It’s much better to flush the runs downs the cistern that splatter them all over the sideboard, but when India give Australia curry on the field, Ricky Ponting can’t stop the onslaught, or reduce the run rate below 43 kilolitres per cubicle. KFC can offer all the sponsorship dollars they like, and talk about sharing buckets off the field, which is fine and well if essential services don’t exist, but the players’ amenities at the SCG are a bit better than a Calcutta tent. Bill Lawry’s nostrils might be a great twin toilet when he’s standing on his head to commentate, but who is going to say, “It’s all happening here,” if Bill is bogged down at the crease by a dual pace attack, and deliveries are skidding through at 145kph? It’s enough to make Harbhajan Sing a new KFC jingle, “Can’t beat the Aussies.” Or Richie Benaud to stop wearing white suits. Getting the runs on the field, and getting them in the commentary box? Equals.
Wear Trousers. I would. You should. Trousers go on one leg at a time. Wear them on your legs. One leg at a time. Leave your home in them. I would. Walk in them. One leg at a time. Left leg and right. Sit down in your trousers. Bend at the knees. One at a time. If you're going to have a crap? Take them off. Two legs together. Spread your legs. Lower yourself. I would. Do your business. Don't miss. Don't slap one on all over the sides. Be direct. Aim well. Shit in the water. Go plop. Wipe. Not with your trousers. Anything but your trousers. Your bare hands. Pull up your trousers. Two legs together. Do them up. Walk off as though nothing has happened. Don't forget to flush. Tell the world. I have done a good crap and now you know. I do. You should too. Wear trousers. Find a nice pair. They are out there waiting. The trousers will see you. Hanging on the rack. You'll be unsuspecting. The next thing you know. You're wearing trousers. You know all about it. Don't spill anything on them. They are trousers. Wear them well. Keep them clean. Keep them intact. Stains in the crotch region are inadvisable. They are suggestive of poor character. Wear underwear. Keep a hard-on hidden. Wear a hole in your trousers. Wear it well. Walk the streets with a hole. Try it. I would. Don't ever forget to wear trousers. Trousers: don't leave home without them. One leg at a time. Don't ever be short on trousers. Shorts and trousers: opposite.
It was while driving with the The Flying Mattress on the roof, that the Happy Pasty swerved to miss a dog and hit a cat; the cat of the Pope, and after the cat had to be put on a specially designed high-chair, the Nasty Fatalist went troppo with a violin, carving up the choir with his insane riffs and outrageous stage-antics, it earned him the stage name Eugene Belt to Sternum. The look on his face was priceless. The Flying Mattress, in the incident, went sideways into a pole, and came out dancing like a piece of fruit in a letterbox. He ordered his underlings, a rag-tag bunch of misfits and hoons, to marry his daughter who lived on the second floor of his underground villa. His automaton army was a model for the careering cars that broke all landslide records and gramaphones. All this with unrestrained joy.
With his hands in deep pockets and kept there for all to see, Rick "The Squashed Fig" Wagner was an awkward man with the ability to scratch his nuts at all times. We all know the type. His uncomfortable way of talking with his teeth clenched, to prevent foreign bodies from penetrating, left his social victims totally at a loss. They would shake their miserable heads in disbelief and leave The Fig Squasher standing there growing redder and redder in the crotch. His victims were selected from the catalogues that found their way into his mailbox. It was a special box. It had a slit, a clock and a front door that opened out into a magnificent living quarters (albeit temporary) for envelopes, cards and other posts. Some posts are delivered by the most vaccuos, self-righteous, stupid, vapid, petty, racist people you would ever want to meet. Some, not all. So it wasn't for Arnie "Apple Catchers" Schoenberg, noted apple-eater and fly-squasher. Under his pillow he kept a glass jar full of teeth he had extracted from the dying corpes he had met online. While out catching apples one day he ran into a post that had just 'sprung up', as he recorded in his diary. He went on to say that "there are all sorts of posts out there and most of the ones I run into are simply fine". It was not what he meant to say. Wagner and Schoenberg: opposite.
Dr. Phil says that "You teach people how to treat you" is a life-law. It’s a law that John “The Baulking Bolshevik” Lennon proved definitively when a life-law enforcer dispensed justice out to him with the zeal of a Blogger(a 'man' with one thumb up his arse and the other in his mouth). The Baulker spent his life teaching people that he should be treated to high-speed projectiles directed at the skull. After all, men of action and people who want to 'change the world' project their opinions into cyberspace. Bob “Munchies” Marley grew up as a boy in a ghetto under the jurisdiction of the same life-law. We all get what we deserve. Young kids in ghettos everywhere teach rich people to treat them to poor health, education, shelter, food and clothing. The Bolshevik and Munchies did what the other didn’t to the letter of life-laws.
From the projections, it is estimated that The Nasty Pasty and the anti-Nasty Pasty(The Flying Mattress) were probably born in a year and a country. Scholars dispute both the year and the country, although now most accept it, while some play chopsticks on the piano designed for toddlers. Soon a cathedral recognized a runaway train ploughing through its doors, and settling near the parapet where the Flying Mattress and The Short Lip and the Long Nose both met, and shook hands and agreed and went about the daily and nightly task of ignoring the injustice of life and the tragedy of living only to die. Authorities undertook interrogations and made some of the finest compositions in lawns with perfect edges and gutters without leaves and paint perfectly applied to perfectly sanded walls with immaculate bristles from spotless brushes. Others claim that the births took place independently, but when The Happy Fatalist began signing his name in ink with a pen, on paper and as The Flying Mattress and vice versa the Cathedral gave a thorough training in music.
Norm
Mal
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