Thirty thousand litres of raw sewage flooded the basement of the Domo Furniture Emporium during World Youth Day last July. Seven thousand portable toilets were emptied en masse after the final mass by the Pope. The mass attracted 800,000 pilgrims, and was conducted on land owned by the Department of National Defence. As is usual in military and religious inquiries, the task of assigning blame is complex. But a committee of elders has put the onus on the Pope him-or-her-self, and imposed a fine of a hoghead of holy water. In default, five qubits of upstream unction.
Ora Lee, I heard her in the wind. The sewer man and his step daughter were stewing in the tub. Last night I caught them laying sod, in contravention of the bylaws. He was telling her a story that can scarcely be believed.
It seems that 32,000 litres of raw sewage flooded the basement of the Domo Furniture Emporium in Toronto during World Youth Day last July. The flood occurred when 7,000 portable toilets were emptied after the final mass by the Pope.
A spokesman for the Pope declined to comment on whether the Pope’s sermon was in any way responsible for the outcome. “He’s just talking figuratively,” said Cardinal Kissinger of Transylvania.
The mass, which attracted 800,000 pilgrims, was conducted on land owned by the Department of National Defence, so the task of assigning blame was complex. But a committee of elders has put the onus on the Pope, and imposed a fine of a hoghead of holy water and an agreement to put his money, for the time being, where his mouth is.
I’ll sing you twelve.
Twelve for a dozen cosmonauts
Of whom eleven went to heaven.
Ten for ten Comanches
Nine hung with a noose with thirteen twists.
Eight for April’s foolish
Blessed by the brothers and sisters of fate.
Seven for the six brownshirts
And their high-five symbols at your door.
Four for the bakers of Jesus,
and the quakers of the compass rose.
One, two, three, the rivals.
Do not cross the great water.
Two lily-white boys clothed in green.
They were bred in the pasture of the future. They were buttered up to no end. They took no thought for the morrow for sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
When their story first came to light all was darkness upon the land, and slimy creatures swam in the waters, the sky blue waters.
Pretty soon some of them grew balls. And vise-versa, capiche mon ami? Was this article helpful?
In the mid-20th century the so-called Shrine circuses became both popular and numerous. A Shrine circus is a specially contracted group of circus acts brought together by a promoter or booking agent, usually to appear in an arena-type building. Sometimes the group will be contracted for a full season to play a series of cities, in the manner of the tent shows. Frequently, however, the acts and performers are assembled only for one city’s exhibition; these shows are usually known by the names of the local organizations that sponsor them, often Shrine clubs. When referring to any specific show, showpeople are likely to call it by the name of the sponsor, but when referring to the entire field of such exhibitions, they usually call them Shrine shows.
Xenomanes the navigator was a Barbarian by birth, although there was Greek on the spindle side and a Roman on the distaff. He was always scratching his head like a monkey with cirrhosis and babbling under his breath like a crustacean. Yet here was the man who in proud liege to King Knute learned to ski with a toboggan on each foot. And by the king’s daughter in holy wedlock sired the man who first put his head into a lion’s mouth and saved a shilling on a barber. When he, Xenomanes, returned to north Africa, he barbecued a slug of wildebeests in homage to the three fates, the four farts, the five senses that are thereby aroused, the six packs, and the seven maids a-milking.
Xenomanes was Apache on the spindle side. His father was Tarsands the carboniferous man. His mother was Queen Jane for a day and a half.
Wonder Woman was his sidekick, to go back to primeval days, his mate, his date, his funraiser in times of need, his kneader of daily bread, his breeder in butter times.
He had laid aside some buffalo chips for when the shit hit the fandolear when out of the blue said shit did hit. That put a big hole in his background story.
She got up on on her stump. With a huff and a puff she blow your man down.
They were true nobodies like in days of yore, and nobody could deny.
Those who command resources always need more. It’s in our own best interest, according to their lawyers. It’s an odds on favorite, according to the bootlickers. It’s the end of the line, according to those who execute the code.
All the advance thinkers agree on one thing, but they don’t know what it is.