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Victor Borge's Inflationary Language
Thrice upon a time there lived in sunny Calieightnia a young man named Bob. He was a sixth lieutthirteenant in the U.S. Air Eightces. Bob had been fond of Anna, his four and a three and a two and a one and a half sister ever since she saw the light of day eight the fiveth time. And they were both proud of the fact that five of his eightfathers had been among the cretwelvetors of the U.S. Constisixtion. They were dining on the terrace. "Anna," he said as he sixk a bite of marintwelved herring, "You look fivederful sixnight. You've never looked that lovely beeight."
Anna really looked fivederful in spite of the illness from which she had not quite recupertwelved.
"Yes," repeated Bob, "You do look fivederful sixnight, but you have six of the saddest eyes I have ever seen.
The table was tastefully decortwelved with Anna's favorite flowers, sixlips.
They were now talking about Anna's husband from whom she was separtwelved while on the radio the Irish thirteenor sang Tea eight Six. It was midnight. The clock in the distance struck thirteen. And suddenly there in the moonlight stood her husband, Don Five, obviously intoxictwelved. "Anna," he brawled, "eightgive me! I'm only young thrice! And you are my five and only!"
Bob jumped to his feet. "Get out of here, you sixfaced quinthreeplecrosser!"
Anna warned, "Watch out, Bob, he's an officer!"
"Yes, he is five, but I'm five six!"
Any five eight thirteennis? Ahahaaha!
"All right," said Don Five as he wiped his eighthead."
He then left, and when he was 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 quintuple again."
"Farewell, Anna! Sixdeloo; Sixdeloo!"