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Stuff Today - Issue 6566

Thursday 19 July 2018

Today's Jovian Moon: Europa

The Deeper Meaning Of Liff

GLORORUM, n.

One who takes pleasure in informing others about their bowel movements.

The Devil's Dictionary

PERSEVERANCE, n.

A lowly virtue whereby mediocrity achieves an inglorious success.

"Persevere, persevere!" cry the homilists all,
Themselves, day and night, persevering to bawl.
"Remember the fable of tortoise and hare --
The one at the goal while the other is -- where?"
Why, back there in Dreamland, renewing his lease
Of life, all his muscles preserving the peace,
The goal and the rival forgotten alike,
And the long fatigue of the needless hike.
His spirit a-squat in the grass and the dew
Of the dogless Land beyond the Stew,
He sleeps, like a saint in a holy place,
A winner of all that is good in a race.
Sukker Uffro

Roger's Profanisaurus

BAW BAG, n.

Scot. Oor Wullie's scrotum. A tartan chicken skin sporran.

Astonishingly Uninteresting Fact

In many of the milk ads that are shown, a mix of thinner and white paint is used instead of milk

Poem Of The Day

My Affliction

I can't stop writing poems, no I really really can't.
I write them when you're with me and I write them when you aren't.
I write them in the kitchen, in the bath and on the loo,
These poems just keep coming and I don't know what to do.

I try to do some work but in my head I just hear rhyme,
It makes me write a load of Shite, it happens all the time.
I do try to ignore it but it just keeps getting worse,
This stupid fucking bastard wanking sodding shitting verse.

I'd cut off all my fingers if I thought that that would work,
But deep inside my brain I know the poetry would lurk,
And wanting for an outlet it would spew out of my gob,
And that would never do 'cause I could never get a job.

I'll go for a lobotomy! Could that provide a cure?
And then perhaps my poetry will be much more demure.
I won't find that I need to say 'Big Arse' or 'Tits' or 'bum'.
I'll just sit in my chair and let the dribble run and run.

No I can't stop writing poems and I don't know what to do,
I started writing this one in the middle of a poo,
And I tried to stop it coming but it came out all the same,
And so did the poem, much to my shame.

I can't stop writing poems, they just fall out of my brain,
I'm getting rather sick of it. It's driving me insane.
I'd much rather be normal, like a lawyer or a banker.
Oh wow! I think I'm cured! I can't think of anything to rhyme with 'banker'.

- Kate Rancid (b. 1973)

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