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"Jurgen", cooed Daphne as she used the flat edge of her butter knife to extract the fresh, warm smegma nestled in the folds of the Aryan's rolled-back foreskin, "Must we winter in Gstaad this year?" She spread the creamy, sebaceous mixture on her morning crumpet, and shot him her winningest pout, the one that she could always count on to melt his heart, and allow her to get her way. He visibly relented, and Daphne triumphantly popped the dainty into her mouth, giddy with the realization that she was one step closer to living in Khartoum, among the real Sudanese, with their fascinating traditions of female genital mutilation, child slavery and subsistence level farming.