A group of sight-impaired people who were promised front-row seats to the Maria Sharapova match at Rod Laver arena last night, and paid big money for the tickets, only to be taken to a pig farm at Werribee by a Melbourne con man. The visually-impaired were convinced they were on centre court at the Sharapova match when they heard the constant grunting and squealing of the pigs, unaware the con man was smacking them on the rump with a tennis racquet and throwing tennis balls at their snouts. When one of their guide dogs jumped the fence around the pig-sty to defend the pigs, he was attacked by a near-sighted sow, leading to an all-in brawl between the pigs and the guide dogs. The sight-impaired thought the barking was unruly ethnic supporters. It wasn't until the owner of the pig farm arrived, and threw rotten capsicums at the con man, causing him to flee in the bus that they realised something was wrong. The con man has been described as having a loud voice. Anyone with information on a man with a loud voice is urged to contact Crime Stoppers.
The Australian Opens’ 36th biggest loser, a fit and ripped Marcos Baghdatis, has had an obese person’s gutful of pussy woos Australian attitudes to politically correct bullshit. “I can’t tolerate tolerance or the tolerant,” he said as he burnt a thousand Australian flags from Cheap as Chips with Cash Converters matches to get a souvlaki barbie going in the back yard of the Melbourne soccer-loving bikie group of louts and hoons, Hellas Angels. “The next Skip, Bunning’s sausage-sizzle eating bogan who apologises for calling me a Turkish Cyprian Smelly Wog Bastard, I’ll serve such a big backhander with a topspinning kick and slice, they’ll wish their parents were Lleyton and Bec Hewitt and they went MIA before the soapie action started in the bedroom. Either that, or I’ll drag them from their new-estate addresses in Melbourne’s western suburbs to a Greek restaurant in South Yarra by their hairy nipples and bumholes and challenge them to a moustache-off with my auntie to see who gets the last lamb steak.”
The Indian Cricket Board have sent a real monkey out to Australia to replace Harbajhan Sing for the Perth Test. The portly monkey’s passport has him listed as ‘Big Monkey’, ‘Monkey B.’ and ‘Big M.’ India are sending a clear message to Australia. “Call him Big Monkey and we’ll be reporting you to the ICC.” Scoreboards will list him as MB., BM, or Big M. Channel 9s WWOS Commentary Team are locked behind closed doors tonight trying to come up with a non-racist name for the new member of the team. Head of the Commentary Team, RIchie Benaud rejected Tony Greig’s idea to call him ‘Symonds’. Michael Slater was sent home after suggesting ‘Ooh ooh oooh, aah aah aah, it’s not Glen McGrath.” Ian Chappell suggested shifting the Test Perth to Darwin and promoting it as a post Packer revolution evolution but Mark Nicholas was against the idea as he didn’t want to offend the Church of England or Sir Michael Parkinson who was a close friend of the Queen. Ricky Ponting has struck a deal with Anil Kumble, and counselled all of his players not to engage in racist name calling or take cheap shots at Big M’s appearance by referring to him as ‘Small Human’. He suggested just appealing hard every ball he faced, even if it was a wide, or dead ball, as a united show of Australian sportsmanship and integrity. He even suggested appealing for a catch in slips as the Australian team made their way onto the ground. Even ringing the umpires to appeal at 2am in the morning from their hotel rooms and just going ‘HOwzat?!’ Environmentalists and animal lovers have been snapping up tickets for the chance to see a wild animal in a natural environment. Greenpeace and Amnesty International have come on board as major sponsors for Big Monkey’s cap after he revealed at a press conference he wouldn’t wear a helmet when opening the batting, even against Bollywood Lee. “I want to bring attention to the plight of my incarcerated relatives caged in zoos around the world,” Big M said. Nelson Mandela is flying in from South Africa for the match but denies he is a distant relative to Big M. “I’m just making a statement about the hardships of prison life for monkeys and humans in captivity,” he said. An offer from McDonalds to sponsor Big M and release a Big M burger were rejected by Big M’s manager, Dean Jones, who said Hindus and Terrorists don’t eat cow. McDonald’s management refused to confirm or deny they were creating a dog burger for the subcontinental market or would be trialling a Sacred Vegan Cow Burger made of synthetic beef at the Perth Test with the catchphrase ‘We don’t just reinvent ourselves. We reincarnate ourselves.” KFC will sponsor Big M with a series of ads featuring Ricky Ponting and Big M catching feral cats and wild myxamytosis rabbits in the outback, cooking them up on a fire fuelled by photos and effigies of a sight-impaired Steve Buchnor, then eating KFC Papadam Fillers and afterwards playing a friendly match of sledging on opposite banks of the Katherine River in NT, where Big M calls Ponting a skip, convict white piece of trash, and Ponting calls him an indigenous dole bludger. The meat in KFC Fillers and monkey meat? Equals.
Pepsi (the only Cola sold at KFC outlets) are sponsoring Andrew Symond's mum, a committed Darwinist, and full-time resident of Sydney's Taronga Park Zoo by footing the bill for a year's supply of unshelled peanuts and lady-finger bananas for her son. Most of them will be shaped like Kookaburra Cricket balls so Andrew can practice his off-spinners from the public area, beyond the security fences. "I don't like getting mum out but if she's going to pull monkey faces like Indian supporters while I bowl, I'll be ripping the bananas and peanuts into the rough," Symonds said unapologetically. "You can choose your friends but you can't choose your primates or your teammates. Or something like that." Mrs Symonds has refused to wear a helmet even when hanging from a tree . "The zoo keepers have given me a wide-screen digital television, an LG TV, and a copy of the Black&White Minstrels, which is my favourite show because it reminds me of my son, but they put the screen upside down, so what choice do I have?" Harbajhan Sing said this was just one more examples of Aussie cheating. "We've been bowling bananas on dustbowls for peanuts for years." Coca Cola will be working feverishly to find one of those old thick bottles from the 60s to have a new pair of glasses for Steve Buchnor ready by the start of the third test in Perth, should the series go ahead. McDonalds have offered to let Buchnor use their mayonnaise factory to swim in so he appears white and non-racist next time he umpires, as long as he dresses up as Hamburgler. Pepsi and Coke? Even monkeys only use them to sanitise thier bumholes.
Sachin Tendulkar admitted nailing five live chickens to his cricket bat on Christmas Eve, in a new sponsorship deal for the Indian cricket team with KFC, after he came under increasing criticism for not hitting balls out of the meat of the bat. “It’s all about religious tolerance,” the wristy little master said. “It’s where Christianity meets consumerism and Hindu in a 20/20 head on St Patrick’s Irish snake kiss. “ The way those crucified chickens yell and scream when I score a quick single makes all Indian supporters at the SCG know that the ball is coming off the meat on the bat, or one of the five sweet spots, after I doused them in sweet and sour paprika Doosra sauce and greasy Bradd Hogg Chinaman mayo,” he added, after refusing to autograph an Australian dairy farmer’s cow. Andrew Symonds and Michael Clarke should be released from St George’s hospital today after barbequing and eating two of Tendulkar’s bats for a KFC advert without asking Haydos’s permission to use his barbeque, or consulting a recipe from his best-selling cookbook, ‘Margaret Fulton and Women’s Weekly – Eat Your Heart Out – It’s Healthy Food.’ Haydos was upset, but Symonds was spitting crinkle-cut dreadlock shaped chips, and Clarkie’s hair was just standing on end like he’d been mistaken for a stray cat, and electrocuted in a KFC oven malfunction by a junior employee on slave wages. Umpire Steve Buchnor gave Tendulkar not out caught behind twice after the ball successively hit a chiken head comb and chicken wing feathers, before flying through to Gilly. Snicko confirmed that Buchnor made the right decision. “He definitely feathered it,” Richie Benaud said, before being removed from the commentary box for laughing at his own jokes. Scans for dementia continue, while Mrs Benaud has been gagged and prevented from commenting to Channel 9. Binger Lee had Tendulkar caught by Ricky Ponting off a protruding baby chicken but replays show he overstepped the mark, and the Australian team were left with egg on their face. “Promoting healthy eating through KFC sponsorship is sending a positive message to kids about what sacrifices you have to make to play at an elite level,” Tony Greig said, as he ate imported kippers with his sterilised keyring in the SCG members’ dining room, rearranging the leftover bones on an artist’s easel for sale as another item of limited edition cricket memorabilia. The health factor of KFC and Tendulkar’s bats? Equals.
Penalising a person by snuffing out their candle in a humane society where innocent animals are made and killed without wincing is a winner. Firing a squad of shooters for failing to shoot kangaroos with joeys in their pouches is fitting. Humans are superior to all of God's creatures. The tests are in and the results are positive. If God was still alive he'd roll around in his grave. Life, all life, faces death with the face of death. Killing innocent animals isn't all that bad when you realise they taste delicious. When you realise that the leg of pork in your fridge is like having your dead rellies dismembered, remembered and digested you'll enjoy it even more. We're as primitive as we ever weren't. Vegetarians are drawn and smudged but cannibals fit right in. Our society is a peaceful place except for all the bloodsheds. Sheds where blood is spilt are a tradition we all keep our hands in. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm off to eat some beautiful cow's bum. In the biblical sense. The sanctioned slaughter of animals and that of humans: opposite.
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 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.
Balzac, dressing-gowned, moustache penner,
championed what I know not.
Whatever it was, it still is.
It was the same with Courbet.
Painter to the ordinary - no ordinary painter.
On a level footing the two find themselves.
They may not have found themselves.
They found themselves.
Only Art and Drama.
It can have been no other way.
No matter how you weigh,
it was a little curse and a blessing.
Joyce, James of course, stands
In trousers - no gown thanks.
Opposite Balzac his work sits.
Not what the words depict
But the words themselves.
Like Cezanne, it's not so much what
But how.
Like Balzac and Joyce,
So too Courbet and Cezanne.
It's a real boar - reality.
An absolute pig of a thing.
Hunting I love but love? I laugh to score.
It's not for everyone...
To care for things long since gone.
Necromance novellist.
Can't you see that you will be one day?
Gone like your wind.
I don't care that you don't care.
Before I turn to serious,
I'll leave in a cloud
Of my own ommissions.
Balzac and Joyce: opposite.
Balzac and Courbet: equal.
Courbet and Cezanne: opposite.
Cezanne and Joyce: equal.
If there's one thing that makes me see stars it has to be a telescope. Seeing stars is best done with your hands on a long instrument. Many's the day that I've just sat there with my hand on it. Heavens above, the heavens above are heavens above. The bodies of work left behind by shining stars is just so much tinkling. Above the stars nothing can be put. Up the stars on the other hand you can't put anything but themselves. But for themselves, stars would have nothing else to live for. To live for a star is a start. A start is just another kind of end. To end closer to the end than the start is another good one. Stars are just so worth reaching for. Even more than the bucket. Even more than the bucket, I like riding the porcelain public transport. Stars and "heavens above": tinkle.
If there's one thing I won't stand for it would have to be the elderly. I simply won't. I believe in the concepts inherent in an ideology based on equality for all. My arse is as bony as the next. I'd know. I love fondling the buttocks of the stranger beside me. If there's one thing I ask the elderly to stand for it would have to be me. They can suffer in their padded jocks, for all I care. The elderly these days just aren't what they were when I was young. When I was, I wasn't that different to how I is. We had to walk miles in the snow barefoot just to go barefoot snow-skiing. Old people, so named because they are really people under all those folds, are far from green but closer to green than not. If there's one thing that goes green faster than the green it has to be the elderly. Shuffling off is something they do every day. It's not too short-sighted to think that those whipper-snappers are a pain in the person next to you's arse. Put down your glasses; this one is over. Forget the perilous youths of today - I was ripped off at the op-shop. Old and young: age.
I havent been around for a while. Ive been busy killing people. Bloggers mainly. Im tired of it all. I want the police to catch me. They dont realise that everyone I have killed has been a blogger yet. Bloggers are nobodies so they just dont get the link between all the murders. Its so easy to kill bloggers. They have all their details online. Its easy to find out where they live and just eliminate them. Noone is the wiser. Im sending a message to the police via Orble. If they take no notice of my intention to kill bloggers one by one, Ill post a U-Tube message. Even then I doubt theyll get it . Ill probably have to kill some of the people running blog sites like Orble. Think about this. You could be next.
As unlikely as it seems, seams are seamless. It seems, madams, that seams are a stress for most mistresses. The thing about them is that they don't stitch trousers. Pants are best left to the dogged. The day my nuts touch the tarmac is the day I come down to earth. Coming down is never easy; despite gravity. Despite gravity, levity is a lot for the lightweights. I can't wait to be so lacking in body that I float upwards. Seemingly, death is the end of consciousness. I remember well the time before I was born. So too, no doubt, I'll be equally happy in retirement. It has many in stitches. I'll have to fly about now. Yet again, I've satisfied my mistress. If you don't believe me, just ask me. There are quite a few faecal fumes festering, funnily. Seems and is: opposite.
Norm
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