“Where can we go?” Oklahoma {the cowboy} asked.
   “How's about the out-house?!” Becky suggested.
   “No, I mean to ****?”
   “Oh, how's about the kitchen then?”
   They must've crapped 3 hours over everything: stove, sink, trash
compactor. Later, it was heard: “Where might we go to eat?”
   “I don't know, but the kitchen's filthy with ****.”
   “In that case, why don't we try a fancy French restaurant?”
   “All French restaurants are fancy!”
   “Not when we gets through shittin' in them!”
   “Good one,” Becky observed as
she was itchin' to do some shittin.'
   “Let us share kisses,” Daphne Alcott instructed, “that will
compel the world to question whether we're fish or fowl.”
   Montgomery Windsor-Bridgewater had repelled advances
identical to this but now he melted like a pat of butter between elephantine thighs. “Oh Daff, I'm prepared to do even more: visit southern ports, establish a **** lab, steal from Peter & Paul as they are both out of town.”
   Daphne was an expert on many things; she could melt ice cream by sitting on it a long time, cause tires to leak by piercing them with ice picks, destroy printed materials in hearths. She was good-looking too with lots of fine attributes. Her hair was okay. You should see her rack, box-trap, caboose! All 3—worth the trip! You'd pay to see 'em twice! You'd pay without knowing why, because: if chicken wings worked they wouldn't be soup.
   A love that beckons reciprocation is one worthy of philanthropy. A storm incapable of flooding New Orleans needs pushing. A widow who refuses timely advances will find her mail box empty.