From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Baiting the Abyssmal Quandry
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 20:32:19 GMT


I took the elevator to the sixth floor of the Electrical Engineering and
Supernatural Studies building (two closely related fields). The door to
the lift opened into the fires of Hell, and the little bell "pinged" 
happily for me. I stepped off and was ushered by none other than Beelzebub
himself to the gates of Hades, where I was destined to spend eternity.
And all I wanted to do was grab a quick hotdog at the stand on sixth! Well,
I was getting a hotdog allright, one with everything on it... Beelzebub
got a burger and fries and we stood around for a bit, sweltering in the
demonic inferno, munching on our food with genuine impunity. A horsefly
landed on the devil's nose, and he brushed it off with a flick of his
pitchfork, muttering an oath under his breath about "the damned exterminators".

His best friend, Slippy the Gelatinous Cube, squabbled over and started to
suck on my foot. I nearly heaved at the sight of the ancient warrior's
bones locked in the clear gooey mess, forever digesting; I decided to 
meander off before I joined them with the innards of Slippy. I had but a
single complaint to deliver to the keepers of the Fire-Pit: which was
they were not warning children not to dive into the shallow end. After filling
out the forms in triplicate, signing my soul away to the Bank of Phlegathon,
and getting the proper stamp of approval in virginal sheep's blood, I was
ready to move onto the next window. The teller was dead, and obviously
had been so for the past two weeks or so. Sensing a possible delay, I 
decided to sit down on the paisley couch to take a load off, only to discover
that the couch in question had been removed to the offices in Westboro,
Massachusetts for reupholstry and reeducation. 

The liberal train of thought carried by most couches these days was enough to 
boggle any split-brained mammologist... the coup de grace to standard theories 
of furniture psychology being dealt in favor of this squandring group of 
davenports. 

I was but a bird in the mouth of the metaphorical alligator, picking out
bits of food symbiotically... and yet, I had a certain sense of 
incompleteness... as if this wasn't all there was to living a happy
productive life as metallurgist. I was required to contend with my pitiful
situation, like an itch I couldn't scratch-- like eating half a bag of
potato chips and still being hungry-- like waking up from the middle
of a great dream and wanting to continue with the sequel in subsequent nights,
but not being able to find the right place in the videotape because your
little brother taped over it with G.I. Joe. My brain was the phloem of
thought, ideas seeping by osmosis, ever so slowly, into the far dry reaches
of the cerebrum. Imagination was something like a tiny frosted cake, sitting
in the open window on a summer's day, growing stale and warm, molding.

Maybe the cafe was on the fifth floor. After pondering an existence without
intravenous drug injections, I decided to find the elevator again. Of
course the sign next to the door said "out of order... go to hell".

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "Yow! Up ahead! It's a DONUT HUT!!"