Poor Tuther. She’s left her door open and they’re going at it like dogs. Seated on her soft and enveloping bed, she can see them cavorting in the hallway. Snorts, gurgles, and a peculiar squeaking sound not unlike running one’s fingers down the sides of a wet balloon. She wishes she could look away, but she’s transfixed. There’s a honking sound all of a sudden, like a duck’s frantic quacking, three wet slaps, and the sound of a tire being deflated. Yes, it seems the homeopath has fixed their heretofore frigid love life. “Well,” Tuther says, fingering her rosary, “I reckon it’s time to move out.”
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