From: spt@waikato.ac.nz (Simon Travaglia)
Newsgroups: rec.humor
Subject: The sticky Mag Run
Date: 27 Jul 92 08:22:32 +1200
X-From: spt@waikato.ac.nz (Simon Travaglia)
X-Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Followup-To: rec.humor,talk.bizarre

X-Date: 27 Jul 92 08:14:42 +1200
X-Organization: University of Waikato Computer Centre


SO, I want to buy a sticky mag at the local service station, but I don't want
to be recognised as  a  local, and also, I don't want to have a fistful of
designer soft-core porn and run into someone I work with who lives nearby,
who's likely to spill the beans on me at the next staff social while I'm in
the middle of my patented pickup speil:

"So, do you mind laying down while I have one around here often?"

"Hey Simon, are you telling that voluptuopus young sex machine how you have a
weekly appointment with a sticky mag man?"

(It doesn't bear thinking about) SO INSTEAD I have to drive WAAAAY over the
other side of town where everyone goes to buy sticky magazines - no-one lives
over there, there's just this shop in the middle of nowhere with room for ONE
car (so if you see one there you just drive around and around the roundabout
next to it until the car leaves) and inside there's just a magazine racks with 
everything from "Huge Muscled Penis Monthly" to "Sex-Starved Nympho Nuns in
Rubber Habits", in other words Wall to Wall Whack Mags, and a Mrs Mable Oven
Mitt stand.  Oh, and they sell newspapers to hide your purchases in.

So anyway, I cruise over there, and as luck would have it I only had to go
round the roundabout about 20 times before the othert guy leaves, I dodge
past the old couples who drive by mumbling "Is that our Roy?  IS IT!?  IS IT
HIM?!?!" and I go in.  I look at the executive relief rack..

They've got the new edition of "The Hite report on Whacking off into Domestic
Appliances" but I figure that it can't be too different to the old one, except
about 20 more pages of random lies about the new brands of hand held vacuum
cleaners and the like.  I pass on it.

So I go back to the rampant suggestive sex-slave rack and quite frankly, the
whole thing starts really getting me down.  Wanking is getting so commercial..

Anyway, I get my small purchase, an assortment of 14 slicko sicko delights,
the last three back issues of "Oral Dysfunction Babes", a couple "Nuns on
prescription drugs" and "Debbie does the dishes on VHS" on Beta, because I'm
such a loser I've still got a Beta video.  Dick-Beta.  Oh, and I get a heat
proof teflon coated goatskin mitt.  A nice one, with flowers on it and a
recipe for scones on the back.

And all the way home I'm worried I'll be in a car accident, and all my
purchases will fall out onto the road and I'll be trapped in the car and all
the onlookers will crowd around to look, and they'll see all the mags, fallen
open to the worst pages imaginable and they'll all have time to talk about me
before the ambulance comes, and they'll probably spit on me too, and steal all
my mags when everyone else is pretending not to look...

Anyway, I'm worrying so much I decide to slip the mags under the car seat so
that a casual glance from someone outside will reveal nothing.  And they're
almost there except that I'm not looking and run into the back of a car that's
slowed down in front of me.

    Then I find it's a cop car, LAPD, with the motto "To serve, and smack you
shitless if we've had a bad day"  I hope today's a good day.

The cop get's out and swaggers over sharpening some nails on his riot baton.

Shit.

It's time to get technical.  I roll down the window.

"I spose a fuck's out of the question?"

Later, as they're taking me away in the ambulance, I realise I forgot to pick
up this month's issue of "Sadistic Baton Babes".

Ain't life a beach.
-- 

       _______________________----------------------------* >splutter<
  ____/  This trailer will almost certainly self-destruct in a  given,  finite
 /    \  amount of time.   It  contains  a secret message disguised as drivel.
| BOMB | Disclaimer:  Yep.  I should have known better.
 \____/  Simon Travaglia, spt@waikato.ac.nz  Ph: 064-7-838-4008  Fax: 838-4066
         University of Waikato, Private Bag 3105, Hamilton, New Zealand.

Reality is for people who can't take science fiction.
Newsgroups: rec.humor