From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: Re: Tirana fiche sashays through the pubes
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Thu, 1 Oct 1992 18:57:30 GMT

In article <1992Oct1.185328.14880@netcom.com> gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley) writes:
>	I had linguini with brick sauce, and she had the result of a suttee,
>removed when a good medium rare.  The blowtorchlight was romantic, and the
>hopping waiters performed sexual acts and played the tape recorder and the
>fool for our amusement.  The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra sat at the next
>table, playing transcriptions by John Cage of early Beatles flops.  At last
>I felt ready to pop the question if not the sebaceous cyst: "Diarrhea, my
>darkling, will you bury me?"
>	She grinned like a marmot and took from her dainty little vomit-
>colored purse several pieces of earth-moving machinery.  She climed into
>the engine of the backhoe and made it dig a trench right through the floor
>of the restored ant, and with subhuman strength she hurled me into it. To
>my utter lack of surprise I kept falling for what seemed like seconds but
>was in fact hours, and for that same old gag, which restricted my breathing
>until I chewed it up (enjoying the subtle flavors of laundry detergent,
>cotton, aniline dyes, a good dry sherry, and my own terror) and swallowed
>it (which made me drunk with ambition and sobersided).  I landed with a
>squelch on what proved to be an enormous woman of incredible obesity and
>personal charm, who put me in a titanium-barred cage hanging from a bungee
>cord made of synthetic rubber and real denture adhesive, mixed with turkey
>gravy and baked for 37 minutes at Gas Mark 6 using hydrogen.
>	She let me out and began to force-feed me with lard, vegetable
>shortening, old Detroit telephone directories, fair young maidens, an
>assortment of orienteering supplies, my future wife, my old tuxedo, a
>collection of Elvis hits on shellac 78 rpm floppy disks, and disgustingly
>watery light beer mixed with gelatin and made into a chilled dessert.
>I remained resolutely thin.  After several minutes of this she broke down
>in tears of fat, and wept and wept for a week, her entire store of adiposity
>draining from her, her skin tightening on her shrinking body.  Unfortunately
>this left her exactly resembling Senator Paul Simon, and I fled from her in
>delight and her flying trapeze, which had a 13-cylinder radial engine and
>full IFR equipment and an onboard computer that I could play "Donkey Kong"
>and "Super Mario Cuomo Clones v3.6" on.  Through the night I burrowed, and
>when came the dawn I had gotten nowhere.
>	I resigned myself to the situation and from the office of President
>of the United States and Mrs. Nixon.  Groups, semigroups, and lattices of
>my athletic supporters were on foot and bicycle to degrease me, and they
>giggled controllably as I addressed them.  "Think not of me as your Pervert
>of the Untied States and Mrs. Noxious," I told them, "but as a really good
>four-course dinner with a good bite and fragrant smoke, a touring bicycle
>which has a problem halting, the reek of icy metal on a freezing summer day.
>Ask not what your curry can do to your digestive tract: ask me for a hot
>tip in the 4:30 at Pederast Park tomorrow."
>	As they all cheered, I stepped into the gas bag of the dirigible and
>breathed pure helium all the way to Baden Baden Baden und Baden.
>
>Mark.
>gooley@netcom.com
>