said. “I’ll be using unused footage of Heath Leger from Brokeback Mountain chasing the train on a horse when he finds out Jacko has left him for a woman, with Elizabeth Taylor hot on his heels on National Velvet because Jacko has dumped her for Britney. Jacko will dance on a carriage roof and sing ‘Beat It’ at both of them, then the train will crash and all four will die in each other’s arms, as Jacko’s voice fades while he sings Billie Jean to Elizabeth Taylor but substitutes the words “Britney Spears is not my girl,” then sings Ben to Heath Ledger but uses the words, “Heath, the two of us.” Asked about the paranormal content, Scorsese said, “That’s the best part of the video. Just when you think they’ve all died and the video is fading to black, the mutilated children and Britney’s mutilated relations turn into demons with chainsaws for feet, big fangs and mouths shaped like garbage dumpsters. They move in on the four of them to devour them, but Britney’s mangled body comes to life as a hot young babe with Samurai swords for hair, chainsaws for arms, and shotguns for legs, kicks their asses, and they turn into fast food and coke, and all land on a lovely dining table in Arizona. After a big feast and lots of snorts, Britney turns into a giant pair of panties with wings and eyes, loaded with nuclear weapons made of chocolate with soft centres, Jacko turns into an albino monkey who lives on a lollipop tree, Liz turns into a green frog who lives in a palace made out of strawberry cheesecake and diamond coloured M&Ms, and Heath turns into pillow with teeth. They all go on a magical ride in the sky in Brintey’s panties and bomb Afghanistan. Everyone dies of a chocolate overdose. Then Britney turns into a polar bear with jet engines and helicopter blades and brings them back to earth just by the train wreck, narrowly avoiding colliding with a space shuttle, which crashes anyway because of the fright. Britney fixes the train and all four of them ride into the sunset as Britney sings, “I’ve got my life back on track.”
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