It's a far cry from crying but laughing is more or less the same. The same is more or less the same as different. It makes no difference to me that the same for me is the same for you. It's the same difference, entirely. Laughing, the belly bellows, feels fairly fine fairly frequently. Crying is more or less different, entirely. The two are entirely different. In other words, the same. Same and different, if I may be maybe so intellectually bold, are construction workers' knitting noodles. It's a vexxing issue that demands our undivided sandwiches. You could scour this post all day and it'll always come up smelling of noses. There's not a splinter in it. Words, so fit for human consumption, are deeply adequate when it comes to airs and graters. That reminds me. I'm not going into it here. Needless to say, needless to say. Crying and laughing: opposite.
If there's one thing that I can't bear, it's children. I simply can't have them. It's a feeling that has been growing inside me for many years. Heightened by a growing awareness of myself, my reluctance to bear children, you might say, has been forced upon me by my nature. Nature has it that, motherhood is for mothers and mankind is very much so. Vey much so is vey much like extremely. Extremely unlikely is it that I'd ever be able to stand a tripod with two legs. It's no coincidence that I have often been compared to a two-legged stand. Often I have been likened to a pair of trampolines wrestling over a linoleum hand-jacket. Kids are just a scapegoat to some but, this just adds up. I don't think I'll ever be able to take kids. Just don't have it in me to abduct anyone. Much less an innocent of any kindness. There are just so many kidders I can hardly conceive. I'm more of an idiot than savvy. Of nature and nurture, give me either, or either. I'll leave the labour to the ladies and they can also do the work. The former and the latter: opposite.
Nobody can be exactly what they are not. What they are not is left entirely to another. What another is not is what somebody is. That somebody could be what another is not is obvious. Obviously, that somebody, a relative nobody without another, is not what they themselves are not. Everything but. Everything but what another is not constitutes the make-up of that somebody. That somebody could be just about anybody. That somebody could be just about anybody is obvious. Another reason to believe less and less in the majesty of your own persona is all this bodily business. Bodies go with minds like works go with plumbers. Everybody is what another is not. What another is not is what everybody is. That this is obvious is obvious. Obviously, everybody would like to think that they are separate and distinct. Nobody is. Like back and front, everybody has a nobody. Like every body: back and front. Nobody and everybody: opposite.
If you've ever found yourself hiding behind anonymity, you'll know that hiding behind nothing isn't hiding at all. It's plain to see that a media is no more a circus than an opera is a vehicle and, that being yourself is virtually attainable. Also virtually within reach, handily, are my genitals. It comes as some relief. To have things like that within arms reach is a very happy accident that is probably no accident at all. To be born with a good name that is easily besmirched is akin to riding a bicycle sidesaddle. Getting off your high-bicycle head first is a most inelegant way to fall off the old coil. Falling off the old coil is every person's final fall. It is not to be laughed at. The way some would laugh, you'd think they didn't even care a jot. Note well those who don't care about people they've never met. People who care about themselves are always likely to live in glass jars of preservatives. Death is anonymous like bicycles have hooves. Whatever it is I'm trying to say, I've said it. There it is. To lend your title to the title is called eponymy. So I've read and I've read a lot, wife. I've read paper bound in soft paper and hard and I've read straight off my PC. This might sound a little PC but them's the apples. Anonymous and eponymous: opposite.
Significantly, realising our insignificance is a significant step towards doing something of significance. For someone as significant as my good self, it is a significant advantage to deny the very significance of my significance. You are probably at a significant disadvantage if you have failed to realise your own insignificance. It is not insignificant to say that you yourself are significantly insignificant enough to achieve just about anything. People right through history and the past have achieved just about anything. Just about anything can be done at any given time. Within reason, of course. Within the compassion of your compass is realising the insignificance of so much life. It is far from insignificant. Far from insignificant is the significance of the saying you can't tickle your teeth while scratching your knackers or twatknackers. You simply can't. More's the pity that I can. If your eating soup right now you won't like what you're about to read. I probably think that, in all probability, it would be a significant time to tell you that I don't like liquid meals. At all. It's far from a glorious statement. Further still from glory is - significance and insignificance: opposite.
Call me crazy but, I think that insanity is really rather (rub faeces over my face) serious. The mental equilibrium of every member of (masturbate into your sandwich) society is something we all should (pick your nose eat it all sloppy) care deeply about (sex with the cat then give it a kick). I have, on occasion, had cause to (rub my testicles on the bus) have really rather (voices tell me to destroy things) grave concerns about (not having intercourse with foodstuffs) the delicate state of my own mental condition (not showering because the bugs are my salvation). It's often been of such a tenuous state that (never shave because the devil likes the clean shaven) others, no doubt, have (masturbated in their own lunches) raised an eyebrow (or two or three or four or five or six or even seven yes seven even seven even odd seven odd little seven even seven) at my strange behaviour, which, fortunately, is now a thing of the past (all behaviour, I have ceased). Slightly sane and slightly not: not inopposite.
Commend this sentence to every one you know as you would condemn it's opposite to your enemies. This sentence is of such commendability that to not do so would be akin to rooting your fist on a keyboard. Types of people fall into basic categories and I have the key. Well, the key was given to me by sleepless nights alone in my bed just thinking. Just thinking, kept separate from emotion, is what I'm all about. Just thinking, but couldn't I be barking mad up the wrong vertically astute organic structure? Of course, I could, but I'll go out on a limb and say that what I'm on about is as old as lit itself, and that's not very old at all. I'm as impervious to commendation as I am commendation and vice versa; the reverse is also true. It's not trite to say that I write a whole lot of tripe. If you have rooted your own or someone else's fist on a lettered implement it's probably out of character. It takes great strength and ingenuity to find any porn in the web, but don't get stuck. You'll flail about with your legs in the air, clutch at anything to extricate yourself from the stickiness of your situational predicament, get bound in a sack and find you've become some egged thing with long legs' nutritional sauce. It's quite fortunate to find you've been commended but in matters of praise it's more whipped frenzy than mayonnaise. Condemn this whole lot but, be mindful of it's opposite which has escaped my evil clutches once again.
There is virtually nothing in the virtual world that is really real. Reality is as intangible as a fart. And that's no fart joke. All we have to show for reality is a handful of marks that are hard to remove. Actual reality always leaves its mark, no matter who we are. Who we are is a matter for reality, actually my dear fiends. My dear friends, it's actually virtually impossible to say with absolute surety who we really are. Who we make ourselves out to be has virtually nothing to do with who we really are. But it is instructional to discover what we want others to believe of us. If you know yourself well enough, you'll know that who you are is a mystery. It's not possible for me to not insert myself in somewhere or other. No one can take a walk in the park with their bits hanging out and tell other people that "It's awfully cold in these parts". Being cold in the parts that hang out is just so much fun. Warmth is generated by virtually all dangly bits that are squashed like jelly beans in a jar. There's a war going on and everyone is invited. It takes place under the sleeping noses of even the most watchful. Keep an out (of your pants) for yourself. If you don't watch yourself nobody will. It's an absolute kidder that virtual and actual are, as they say, well, as I say, well, not so much as I say as, I write...as I write, the trees softly meander down the azure avenues of sky and lend the ear a soft and smelly pillow with which to lay a sleepy neck-joint that sits on a poorly positioned spine of rare design... virtual and actual are, as they say, well... they are... how does one put this? opposite.
Plainly, the nose on my face is as plain as the nose on your face, and the nose on your face, not to put too fine a point on it, is as plain as buggery. As buggery is a pain in the arse, plainly, I won't stick my nose in where it's not wanted. If I wanted to bugger up my nose I might just break it. Things that appear as plain as the nose on your face might just have the complexity of an idiot putting bracers on. Brace yourself for a bit of idiocy. If you've ever made porridge, you'll know that idiotic behavour is as plain as the toast on your face. Toast is very crunchy bread. You might just want to raise a nose to me, if that's how you feel about things. Naturally, I am drawn towards idiotic snobbery. The nose on my face is stuck up like buggery. Like buggery am I not interested in the world of current events. I love getting swept away by superficial occurrences. There you have yet another case of crunchy toast. Plainly, the plainness of the face on which your nose sits is representative of the nose itself. Mainly, the plainly-nosed are less idiotic than snobbish but it's not a gap that can't be bridged. There is something holding up my pants. Obviously, someone knows. Now, I want you to go away and have a little think about this and tell me if you think it's true that snobs and idiots: opposite. Failing that, click like buggery.
What is it about walking backwards with both hands down your trousers that makes me so popular? It's a question that I've asked myself many times with my ankles behind my head as I count my friends. My friends, it is with great warmth that I pose this question because, frankly, without my staunch and stellar support your knees would not knock so loudly on my door at every ungodly minute. You all know full well what it takes to take yourselves to the top and back. Take a minute to seriously consider the benefits of being my friend and the numerous aspects of having your hands down your pants which, are beneficial in the extreme. Ponder seriously these and other mysterious features of the strange and mystery-laden mystery world that we all find ourselves in. And it is in this world, whether you have one or more hands down your pants, that we find ourselves when I speak of this world. In this world, you'll scarcely find a more popular little creature than me. You can search the back of your slacks down the bottom and up the top and never find anything as valued or sought after as me. Seek after me and you will find, as I have, that you'll be sadly mistaken if you take me on face value. Lurking in you is me but, I'm sad to say, the former and not the latter comes before the latter which closely follows the former which is followed by the latter and vice versa. It is in such manner, in the aid of clarity, that I have gardened such unparallelled support. Now, we all know where I'm headed with this and it's hardly a shock that it has ended with the finish as it is, so it has. I, for one, value immensely vast bodies of knowledge and the inherent values of imparting such to others of lesser standing, or exchanging, in a latter-day renaissance fashion, knowledge with other knowledgeable individuals with buckets of insight propped over the door ready to fall on the heads of the unsuspecting in a hilarious scenario that you'll find in abundance everywhere, and plentifully too. In the know and on the nose: opposite.
When composting a piece of written material to impress the ladies with, the ladies have little idea of just how much swoonage they will suffer. It is not uncommon for me to send queues of hopeless whores into howls of horrendous haggling. I don't sell my body for any price. The fact of the matter is that the facts of the matter are completely irrelevant. Luckily for me few ladies know this little bit of information. Ladies really are as simple as they look. It is unwise to get on my wrong side, I'll unleash an almighty spray from my puffer in your general direction, and have you gasping for air. Ridicule is the heir apparent to embarrassment but I'm far too proud to let anyone into my own fallibilty. Fall of your chair with delight when I tell you that I'm laughing out loud but, don't be fooled by my orderly conduct - I'll chew your ears off if given half a chance. Words go in ears as text and in eyes as speech. Upside down and back to front you'll find me always a pleasure. Just don't call the shots. There is no pink to pot here. To stretch a short story long, the standing and lying creatures known as ladies just simply love me, in all my complexity and long-windedness. In all my complexity and long-windedness you'll dread being stuck on an escalator behind me. You'll pray for a nasty fall. I probably won't even see you behind the throng of adoring cows who straddle my slippers in an attempt to get close to the man they call the "best root this side of that tree". It's true I'm a good root but, you'd better leave me or I'll snap. Demonic in the sack and a sweet-talker to boot, you'll long to have me talking sweetly with my boots under your head. Take it from me, my penis is for you. Romance and rooting: opposite.
Human rights activist, born-again bogan, fallen arch, infant table, and flat cheasted buxom, Paris "The Thirteenth Floor" Hilton is under my bed with a video recorder. Bed bugs the size of bricks are biting her bottom in accord with the treaty signed by delegates from the four corners of the internet, which have described Paris as very hospitable. Rich kids are doing wonderful things these days. With her head resting on a pile of pornos the height of the Leaning Tower of Eiffel, the bitch described by many as "a bit of a let down in the sack", Hilton(The Howling Rectum) is cosily snuggled in a hessian sack that once kept flour. I am kneeding dough as we speak but the government won't come to the party. Deflowering this little number is, sadly, a mission for a past time. Pastimes such as rooting and wanking are best left for other days of the week, preferably in the company of others, but giving a keynote speech at the UN is also acceptable. With her natural locks and engaging persona, that she has taken years to make as nice as a stay in a flash hotel, she is adverse to flashing anywhere but in a hotel. With a turnover of bedmates dissimilar to a hotel and more like a womens only gymnasium, the little princess doesn't have a brain the size of a pea and wouldn't even know if she was sleeping with one let alone a roast with spuds and pumpkins. Pumpkin is delicious. That is why I have decided to inundate her with frozen peas in an attempt, however vain, to flush this minty little nymph out from under my sleeping and occasional rooting implement(she is not hiding uder my reproductive instrument - a turkey baster). Did somebody say Philosophy? Of course, hotels are made with cement and are extremely prominent. The Paris Hilton and Paris Hilton: expensive and cheap: opposite.
I am lucky enough to be in the position of being so well equipped to deal with the real world that it just is not funny. It just is not funny how capable I am. I am really very, very capable of doing just about anything. So much so that when I peruse the classifieds in search of a little light relief, I'm just overwhelmed by the voices screaming at me from the inside of my head. They are all screaming - where have you been our entire working life, you capable bastard? It's a rhetorical question, I mutter back to them from deep in the bowels of my brain cavity. Being practically as practical as anyone who has ever screwed a nail into their thumb, I can safely say that I am as safe on a work site as a drag queen in stilts on her rags. One of these days, I'll find an employer capable of handling as skilled and practical a unit as me. They'll have to go a long way in a dark room with a wickless candle to find anybody fit enough to fit their vacancy; whatever that vacancy happens to be. It really doesn't matter, I can do it all. I can drive a semi, upside down standing on my head, on fire over a cliff like the best of them. Employers reading my resume are usually so stunned by my profiency that they drop by my house offering up their wives and girlfriends as a down payment for just a single day of my work. As it stands right now, I'm virtually unemployable because of the offers that I have in hand. I'm as handy as an Iranian thief opening a letter bomb. Useless and handy: opposite.
Nothing makes the little sun go up like the sound of a feathery object delivering volumes of advice through a penful of chickens. Any pen would be happy to have a cock at the head holding court to a clucky bunch of chooks. To wake up with a cock in their ears is all that they can ask for and nobody, even when that body has two legs and is all soft and light, could want anymore than that. All the spur any proud cock needs is to see a pen full of two-legged birds pecking at the ground and giving those ever so inviting looks that only a flighty little number can ever give. How I envy those eggs for getting laid by such round and deliciously breasted bipedded coop-hoppers. I can understand why they fly the pen when a slippery little foxy little number comes underneath their gate. Their gate is so delicious and swinging, I can understand why introduced species find domesticated meals so satisfying, albeit on a temporary but nevertheless ongoing basis. When I have the pen in hand, winging it to the beat of my own cock is generally all the impetus that is required to get the feathery ones looking to the dirt for a seed or two. Scrummaging in the dust and mud for a grain of anything is all that a bipedalling thing with fluffy bits on the head can do to provide enough sustainance to get those eggs on the move. I'd never give the chickens a battering. This has been enough of a bake as it is. Now many of you will probably want to go back to the part about the cock. Tying this one up is going to be a little tricky but here goes: chicken and eggs: opposite.
Norm
Mal
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