Bath-House Barry isn’t fooling anyone...
except, maybe the brown-noser media.
I know . . . I thought he was a Barbie hugging Broadway-showgirl tootsie-roll-eating lizard worshiper, a brown-wind-loving pole pushing vacuum-lipped anal warrior, a carrot-swallowing poodle owning skipping little hotdog-eater, a chalk-licking lavender sniffing cheeky merrymonkey pole-vaulter, a cigar smoking giggling little donut-puncher, a Crisco-hoarding, rainbow-prancing, Fucsia Puffed batty boy, a feminine-acting, stick-twiddling parade-marching ball-juggler, a gerbil-feeding flower sniffing rainbow-squatting bottoms-up boy, a giggling little donut-puncher, a glitter-loving tail-tickling Cleveland Steamer pooftah, a ham-slamming organ grinder, a latte-swilling, boy-texting pump-a-loaf bread-boffer, a limp-wristed prancing knob-jockey, a loafer-lightening grass-tickling pounder of fudge, a merrily-hopping NPR-listening musical-favoring chin-trauma patient, a merry delicate lightly-prancing dress-favoring protein-burper, a pearl-necklace adorned tumblebunny.
But, now I won't think that.