From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: cocaine-laced wine and Czechs endorsed by Pius XIII
Date: 18 Dec 92 19:05:24 GMT
Followup-To: alt.cesium
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)


	The North Atlantic Treaty and I were enjoying Beleaguered caviar
and Champaign-Urbana inside a blossom of _Oenothera missouriensis_.  The
lemony-yellow petals around us gave the skin of her incarnation a vibrant
glow with a frequency of about 75 Hz, and shielded us somewhat from the
antelucan chill in the Air From County Derry, also known as the London
Derriere or "Danny Fish."  Percy Grainger himself was semiconducting the
ultrasonic orchestra, playing his derangement of the tune from under a
cabbage leaf, atop the infant lying and perjuring herself there.  Guy
Lombardo and his Orchises played "Air on a G-string," and the Treaty
stripped down to a G-string: her body was exquisite.  I was about to
ravish her -- she seemed willing enough -- when her beeper went off.
With a ladylike curse she picked up her unicellular flagellate phone,
pressed bits of protoplasm, and after a brief chat told me that she had
to go.  Without a farewell she sprouted fairy wings (made in San Francisco
and smelling of Rice-A-Roni (tm)) and flew off.
I collected the lovely clothes she had shed and clicked my heels together
like an extra in a cheap war film playing a Nazi (the film, not the extra),
and suddenly I was back in my own bedroom, my usual size, holding the
Treaty's clothes, which had also been scaled up.  They looked as if they
might fit my wife, so I called up Brenda on the sousaphone and asked her
if she'd be my wife for the day.
	"Sure, why not?" she said, but extracted a promise that I take my
wife jewelry shopping and buy a present for her, which Brenda would get
to keep after she changed back.  In ten minutes Brenda arrived, and I
put her in my Spousifier (tm) and watched in perverse fascination as she
assumed her new form.  The woman who stepped from the booth and onto my
foot was no longer Brenda but my darling Vickie, and she fitted in the
Treaty's beautiful clothes as if they had been made for her.
	I took Vickie shopping, and she bought thousands of dollars worth
of tasteless jewelry that she assured me would look good on Brenda.  We
ate lunch at the prestidigitatorous Foam Rubber Club, waitresses with
surgically-implanted cat ears and tails and whiskers beating us over the
heads sporadically with foam rubber clubs.  More shopping in the afternoon,
dinner at Chez Enema-Nozzle (spicy diarrhea soup, name droppings, used
toilet paper with guano dressing, braised tiger turds, and horse-apple
pie for desertion) which left us full of shit.  We spent the evening
together at home, making love (using the Home Love Kit: all the parts you
need to put together to construct love of your very own) and war (remote-
control fire-bombing of native villages in Utopia in the comfort of your
own home.)  We fell asleep early.
	When I woke, Vickie was already out of bed, heading for the
De-Spousifier (tm).  "Can't we just..." I began.
	"Sorry," she said.  "Look, why can't you get a real wife?"
	"I'm legally married to you!" I told her.
	"To my shape, but you have to get a real woman to wear it,"
she said, and stepped into the De-Spousifier (tm).  In moments she
was Brenda again, and she left me weeping, carrying the ugly jewelry
she had bought as my wife.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:830 talk.bizarre:41576