Thousands of feet up in lois griffin marge simpson, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath lois griffin marge simpson,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“lois griffin marge simpson… higher… lois griffin marge simpson… make me burst lois griffin marge simpson!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “lois griffin marge simpson, lois griffin marge simpson, lois griffin marge simpson!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “lois griffin marge simpson.”