From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: oxen wading through your eggnog at Beltane
Date: 28 Dec 92 22:15:28 GMT
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.sex.carasso
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH


        He had a ludicrous and lucrative business buying components of
obsolete military hardware, mounting them on ornate bases of Lucite (tm)
and bubinga wood, and selling them at enormous profits and minor prophets
(Zephaniah, Malachi, Morey, Irving, etc.) as alien aphrodesiac amulets
and rubber fetiches and fettucine.  Ignorant but rich oilmen (spawn of
roughnecks and smooth talkers masturbating into oil wells) and other
subhuman rich folk bought them by the crateful of kraits.  Redheads from
Kansas, disguised as Filipinas and taught Tagalog and Spanish, attended
to his every whim, though out of his earshot they complained about their
high pay and the low cost and ease of use of hair and skin dyes.
        I had known him since we were stand-ins for Marilyn Monroe-Quayle's
high-heeled jackboots in _Some Like It Flatulent_, and so when I needed a
small loan I knew better than to ask him for it.  Instead I asked Maria
Misconcepcion, whose real name was Bernardette Helen Margaret Flynn, from
Shawnee Missionary Position, Kansas.  She was at her makeup and billiards
table, and sank a difficult shot, glued on her rubber epicanthic folds
(supposedly she was part-Chinese), dabbed some more black dye on her 
orange roots and stems and branches, and practiced her Tagalog while she
listened.  "Hieronymus," she said,  with a practiced gesture inserting a
deep-brown contact lens to mask the leaf green of her right eye, "fifty-five
cents is a big sum."
        "Security," I said, taking my lovely wife, transformed for convenience
to the size and materials of a Barbie (tm) doll, out of my sporran and sitting
her atop the cue ball.  She promptly slid off and fell onto the puce felt
of the table, but Maria/Berni paid little notice, being busy masking her 
other iris or perhaps dahlia.
        "You got the kids, too?" she asked.
        With a lemon-scented sigh of resignation from the Board of Directors
of Consolidated Idiocy, plc, I took out the three-inch rubber Smurf (tm)
that had been and perhaps would again be my daughter Enema, and the aluminum
canister of anchovy paste -- vital for glueing small fish back together
after accidents -- that had been my son Flange.  The false Filipina sneered
at my use of elegant variation and Goldberg variations, touched up her
duskiness, and gave me eleven nickels, all shiny and dated 1989.
        "Thank you," I simpered simper-pathetically, and by some strange
compulsion named Bill I found myself mincing garlic and down the fur-scented
hallway to the coke machine.  I put in the nickels and its scoop (named
Jackson) scooped up a load of raw material: coal, kohl, Helmut Kohl, kohlrabi,
kola nuts, koala testicles, used turbans and turbines.  I watched as it
was reduced to elemental carbon and working for a television evangelist
manufactured by Mitsubishi in 1942 as a fighter plane yet cabal-ready and
of Caucasian Chalk Circle features syndicate, and marveled at the comics
and the soot being compressed into a brick of coke named Cokie or perhaps
Julia Roberts.
        With the coke I had expected to be able to heat my house for several
weeks, but unfortunately it was diet coke and it provided only a tiny
fraction of the BTUs that regular coke or coke classic or cherry coke
would have provided.  In despair and tight jeans which became recessive
and changed my hair blond, I returned to Berni to ask for a further loan.
To my delight, I found that my wife had made her into an apprehension and
was now impersonating her impersonating Maria, which was rather difficult,
what with first having to dye her hair orange and then re-dye it black,
first applying pale makeup and painting on freckles and then following that
with a dark layer, etc.  Worse yet, my wife knew no Tagalog, and was furious
at my having changed her and our children into inanimate objects.  Days
after my arrival I suddenly changed into a ventriloquist's dummy representing
the second district of Massachusetts in the U. S. House of Pancakes and
Representatives, not to mention a little blonde girl, and my wife went
back to 1911 and used me in her vaudeville act.  Our children became two
of the better composers of the Bargain-Counter-Reformation despite Peter
Schickele being justifiably furious at my having stolen that joke, and my
wife married a banker and left me in the basement of an old house where I
was eaten by termites named Hermite.

Mark., psi
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre