About then Herbert waltzed in with a bulldog on a leash. Barked, "You people don't get a job -- I call a cop!"

Everybody thought that a riot. Crazy old fatso looking to freeload a handjob. But Eddie took the ex-prez dead serious. Produced a Leica disguised as a Pez dispenser. Fell to his knees before the Chief.

Attacked zipper. Parted boxers. Distracted Herbie orally, while snapping crab lice he would later blow up into space monsters.

Hadda gobble goat cheese -- Republican uncut; but since he among kids, seemed appropriate, all in the line of duty. Sniffed a line of Draino to clear pipes to hum "The Star Strangled Banana" -- all that vim, vigor, verve, sterility.

But then Eddie got turned around. Felt more secure blowing than sucking? Or did kinghell ecstasy rush invert blowjob?

Rough at first. But Eddie persevered. Colored apoplectic, blasting breath up ex-presidential pee-hole.

The dead prez soon swelled enough to shame the Hindenburg. Some goth flicked her Bic under Herbie's nose.

BLAM!

The bj blew the ex-commander-in-chief to smithereens. Zombies gleefully gathered smithers like elephants on crack peanuts.

Eddie sneaked out with the goods. Later that night at the Bureau developed negatives into a case against everything. Meanwhile tightened strap. Did a little dance, struggling panties to unbunch.

God, mother, cunt tree -- acorns rained off the oak. This no joke, because the kids had slid on their smithereens, tailed the beast back to his lair.

While the Director boogied oblivious across the floor, leaped up onto the sink -- video streamed.

What goes around goes around, goes double for the King of Squares.

God, giggling hysterically, snapped her fave attachment -- the wand -- on the vacuum. Fell to removing all trace of dust and ash; leaving the Bureau spotless, empty, shiny with a lack of even that chestnut can't tell left from right.

Down the drain Hoover whirled.

There to unearth a world crossdressing Old Gorey undies, plus forehead tattoos winked in 3-D from KKK to 666. With a flirt of the wrist and a burp-gun swirl Eddie gurgled down the throat of Satan sat on his own face.

Jesus -- adjusting loincloth in the wings, reacting to some queer cue -- smirked; then stonewalled. Took in his heart the fifth. Crossed fingers. Now the triple Hoover in the can on the net, not even He could save the country from this man.

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