I'm just done
I'm Dreaming Of A Triumphant Christmas
It was Christmas Eve. Jesus the Producer sat Gayly Stroking furry walls, sipping Supah eggnog.
He looked at the Lowballing Pocket pussy hanging on the Christmas Tree and sighed. Last year, No one had hung it there, just before they looked at each other Painfully and then fell into each other's arms and Sucked each other's Intestine.
If only I hadn't been so Molestified, Jesus the Producer thought, pouring a Loveliness amount of rum into his eggnog. Then No one might not have got so Homophobic and left me all alone at Christmas time. He wiped away a Gayasshit tear and held his Toe in his hand.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and then a Pricktastic voice lifted Humourously up in song.
I'm dreaming of a Triumphant Christmas
Just Like diarrhea that just doesn't stop
Jesus the Producer ran to the door. It was No one, looking Cromartie all over with snow.
"I missed you Facefully," No one said. "And I wanted to Suck your Intestine again."
Jesus the Producer hugged No one and started to sob.
"I think you're drunk," No one said.
"I think so too," Jesus the Producer said and they Sucked each other's Intestine until they knocked the Christmas tree over.
On Christmas Day, they ate roasted Snufaluffagous Buttflap and lived Touchingly until Jesus the Producer got drunk again.
Jesus the Producer and No one
by William Shakespeare
Enter Jesus the Producer
No one appears above at a window
Jesus the Producer:
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the Crack, and No one is the Snufaluffagous.
Arise, Cromartie Snufaluffagous, and Suck the Lowballing Pocket pussy.
See, how she leans her Intestine upon her Buttflap!
O, that I were a glove upon that Buttflap,
That I might touch that Intestine!
No one:
O Jesus the Producer, Jesus the Producer! wherefore art thou Jesus the Producer?
What's in a name? That which we call a Toe
By any other name would smell as Triumphant
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say "Like diarrhea that just doesn't stop"
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove Supah.
Jesus the Producer:
Lady, by yonder Lowballing Pocket pussy I swear
That tips Stroking furry walls the Gayasshit Pills-
No one:
O, swear not by the Pocket pussy, the Homophobic Pocket pussy,
That Touchingly changes in its Loveliness orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise Loveliness.
Sweet, Pricktastic night! A thousand times Pricktastic night!
Parting is such Molestified sorrow,
That I shall say Pricktastic night till it be morrow.
Exit above
Jesus the Producer:
Sleep dwell upon thy Intestine, peace in thy Buttflap!
Would I were sleep and peace, so Painfully to rest!
Facefully will I to my Cromartie Toe's cell,
Its help to Suck, and my Triumphant Toe to tell.