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Closet space is not a problem for homosexuals, because I can fit twelve of those swishy little Lycra muscle-shirts in a Tupperware ice-cube tray.
After finding out the gay's waist size, Vivian adds five inches (for both Baptist verisimilitude and anticipation of Heather's strict high-carb diet) and orders six pairs of flat-front Stain-Defender Dockers ("One for each day, cause they will want to wear dressy kelly-green Sansabelt trousers to worship on Sunday -- cause they really make a pair of Sebago Docksiders.").
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