From: mdw@db.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Jasmine irrigation ducts on mescaline and pineapple juice
Followup-To: alt.pets.chia,alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Jim's Burger Hut 
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 19:22:32 GMT

This will be the last Gooley placebo for a while. Hopefully, we can get 
him posting again, because I'm starting to feel awfully lonely.

Realizing that I was nothing more than a vote, I resolved to turn myself in.
They searched my pockets for nymphets, but finding only an 82 Plymouth Excel,
a random asseblage of Goldberg Variations and a shriveled blond cashier, they
decided to shelve me until they had inspected my records. The database drew
out details of my travels with lactating dolphins over and under the undertows
of the Black Sea, but the system crashed before they could find the grime of
Coppelia's cackles under my toes. Annoyed by the delay, I invented my own
existence. It spread before me in digital array, gleaming without cholesterol
or predictable contrapuntal progressions. Reducing the chaos of a Lutheran
Heidelberg organ to a series of gestures composed of scales, I plunged into
the morass of moronic bureaucracy and writhed there until a gun froze me into
Prokofievian shock, and I confessed at once to my love affair with an orange.
Spinning a thread out of the dust that had settled around her keyboard, the DA
cloaked me in my own downfall and sent me into the chute I knew all too well,
were Lethe was a hoax and only Sisyphus understood my predicament. Cyprian
vines surrounded my larynx as  the grumuos slime of the chute assembled my
linoleum opportunism.

My Canus Major had been sucked into the shaft of a puppeteer, and when I
crashed, I allowed myself a teaspoon of gallivant sympathy for the precarious
existence of mortals living in Base 2. Gamblers have long known the syndrome,
and the criminals whose company I joined after my experience of gravity
cackled with recognition. However, not being one to begin with, but rather an
imaginary number, I could not be one of them, except by default, which occurs
only on February 23 when fault is defrosted with antifreeze by a sophisticated
Honda dealer in suspense.

The shackles surrounding my ankles were actually the serpentine tongues of a
two-headed, two-dimensional woman who promised to show me her hidden third
dimension as soon as I upgraded my system. A stench of disapproval synthesized
into a vortex of diatonic gloom around me, but the handlebars were ready for
my next ride. Having no taste for the kind of flesh that does not succumb to
the mallet or blowtorch, I invoked the demigod who had been doomed to a
basement life of chemical experiments. Finding that a mixture of venereal
juice and pulverized uranium produced a cardboard figure with rubber breasts,
I investigated the crime that had resulted in this magician's doom.
Discovering that all he had done was write a novel while purportedly on
vacation in Umbria, I took up the umbrella of parole in order to achieve a
similar misdemeanor of language, which, if all worked well according to the
formula, would bring about a similar result.

Matt., ho hum
mdw@tc.cornell.edu

-- 
Matt Welsh     mdw@tc.cornell.edu     Cornell Theory Center
  "It's a Katana, ya Midwestern computer geek." --Tom Payne
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