“Boil my *** in rancid butter,” said the king of Canada. “I enjoy elf
& ****** lore.” Three months later his ******* got caught in an es-
calator at the Mall of America & he died from an inoperably-torn &
ruptured low-hanging sac in a bankrupted Bloomington Sears store,
that precipitated heroic B-cell & genetical alignment at Plum Island
to give Canada's king the Herculean push to thread teen debutantes,
in a sinking Samar Sea boat with 416 crates of polyurethane Trojan  
latex rubber supra condoms that will float longer than 341 shackled Mohammedans in his alligator-stocked west Manitoba palace moat.