Not the suppernot TupperIt was some son of a bitch named Skinner!“My back aches. My penis is sore.I simply can’t fuck any more.I’m dripping with...sweat,And you haven’t come yet;And, my God! it’s a quarter to four!”There was a young lady of SpainWho took down her pants on a train.There was ayoung porterSaw more than he orter,And asked her to do it again.There was a young man of high stationWho was found by a pious relationMaking love in a ditchTo I won’t say a bitchBut a woman of no. ” “Will you save my nation?” “Do I really have any other choice, as of right now, at least?” “I...had hoped you would be...” “Less pissed? More eager to acquiesce to your every whim? Please give me a moment to collect myself,” I had to ask. My anger was reaching points it never really had before. I was generally an easygoing guy. I was raised by nuns and they helped instill goodness and forbearance in me, or so I had always believed, but right now I was so angry I could just about ring this. More

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