At least I didn't call him a a petal-covered swishing basket-burglar , a pink-sequin-adorned squeeze-friendly rectum-flagellator, a quiche-slurping, glitter-coated nimble-dancer, a rose-sprinkling, first-chair rusty-trombone pole-vaulter, a rump-radar-pinging, butterbutt loving, feathered drag princess, a sibilant-s-pronouncing girl-drink-swilling fruity little balltender, a silent-screaming bed-bouncing pump-wearing butt pilot, a skipping lavender-scented pillow-biter, a skipping lavender-scented pillow-biter , a soap-dropping, spanks-wearing, cabana-boy-loving, lisping, daffodil sniffer, a stool-pushed jolly-ranching graduate of the Assmasters school of backseat driving, a sweetly-flaming pole-licking sequin-wearing arsehole patroller, a sweetly-smelling, pink-loafered bun-warmer, a tail gunner, pole smoker, mincing Nancy-boy, fancy lad, a three-dollar-bill-collecting rollerblading fan-TAS-tic sword swallower , a toothbrush-sucking dancing-butt-held-high lightly-stepping jingle-boy, a whinnying crochet-loving sweetwater flaming mushroom-polisher, an effeminate queenie-baby genuflecting chicken licker.
It just wouldn't seem right.