From: mgooley@nyx.cs.du.edu (Markian Gooley)
Subject: bitumen womanhood available for ingestion at your vomitorium now!
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,misc.misc
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Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix at U. of Denver Math/CS dept.
Date: Fri, 29 Jan 93 03:51:19 GMT

	She walked down the street, her high-heeled shoes beating a tattoo
on the pavement and tattooing a beet on the chest of a young man in a torn
sailor dress.  A tall, bearded man in a bottle-green tuxedo, the adhesive
"Hello! I'm..." paper tag on his left lapel reading "A. J." in purple
felt-tip ink, accosted her at the cost of finding himself metamorphosed
into a tow-headed, tow-roped boy of ten in blue jeans, with lovely violet
eyes and polydactyly: six ordinary-looking fingers on each hand.  "Go away,"
she said in regal tones, and the boy turned and ran, showing off his hairless
pink prehensile tail.
	Happy to have gotten that mild obligation out of the way, I let her
pass wind and by me, then moved smartly next to her, matching her pace.  "It's
a beautiful day in this neighborhood," I said to her.
	"Piss off, Fred," she said, intending to change me into Fred or
perhaps Carl Rogers, but she was powerless against me.  Nonchalantly I
pulled off her head and let her headless body continue down the street,
bumping into pedestrians and pederasts and pedophiles and pedagogues,
careening into jobbers named Abdul, colliding with streetlamps and -walkers.
Despite being bodiless her head made a lot of noise and I had to slap its
cheeks, drop kick it, and so on in order to get it to calm down.  Following
the recipe for stuffed boar's head in _Joy of Cooking_, I made her head into
stuffed woman head, with extra-thin red pasta forming a redhead-wig, and
posing as a prototype protege' and gerontophilic lover of Julia Child, I
served it to a group of food journalists.  Gruntled by the crispy-skinned,
spiced-brain-stuffed woman-head and several glasses each of a good Chianti
laced with extra-long basketball-shoe laces and chloral hydrate (as used by
good vampire hunters on themselves), they passed out, and my assistant Valerie
took off her Julia Child disguise and helped me decide which of them would
have the privilege of becoming fine cuisine.
	Just then the police raided us, and, disguising ourselves as
ambulatory terrines, we waddled to safety.  A band of roving gourmets
spotted us, and to my horror they ate Valerie, the only woman I had ever
really wanted to make into a terrine, with French bread and squeeze margarine.
As Dolly Parton I made my way to the Apellations, shedding my disguise and
feline fur on Mt. Ms., and as an itinerant evangelist and bootlegger I
wandered throughout the Georgia of early 1953, teaching obscene parodies
of hymns to schoolchildren and selling hooch adulterated with methanol and
adult bookstores.
	In 1995 I was a can of coconut milk in an Indian grocery in a small
town in West Virginia, and felt fairly safe.  But a kohl minor's daughter
in the key of C minor decided to cook a Thai dish for visiting family Thais,
and, favoring curry and attempting to curry favor, bought me.  Just as she
was about to put can opener to my metal integument I managed to assume the
form of her grandmother, dead for several years, and when she fainted in
terror I made my escape.
	Back in 1985 I was in graduate school, learning how to be a graduated
cylinder and sing graduals gradually.  I never made the steep 8% grade and
solution of hydroquinone, and the Alchemy Department expelled me, turning
me into a large toad.  After a wild sex life in Queensland I settled down
as a sawmill in Indonesia.

Mark.
mgooley@nyx.cs.du.edu
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.slack,alt.religion.kibology