Doctor Zjivago is sitting in
his room, speechifying to his old bag about second-hand air. Or to be more
specific: the used part of the air that she just, with a resounding
»Hello!», let out from her bottom-trumpet.
-Why the hell do you always have to break wind as soon as we
have entered the bedroom and get undressed?
-And you should call yourself a doctor, who doesn't even know
that?
-Yes, why?
On this his discreete inquiry the doctor didn't get any
response. He had to go to bed with the question as well as the boom-shit
hanging unanswered in the, apart from that, acceptable bedchamber-air.
And with a very well-sized clothes-peg i the nasal part of his face.