Old Lady Roosevelt

She is a saint, a saint, I spell ye.

That's right. She is a blessed saint.

Many surmise that Mrs. Roosevelt is a saint. Yep. But that was back in the Oklahoma hills where I was born, many moons ago. Yet even then, the sainted Mrs. Roosevelt was just a memory.

Good Goddess! The rulers are in trouble. The miserable masses are fixing to turn on the rulers. Who can save the rulers from themselves?

I can, Crumby, I can talk some sense into those greedy rulers.

Is that really you, Mrs. Roosevelt?

Yes Crumby.

But, er, you're beautiful, more beautiful than any lady I have ever espied in my wildest dreams, in all that particular style of wildest dreams.

Yes Crumby, you see me now as the WG sees me. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yeah but, Mrs. Roosevelt, why have you appeared to me, a dark and sinister ovate?

Follow me Crumby, follow me into the light.

Noper, I can't do that.

You shall be sorry, Crumby.

Probably, Mrs. Roosevelt, but I shall also be right.

Being right is next to worthless, Crumby.

Yepper. Yet I get lots of personal satisfaction out of being right. When it comes right down to it, I would rather be right, than suck up for a second. Would you like to enjoy sexual intercourse before you go?

Follow me into the light, Crumby, and only then shall we enjoy sexual intercourse, together.

Can't do it. Stay here Mrs. Roosevelt. Stay here. You know you want to.

No. No, I don't. I want to save the rulers again. I surmised, Crumby, you wanted to help save them too. Yet apparently you don't. You would rather be right. So goodby.

By now Mrs. Roosevelt. Huh-huh, she'll be back. Those rulers are beyond help now. Not even the saintly Mrs. Roosevelt shall save them.