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Simultaneously, and without missing a beat, an answer broke like a desperate yowl from the throats of the orgiers: "Who's there?"
Like a shot from the butt gun of a pre-radicalized 1920's anarchist, came a response from beyond the door. "Banana."
Faster than a duck could rape a lizard in the mouth, our motley crew of freakazoids, safely ensconced in the luxury of their designer seatery, shook their heads and bleated as a unit, "Orange you glad we've already heard this joke and so shan't be participating (unless of course you are offering substantial financial remuneration)." There was no reply from the other side of the door, save this. One absolute rascal of a fart.