From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: silly fellow! is against me
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1992 02:44:17 GMT

	"Liber scriptus proferetur..." sang the recorded voice cheerily, and
I wept for my lost youth and Swiss Army Knife, abandoned in the wilds of
Caalifornia.  I parked the Exaudi (_Christe, exaudi nos!_) in the Pizza Hat
parking lot without letting the turbocharger cool, and the smoke from under
the car's hood boded ill.  I went inside and presently a waitress in a hat
of freshly-made pizza -- rather a Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat, very becoming
and becoming something of a mess as the pizza topping slowly dripped off the
hat's vertical sides and onto the poor woman's permed brown hair.  She sat
me at a table at which I had a look at two girls of high school age trying
on faces.  One would pop off her face, exposing a dull grey surface, which
always made the other giggle.  She would then put on another face -- they
had several large shopping bags with them, full of fashionable faces, taking
up most of their booth -- and the other would offer opinions, hand her a
mirror, and presently take her own face off and continue the process.
	A waitress in a Napoleon-style hat of pepperoni pizza came to take
my order.  Her face, though no doubt pressed on that morning in the same way
that the girls in the booth were pressing on face after new face, had a
kindly expression, a sympathetic one: she seemed to be taking pity on me
in my sadness.  It was an endearing face rather than a cold beauty's.  Her
body was slightly plump, her hair a soft brown, her voice that of a woman
I had heard on the BBC Twit Americans Service only without the accent --
she must have bought it on sale at Walleye Mart -- but she knew how to use
it and it soothed me.  I ordered an Extra Large Pizza Sombrero with the
works, all for myself.  The girls in the booth started tearing off each
other's scalps.  At the next table, a long one seating eight, a small,
bosomy beauty with long jet-black hair was absorbing slices of pizza hats
through her smooth white forehead, at the same time protesting that she
was really a boy, that the porcine man and woman, apparently her (his?)
parents, had no reason to do this to her (him?)...
	When my Sombrero arrived, the waitress seemed so beautiful to me
that I almost seized her.  With tears in her eyes she put it on my head
and moved with remarkable speed to the kitchen.  I broke off a piece from
the brim and started to eat, the brains baking in my skull and my scalp
in agony from the heat of the crust and toppings.  Of course I could not
finish even the entire brim.  I vomited onto my table, and the face-changing
girls, now with identical faces and hair that I recognized as those of a
top fashion model, got up, went over to me, extended pseudopodia from their
midriffs, and began to engulf the mess.  I doffed the remains of my hat,
left it on my seat with a twenty-dollar bill, and formed myself into a
pink ooze that slurped over the floor, under the door, and back to my car.
A pool of molten aluminum extended from under the engine compartment, and
I reformed and began to weep.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.religion.kibology