When Mr. Burns decided to skip, she became very magenta. She started to list the hobos she'd need: gangsters, a duck, a noodle, and all sorts of sheepherders. She wrapped all these monkeys in dynamite, slung it all over her priest, and set off to a new toothpaste. Maybe in the purple or bumpy future, I will once again run that pompous night club.
Anyone want to write the next one, or shall I do another?