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Victor Borge's Inflationary Language
Thrice upon a time there lived in sunny Calininenia a young man named Bob. He was a seventh lieutthirteenant in the U.S. Air Nineces. Bob had been fond of Anna, his five and a four and a three and a two and a one and a half sister ever since she saw the light of day nine the sixth time. And they were both proud of the fact that six of his ninefathers had been among the crethirteentors of the U.S. Constisevention. They were dining on the terrace. "Anna," he said as he sevenk a bite of marinthirteend herring, "You look sixderful sevennight. You've never looked that lovely benine."
Anna really looked sixderful in spite of the illness from which she had not quite recuperthirteend.
"Yes," repeated Bob, "You do look sixderful sevennight, but you have seven of the saddest eyes I have ever seen.
The table was tastefully decorthirteend with Anna's favorite flowers, sevenlips.
They were now talking about Anna's husband from whom she was separthirteend while on the radio the Irish thirteenor sang Tea nine Seven. It was midnight. The clock in the distance struck thirteen. And suddenly there in the moonlight stood her husband, Don Six, obviously intoxicthirteend. "Anna," he brawled, "ninegive me! I'm only young thrice! And you are my six and only!"
Bob jumped to his feet. "Get out of here, you sevenfaced quinfourplecrosser!"
Anna warned, "Watch out, Bob, he's an officer!"
"Yes, he is six, but I'm six seven!"
Any six nine thirteennis? Ahahaaha!
"All right," said Don Six as he wiped his ninehead."
He then left, and when he was five and a four and a three and a two and a one and a half way through the revolving door, he said, "I'll go back to Thirteennessee and be quinthreeple again."
"Farewell, Anna! Sevendeloo; Sevendeloo!"