svenska, tack



When his majesty's very own prince Bertil, the queen of the ball in the hive, Faroukh Freddie Mercury Bulsara, the man who always shot ahead convicted that all men loved him because I'm simply drowling with money, dear, defended his concerts in Sun City, he broadcast accurately:
      I'm simply a musical prostitute.
      Simply ends there.
      Asshole niggerdick overbite and the rounded chiseled buttocks in his mega-striped YSL bodystockings and don't you say bad taste, but sailors in New Orleans, physical sailors, Bulsara's bright, varnished nipples, all entwined in style, with that taste of a God, save the Queen, but not from the rape in Bombay, from the gravelled minds of the many's many minds, wanting nothing but playing squash.
      Fascinated by blonde muscles, he was subsequently driven to Munich and further on to Montreux where he finally became that stiff statue for ever capturing that daintily groomed homo-hunk moustacha Ibrahim.
      Faroukh I wanna make a supersonic man out of you Bulsara. Queen Mercury. Long may he reign. Asshole Power Boy.

text: POWER BOY-REDAKTIONEN
illustration: BOY ART

This story captures the gay spirit of a young singer and estradeur who left us at a much too early age, cursed with a wicked and very modern disease. He is the Asshole Power Boy.
© Copyright 1998 Asshole Magazine

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