From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: The Lexan (tm) spit Men of Radio camp out in Cindy's jockstrap
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Dostoyevskian Characters, plc
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1993 14:58:29 GMT


	I appeared on the Larry Jewess Labour Day Telethon and Polytope~
Conference in the guise of the lovely and talented Irma Sludge.  The real
Irma had been converted into a bisexual Elvis impersonator and exported to
Botswana as a new kind of pork luncheon meat, and my disguise was impenetrable
(sixteen inches of steel plate reinforced with adipose tissue from Dolly
Parton's latest liposuction).  As Irma I urged the viewers and smellers to
contribute their life savings to research on wiping out Jimmy Swaggart,
and sang Irma's greatest hit, "Stand On Your Man" in a voice that sounded
so little like the real Irma's that nobody cared in the least.
	Backstage, an admirer of Irma's handed me a bouquet garni and tried
to kiss me.  I decked him with a poop deck and a deck of pinochle cards
imported from Nigeria, and as he lay there I noticed that the single blow
of my ladylike fist (which would frequently go off on its own and pose as
a lady, with great financial success) had loosened his face.  In a trice
lasting several hours, I removed the disguise from the fallen figure and
found that it -- the disguise, not the person -- was the superbly beautiful
and deadly Polly Polymathy, the Hungarian agent of OWAMA, the Organization
With A Meaningless Acronym, our arch-enemies, led by a Wellington of Crime
(special rubber boot designed for housebreakers working in inclement weather
named Clement -- one can never tell when a thunderstorm will break out in a
house one is burgling).  The unconscious man in the disguise was clearly
an innocent bystander whom the disguise had enwrapped and taken control of,
because a Tyvek (tm) collar glued around his neck said so.
	The disguise tried to resume the form of Mlle. Polymathy, so I
clubbed it with a club sandwich and into submission, and put it on.  "You're
putting me on," it said, and I jumped into a handy vat of tannin and tried
to kill it.  Apparently poisoned and certainly hairless, it wilted and I
took it off again.
	The innocent bystander came to and fro, and from his pocket took
a kiwi-fruit suit and stuffed me into it.  I felt the knife slicing me in
half, the spoon scooping out my green flesh and black seeds, and then all
was oblivion (tm).
	When I came to, I was in a bed in a veterinary hospital.  There
was a dull pain in my abdomen.  I was a cat.  Through the bars of my cage
I could see an achingly cute little woman in a white coat, wearing a pin
with the name Fatimah Shlepper, D.V.M. on it.  The woman smiled Polly
Polymathy's smile, and asked, "How do you like being a freshly-spayed cat?"
	I barked indignantly, like a seal.
	"You make a cute little cat," she said.  "And I'm going to stay
here as your vet, for a long time.  Most of my patients are agents, or were."
	I gave her a quizzical feline look.
	"It's a lovely disguise, isn't it?" she asked, rhetorically.  "Who
would ever think of suspecting that a girl just out of vet school is Polly
Polymathy?"
	Just then the SWAT team, armed with flyswatters, arrived and captured
the woman.  Unfortunately she really was Fatimah Shlepper, D.V.M., brainwashed
to think herself Polly Polymathy in disguise, and nobody could figure out
how I and the others had been changed into an assortment of animals, mostly
cats with a few dogs and parrots, nor how to change us back.  I'm typing this
out on a terminal custom-built for my little cat feet, borrowed from the fog.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.slack,rec.pets.cats,alt.religion.kibology