From: curtis@cs.berkeley.edu (Curtis Yarvin)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Re: 4th Street and Main Dreamscape
Date: 19 Nov 1992 03:00:20 GMT
Organization: CS Dept. Snakepit - Do Not Feed.
NNTP-Posting-Host: cobra.cs.berkeley.edu


I'm sorry - I have to.  I just can't resist these things any more.
May Jaysus who is all-powderful forgive my sins up to and including
poor character lack of sensitivity and out-n-out rudeness.  Thank you
Gawd.

Found this here son of a gun on alt.prose which is where you
kin go to see the original in its original untarnished form
pure and sweet as the droppins of a newborn lamb.

--
                 4th Street and Main Dreamscape

The woe originated in my foundation <Dad gum them termites!>.  It was
there that my technicolor nightmare began.  <Panavision, too.
Expensive, but quality is Job One.> It was destined to occur
<contracted with the film crews two months back>, so I made no effort
to change it <although I'd already had some cost overruns on my
clove-cigarette budget>.  The events were already bronzed into the
fabric of time <and shit, did that ever cost.  You think
silk-screening is expensive?> so in some perverted way <that bronze in
the time.  Mixed fibers and all.  I knew I was sinning, but I couldn't
help myself.  I was in the grip of Satan.> this chain of events was
meant to unfold <or, rather, undangle, as such catenated instants in
the golden macrame' of existence are wont to do.>

  I wonder who deemed it so.  <Must of been the production execs.>


-----------------------------------------------------------------

 The path twisted out ahead toward its destination. <No, just kidding.
Actually it was going back..  past... past to the back!> I noticed it
was bordered by subservient grass.  <It just begged to be mowed, but I
didn't have my Toro-1600, so I left well enough along.> Pretty and
nice, this grass was meant to be <Come on then, why don't you just
stop for a second and give it a spank?  Pretty please?> My feet paced
their cumbersome way along the path steadily-<I felt a small tear of
longing in my eye, watching them go>-for I had an appointment.  Sweat
dripped methodically from my <jutting> forehead, rinsing the sockets
in my skull <well, the contacts were getting a little greasy anyway>.
And it burned <gotta cut back on the gasoline...>, so I tried to wipe
it away.  But it came back, because at that moment my eyes were meant
to sting.  <Shit.  Goddamn scriptwriters.>

The trail finally reached its destination, a small glade of trees.
<It sat down and took a swig from its hip flask.  "Wild Turkey," it
explained.  "Want some?"> It looked out of place, just as I felt, so
it made me happy <with its delicious body.  We made love, like
mustelidae in the joy of our spirit, all night long.> I cried I sighed
a little at my revelation--there are some fringe benefits involved in
insanity.  <Ain't that the truth.> Knowing that an appointment was
willed to occur, I looked <around for the National Geographics.  There
were none.  I was chilled to the bowels of my soul.  What sort of
Satanic pervert would this man be?  In what ancient and corrupt rites
would he involve me?  Into what orifices would he prod his devilish
instruments?  To what foul ends would he torture my syntax?> at the
trees expectantly.  Who would this grim stranger be?  <could it be...
could it be... Kibo?  KIBO!  My heart was pounding; my blood froze.>
An infusion of fetish was ready to take place.  <The needle was poised
and ready; the solution of latex gleamed, virulent.>


My Turing Multimeter (Fluke, TM-1070; get one if you haven't already)
buzzed here, and I had to stop.  I apologize for the loss to the
world's literary treasuries.

c