"Happy birthday . . . Mr. President . . . happy birthday . . . tooo you!!!" the stripper croons as she shakes her perfectly engineered, glitter frosted tits in the president's sweaty face.
A secret service agent leans in close and whispers in the president's ear, "You can't say the Marmalade Mermaid doesn't love you Mr. President."
Oily red-black fluid drips from the gyrating stripper's nipples and splatters against the president's good Sunday church shoes. "What's the frequency Kenneth?" she asks in an evil death metal robot voice as her belly begins to swell like a fleshy balloon.
"Get DNA cuz that bastard ain't mine, I ain't even cummed yet," the president howls.
The stripper's torso explodes, spraying the walls of the champagne room and the faces of the astonished onlookers with blood, guts, and bone shards. Her tumor-encrusted breast implants erupt from her tits and float through the air like balloons. A birthday cake, complete with pink frosting, burning candles, and an evil little face, flies from the stripper's ruptured chest. The evil cake's gaping mouth envelops the president's head. There's a horrible sickening crunch as the evil cake bites the president's head off.
The secret service agents draw their pistols and open fire on the flying carnivorous birthday cake. The barrage of bullets passes right through the evil cake without so much as marring the frosting. A stray bullet bursts a tumor-encrusted breast implant balloon, bukakking the nearest agent with pink slime. The evil cake soars around the champagne room like a flying guillotine, biting the heads from each of the secret service agents, before breaking through the wall, leaving a cake-shaped hole, and disappearing into the night.