Oh, Rovey-o Rovey-o, wherefore art thou, Rovey-o?
Deny the bother and refuse thy Plame...
Aw heck, I'll tell you where my nubblelusciously hard bard is plunging his plume now that his silly boss has outsourced Rovey's role to New Wonkistan. We're rutting and sweating for HOURS inside the pudding cage until his Blossom is Turd no more.
(And then we sip Meese-tinis until Rovey falls asleep sobbing on the davenport.)