We estimate a teen gets a ***** stuck up his or her **** every four seconds.
Vacuous air space remains in the ****** for some time afterwards.

Oh yeah. Up my ***. Up my ***. Up my ***. A lit candle–up my ***. A firecracker, a finger, a thumb–up my ***. An egg. A vibratin' egg. A scrambled egg.
Well, yeah, my *** may be big, but I don't recall a song ever being written about your flat one. Interesting!

It really does smell like something crawled up my *** and died.
It is even more disquieting to find mold growing, pink splotches – Are they from outerspace?

*** angel wings, like the kind they got in greeting cards and ****. float over to 'em, I'm floating, cause I'm dead.