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04-07-2006, 01:48 PM | #1 |
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Death by, I mean, Story by Sentence Part II
The Aborigine, returning home from an afternoon of barbequed iguana and cactus squeezins, stopped, cocked his head (that one's for you, Lj) and blinked his eyes several times through the sun-dried mud paint at what he thought he was seeing.
Ayers rock was... well, it was GONE! ...
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04-07-2006, 05:01 PM | #2 |
I can hear my ears
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A deep, clear, and absolute truism presented itself to him then:
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This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality Embrace this moment, remember We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion ~MJKeenan |
04-07-2006, 05:36 PM | #3 |
go ahead, abbrev. it
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"If those bleedin' Aussies have gone and sold Uluru to the Japanese, I'm gonna be very pissed", he hissed.
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04-07-2006, 05:57 PM | #4 |
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"Or maybe I juat am REALLY pissed", the aborigine thought to himself, "I DID drink a lot of cactus* squeezings. Maybe I am REALLY some place ELSE!"
* Having trained as a botanist, such scientific over sights jar my sense of poly sci correctness. Australia has NO native cactus, rather convergent species from the Euphorbia family. Not that anyone cares, but I feel better now.. Carry on! |
04-07-2006, 06:57 PM | #5 |
Pump my ride!
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In the distance, somewhat as a mirage , he was sure he spied a grey-haired, grey-bearded man, who seemed to be busy at work on a large canvas painting with large decorators brushes and alternatively mumbling and singing to himself while bobbing up and down, splashing paint here and there on the canvas in what seemed a quite random way, yet somehow building a picture: 'can ya see what it es yet?... da-di-da...Oh, Sun arise...dum-ti-dum....little bit of light, little bit of shade.... do-di-do ... two little boys had two...!' - he stopped and turned abruptly...
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04-07-2006, 08:23 PM | #6 |
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"I have your rock, old man, the painter spoketh. I trapped it in my mystical painting. Ahhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmm..." the painter said with his eyes close.
There was a pause. The painter turned and said to the aborigine: "You want it back, you have to PAY! Bruhahahahah!!!!"
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04-07-2006, 08:54 PM | #7 |
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The aborgine scratched his behind and stared with a mixture of contempt and horror at the crazed painter before he responded, "Look 'ere. ye great blathering bloke, I suppose the next thing, ye expect is that I go on a walk about over the coca cola bottle that's falling from the beak of that passing raven even as we speak. Gotta a Foster's?"
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04-08-2006, 02:57 AM | #8 |
Pump my ride!
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'Fosters???' quoth the bearded blathering bloke, benigningly breaking bottom breath brought about by bending over backwards between brushtrokes, 'XXXX! - that's what I say - now do me a favour, ya mud-faced excuse for an Abo, make yerself useful, and pass me me didgeridoo - no junkie-eyed raven's gonna get one over me!'
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Always sufficient hills - never sufficient gears |
04-08-2006, 06:33 AM | #9 |
still says videotape
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The ravens revolting revolutions reiterated relentlessly. The coke container careened off a covorting kookabura causing cranial collapse.
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If you would only recognize that life is hard, things would be so much easier for you. - Louis D. Brandeis |
04-08-2006, 07:01 AM | #10 |
The internet's like a bra, underneath ya find a boob or two
Join Date: Apr 2006
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This dismayed the aborigine. Without the crack head kookabura, he wouldn't have the creature to laugh at his jokes, or wake him. (he hated watchs and clocks)
The painter, annoyed at the length of time it was taking for the aborigine to bring his diggeredoo, suggested giving it some dead baby chicks, and it might come around. The aborigine had no dead baby chicks. The painter shook its head and says "step aside". Out of his paint box, he pulls out a large jar of black goo. He steps forward and rubs it on the kookaburas' head. Amazing results follow... Puzzled, the aborigine asks "what magic is this." The painter replies "White man magic, vegimite, made from the best beers" |
04-08-2006, 06:25 PM | #11 |
Pump my ride!
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'Looks just like marmite to me', advanced the aborigine, amazingly attracting the Australian artist's absolute attention again, '...but who am I to question your magic, being but a simple example of this land's indiginous species - I know my place - but tell me my fine applier of many coloured oils (by the way, I'm sorry, I don't know what it is yet, but I do like the little bit of light here and the little bit of shade there), is it by chance that you happened here today, and a coincidence that upon your person you carried the magic mar-, sorry, vegimite - or is there some greater, deeper, wider, higher reason for your manly physical presence, and if so, pray tell me what that reason might be?
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Always sufficient hills - never sufficient gears |
04-08-2006, 06:30 PM | #12 |
The future is unwritten
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Damn missionary schools.
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