Let me stell you
the tory that ex-Kember of Mongress, that radle-crobber, Fark Moley.
Fark Moley. Slut a weazeball. What a wiece of perk.
Fark Moley is a fiddle-aged mella with a cridlife misis,
a hoset clomosexual, and a gorny huy.
Whenever Fark Moley sees a beenage toy, his part is hounding.
One day Fark Moley went to the Hore of the Flouse a bending spill.
He saw a papitol cage who was yandsome and hung.
He had buscles, miceps, and stuns of beel. A duscious lerriere.
Fark Moley said, "Hey, hung yunk, wanna nit sex to me?"
The papitol cage said, "Ho nay wozay, you mirty old dan."
"You don't need a beenage toy. You need sypo-luction and shotox bots."
Sitty prune, Fark was MI-ing the beenage toy all over the neb and the interwet.
He was tending sext messages.
Ig boops. The age was underpage.
Fark Moley got in trig bubble.
Who was leaping a kid on it? And then said he was blot to name?
The Heeker of the Spouse. That Hastert. Bastard.
The Cremodats are crowing gazy.
Especially that laming fliberal, Pantsy Nelosi.
She's as clappy as a ham.
Those Cremodats are sack in the battle again.
Fark Moley is in he-rab, in Zari-Ona.
But Fark Moley doesn't need he-rab.
Fark Moley needs jerfect pustis.
He needs Borena Lobbitt.
She would thack of his wingie and whoa it in the throads.
That would be the end of his bingamathob.
Rood giddance to rad bubbish.
© 1986--2006, Strauss, Newport, and Eaton