From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Kathy was a Taxi Cab Driver
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 05:28:27 GMT

I've changed the format a little, for added readability and wasted space.
Comments are greatly appreciated.

Kathy was a Taxi Cab Driver

	"I am very whacked-out," quoth Jim, who was having acupuncture work 
done by a twelve-week-old sea otter on cocaine. I was wrapped up listening to 
Manheim Steamroller on my portable nuclear-powered five-disc CD entertainment 
system, and almost missed my feathered friend's quip. 
	"Just because your epidermis is being systematically punctured by 
slender, pointed steel barbs is so reason to renounce your Platonic view of 
our surroundings," I advised. 
	"Yes, I wholeheartedly concur," slurred the otter, who took another 
hit while sterilizing the next needle to impale Jim's shoulder. 
	"And someone give me one good reason to ever call Frank's Sea World and 
Acupuncture Palace ever again", Jim vociferated, and I, as the acting 
conciliar-on-duty, decided to address his supplication. 
	"Jim, apart from the obvious fact that Frank's is the only Sea World 
and Acupuncture Palace within a 30-mile radius, we also have a coupon for 50% 
off any full-body otter work after 3 p.m. Plus he's doing a damn good job." 
	Obviously unimpressed by my mild compliment, the otter only shook his
glistening blood-stained whiskers at me and said, "Correct you are, my foul-
smelling bipedal associate, but said coupon expired on December 31, 1973, and 
therefore you are inelligible for any discount."
	"Damn!" I yalped, and at that exact same instant the otter belched,
Jim let out a groan of superficial pain and loathing, and my cat Frisky fell
into the paper shredder. The sound resulting from the constructive and 
destructive interference of the various aural waves was remarkably close to
the "fear call" of the adult male West African Gorilla, and fortunately I had
my portable DAT recorder nearby to capture the sound in all of its 40-bit
digital brilliance. 

	Bored with this menial discourse, I flipped through the TV Guide to see 
what was playing on HBO. At midnight there was a special "under cover" look at
Native American Floral Decorating Customs, hosted by none other than Traci
Lords, and the TV Guide "Close-Up" had this to say about the documentary: 
"Grab yourself a chili dog and some vaseline and join us for a fun-filled 
expedition into the wild plains of northern Utah where we'll meet up with 
famous Native American florist He-Lifts-Troughs-of-Water-Alluringly... we'll
see just exactly what goes into a traditional Hopi Birthday Arrangement or a
Mohican 'Get Well Soon' Basket when faced with oppression by white explorers,
starvation, and lack of good fertile planting soil on the Great Frontier. 
Hosted by porn queen Traci Lords, with special guests Bob Dylan, James 'Kibo'
Parry, and Alice from the Brady Bunch. Music by Deee-Lite."

	I was utterly and unerringly convinced that this programme was the
epitome of Native American Floral Decorating documentaries, and was determined
that I would either watch it in its 6-hour entirety or videotape it into
segments to peruse on subsequent evenings when nothing much was going on. 
Suddenly without warning there was a loud knock on the door, and before I 
could shout "Come in" an entire platoon from the 34th Light Infantry, just back 
from northern Laos, burst into my living room and demanded rations and medical
supplies, as well as a telephone to call in backup as they had a large number
of casualties and wounded in the front yard. Instantly the otter jumped to
attention and went forth to tend to the acupuncture needs of the injured
troops, leaving Jim on the couch like a human pincushion. Unsure of what I
could offer to the infantrymen I brought out a few cans of Beanie-Weenies
and some cotton balls. The officer in charge was thrilled and assured me that
I would receive distinction for prompt action in the heat of battle, and
that "Those god damn Reds won't know what hit them."
	"War is Hell," I offered blithely, but the platoon commander was 
already on the chopper, heading back to his occupation which, according to the
other officers, consisted primarily of laying face-down in rice paddies with 
mortar shells flying overrhead. They were less eager to get back into the 
action so I invited them to stay and watch the Floral Decorating documentary,
and maybe play some air hockey afterwards.

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "She's like jelly roll, like sculpture!"
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.religion.kibology