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I keep either reading the title as "Nickles on my genitalia" or "Genitalia on my knuckles".  I can't decide which is more entertaining.

I read it as knuckles too. Now that's a mental image I'm not going to be able to bleach from mine head for a while...

I'd wash my hands in it.

For the last few weeks, all the little student politicians have been crawling out from under their cozy little rocks to spruik for whatever committee they're in on campus. Every vertical surface that was once bare is now covered in a hundred fliers for whatever student group. They've got their little helpers lined up at all the entrances and main footpaths, wearing their special t-shirts that'll be thrown away in a week and shoving their little coloured paper fliers into everyone's faces.
If you don't accept one of their fliers, they'll follow you for about 10 metres or so and harrangue you, and if they think you're a supporter of whatever other groups are running, you'd better look out...

What's this all for? The Student Representative Council. The definitive paper tiger. Now, a few years ago there may have been something to it, but the university and the government has effectively clipped it's claws and given it plastic dentures. Every year a new student group gets elected, and every year they do nothing.

There's socialist candidates, there are hardcore communist candidates, there's the environmentalists, the middle-of-the-roaders and there's the liberal (don't let the name fool you, they're really the right-wingers) candidates. You'd think that with all the different political leanings, there'd be some difference to their policies. Right? Wrong. Every single candidate and student group has the same list of changes they want to make, give or take one or two different details. They all dress the same, they all look the same, they all sound the same. They're all clones of the same political beast.
Whatever they claim they want to do, they do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why? Because they don't want to run foul of the administrators et al, because they don't want the administration to give them a bad rep when they want to get a job. What was the original point of the SRC? To provide a voice for the students, to oppose anything the administration may want to implement that isn't in the best interests of the students.
All it is now is just another line in some baby political creature's curriculum vitae, for when they want to apply for whatever job they want in the real world. I can understand that, but they should have the common decency to get the fuck out of everyone else's face and not come on all holier than thou like they're on a personal campaign to make a difference.

You ask people who they voted for, and they'll either say they voted for the candidate with the most posters and shit everywhere, or they'll vote for the candidate whose flying monkey squad shitted them less. Now, that's a pretty fucking depressing state of affairs. Especially since around these parts that's pretty much the view of people when it comes to choosing the government.

please note the I put true discordian in quotes.  Denoting internet sarcasm, because as we all know Eris is dead, and if she isn't she's not telling us.

Eris is dead and her corpse was eaten by her 5 cats.

As I performed my daily ablutions I was visited by the shadow of a doubt
(Two invisible large green eyes perched upon the picture rail).
"Consider the hemispheres," it announced, all pomp, circumumstance and no levity.
"There, winter is summer and summer is winter!"
(Exclaimed said doubt, kicking cracks into the tiles.)
"What about the water, I hear you ask? Well I'll tell you!
"Here it goes one way, there it goes another
"And at the equator it goes straight down!
"Remember that next time you try to dig to China"
With that he vanished down the plughole, followed by a mermaid.

He never was much welcome round these parts.

He talked with a ghost that was deaf as a post.
They spoke of mammoth tracks
Lizzy Borden's wings and wax -
Give us today our daily chance.
Love for all the little clones,
A giant squid bycatch and fiendish collarbones.
Some people just can't pay the tax
Of a sticky-sweet insect romance.

A living obsession with a fragile possession
During this wholly holy daze
In the name of the latest static craze -
To admire one's part of the light.
Even when it's clear as day,
My third eye could melt the sun clean away.
It leaves the stems of a flower maze
And the most faithful kind of insight.

Eyes as pale as the reflected moon
Laid out in state upon the ceiling.
Blind to all except the loudest tune
And the keyhole you're revealing.
Valves rattle shut inside their case
Frigid pins tumble into place.
Vacuous ladies wilt and swoon
Their digits lost all feeling.

Eyes to me, twin ivory globes
That turn towards the long tomorrow.
They flash in time to unearthly strobes
No mere man can ever follow.
Rubber gloves save your static charge
For a quetzal still at large.
I'm all ears, just two huge lobes
The tripod of apollo.

Eyes forget so soon the carved tracks
Two make through the unstirred sand.
The sea rages forth and turns right back
Porcelain breakers in your hand.
Forever a beach-comber's prize
In the horizon of blind eyes.
Kept warm and dry upon a rack
But forever in demand.

My penis is an awesome tool of death and destruction. It uses up too much blood to run my brain at the same time.

I have found the true bastard child of Aleister Crowley. If you feast your eyes on my avatar, you'll see the downright disturbing similarities...

It just goes to show, salvation isn't free.
Tithes and pardons. It's all the same. It's buying a stairway to heaven.
FUCK I hate that song. Where's my Led Zeppelin best of gone to?

Hokay, so I've been letting myself get lax as far as exercising the most important organ of mine body - my mind. I've been doing lotsa work for ooniversiteh, but not much creative writing. None at all, actually. So yeah, here's some stuff that I've just been doing to try and get back in the habit. It's nothing exciting. Far from it, but yeah, I thought I'd share it with you good peoples, just because.


Hokay, so this is just something that was going through my head when I was listening to a song (Mindcage by Thrill Kill Kult, in case you were wondering, and in case you weren't.)

That not warm, not cool, no-air-at-all feel in the air, occasionally contradicted by the slight brush of icy chill wind-fingers. Not enough to be uncomfortable - just enough to send a slight shiver down your spine that makes your eyes flick-awake-open and the hairs on the backs of your arms stand to attention - cryogenically snap-frozen in the sliver of a comfortable moment. The twin scents of vanilla and coconut, strong enough to tease your nose with its presence, but not enough to get a noseful, or to even really notice it's there. That top-of-the rise rollercoaster sensation - a taut bow-string tied between the pit of your stomach and your collarbones. The feeling that gets you asking yourself "am I drunk or dizzy or worried or in love?" A slow drift off to sleep in a state of perfect yet slightly jangled contentment, eyes not heavy or tired or sore, just with no real reason to stay open, with nothing to look at.

Illumination is when someone shines a torch in your ear.
Enlightenment is when you're the torch.

Question, are you a Brit describing a battery operated light, or an American describing a flaming piece of wood, or some other kind of person describing some other sort of thing    

AHA! Another slip and we get closer to ascerning the true identity of
the man in the triangly hat! Alert DHS!

I'm a sentient being as yet unknown to science made entirely of chicken salt and oxo cubes. I was created in a lab* and my first memories are of listening to old Goon Show recordings played backwards by a confused Satanist.
*That is, where scientists tend to muck around with people's jeans and chemicals that go boom! and not a labrador. Nope, no siree.

Illumination is when someone shines a torch in your ear.
Enlightenment is when you're the torch.

"Have you checked for termites lately?" - A van parked outside a primary school this morning. Said van was rocking slightly.
"Flax fibre is soft, lustrous and flexible. It is stronger than cotton fibre but less elastic. The best grades are used for linen fabrics such as damasks, lace and sheeting." - An anonymous contributer to Wikipedia.
"GP: Is there an essential meaning behind POEE?
M2: There is a Zen Story about a student who asked a Master to explain the meaning of
Buddhism. The Master,Äôs reply was ,ÄúThree pounds of flax.,Äù
GP: Is that your answer to my question?
M2: No, of course not. That is just illustrative. The answer to your question is FIVE
TONS OF FLAX!" - The Principia Discordia

I was cogitating once again on the porcelain throne, metaphorically contemplating my navel when another thought came to me. What may be (or may not be) the true meaning of the flax. The word for the flax plant in latin is linum. From this we get "linseed oil" - oil from the flax seeds. From linseed oil we get... LINOLEUM!
There, my friends, is the crux of the matter. The true meaning of discordianism is LINOLEUM.
"LINOLEUM?" You ask?
Yes, LINOLEUM. Lots and lots of linoleum.

Or, five tons of flax would be used to construct a giant table-cloth made of Linen. A tablecloth of this magnitude could only be used for one thing - for a giant table during a piss-up the likes of which humanity has never seen. Think about it - people having fun, getting drunk, passing out, waking up and then getting drunk and finally passing out again. All the while having fun.

Buddhism is three pounds of flax - enough to make a few doily or perhaps a small tablecloth. To have a small, tiny bit of fun. This mid-way point between fun and seriousness embodies Buddhism. Discordianism? Not so., The gigantinormous tablecloth and party of comparable magnitude would be the ultimate jake against the greyfaces.
Think of it:
A party is one of the things that upsets the greyfaces most of all. Mainly because they're never invited. Parties symbolise everything greyfaces are against.

And I've lost my train of thought. It's been derailed, crashing off a bridge and plowing into a hillside in a shower of flames and plumes of smoke.