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Miss Dionne Warwick Here with the Romney Enter-Raj

So I was trying to keep my blunt going sitting there in the stink after Miss Ann finished dropping what smelt like a coffee can of dog crap down the flusher, and all of a sudden I hear that bitch galloping up the aisle and banging on the pilot door screaming "STOP IT!! STOP IT!!" So i tongued my dooby out and casually slipped out of the commode. They're all yelling about the smoke and that they is all going to die and go to Mormon Heaven but they are NOT READY YET JOSEPH. Shit, it was just my Amazon Blend hanging in the air. By the time they landed the thing in Denver Miss Ann was so wobbly - pardon my fumes, bitch, but I put up with yours - she declared she needed to find some horse to feel better. Which I thought was a little extreme. A Quaalude and tallboy would have done it. When Mr. Trump called me and asked if I wanted an eight week gig, I said Hell Yes before getting the details. Turns out this Republican deal needed some shade to show how they are Reaching Out to the Half Percent of UnWhites who are not in the Forty-Seven (What the fuck does that mean?), and only a diva of my magmatude would do. But shit. These fucking lunatic Romney robots were stomping my last nerve in 15 minutes. Still a job's a job. With Damont laid up with some fungus and Cindi missing in action trying to locate Nippy, I am on my own. The things I could tell. And why I am stuck with this bitch Miss Ann I do not know. All I do is stand there when she whines at the cameras, and every time I start to sing she turns around and yells "STOP IT!! JUST STOP IT!!!" And her husband, Mittsy, keeps telling me he's seen Africa on a map and it looks very nice, especially the yellow countries. WTF! I may need to do some damage here. Think?

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