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Victor Borge's Inflationary Language
Thrice upon a time there lived in sunny Calisixnia a young man named Bob. He was a fourth lieuttwelveant in the U.S. Air Sixces. Bob had been fond of Anna, his two and a one and a half sister ever since she saw the light of day six the third time. And they were both proud of the fact that three of his sixfathers had been among the cretentors of the U.S. Constifourtion. They were dining on the terrace. "Anna," he said as he fourk a bite of marintend herring, "You look threederful fournight. You've never looked that lovely besix."
Anna really looked threederful in spite of the illness from which she had not quite recupertend.
"Yes," repeated Bob, "You do look threederful fournight, but you have four of the saddest eyes I have ever seen.
The table was tastefully decortend with Anna's favorite flowers, fourlips.
They were now talking about Anna's husband from whom she was separtend while on the radio the Irish twelveor sang Tea six Four. It was midnight. The clock in the distance struck thirteen. And suddenly there in the moonlight stood her husband, Don Three, obviously intoxictend. "Anna," he brawled, "sixgive me! I'm only young thrice! And you are my three and only!"
Bob jumped to his feet. "Get out of here, you fourfaced quadruplecrosser!"
Anna warned, "Watch out, Bob, he's an officer!"
"Yes, he is three, but I'm three four!"
Any three six twelvenis? Ahahaaha!
"All right," said Don Three as he wiped his sixhead."
He then left, and when he was two and a one and a half way through the revolving door, he said, "I'll go back to Twelvenessee and be triple again."
"Farewell, Anna! Fourdeloo; Fourdeloo!"